More about Pablo Neruda
Pablo Neruda -
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In this part of the story I am the one who dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.
What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?
In Spanish: Que diran de mi poesia los que no tocaron mi sangre?
Using language like clothes or the skin on your body, with its sleeves, its patches, its transpirations, and its blood and sweat stains, that's what shows a writer's mettle. This is style.
Perhaps this war will pass like the others which divided us leaving us dead, killing us along with the killers but the shame of this time puts its burning fingers to our faces. Who will erase the ruthlessness hidden in innocent blood?
You will ask: why does your poetry
not speak to us of of sleep, of the leaves,
of the great volcanoes of your native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets,
come and see
the blood in the streets,
come and see the blood
in the streets!
was born in the blood,
grew in the dark body, beating,
And flew through the lips and the mouth.
I've come within range of hate. Terrifying, its tremors, its dizzying obsessions. Hate's like a swordfish invisible in the water, knifing suddenly into sight with blood on its blade- clear water misleads you.
The dark of a day gone by
Grown fat on our grieving blood.
Hate is like a swordfish, working through water invisibly and then you see it coming with blood along its blade, but transparency disarms it.
Day-colored wine, night-colored wine, wine with purple feet or wine with topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth...
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The more you learn about the dignity of the gorilla, the more you want to avoid people.
July 12, 1904
September 23, 1973
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