Loving & loved

Today I'm delighted to share this poem by my friend and writer of so many lovely words, Laura Whalen. Visit her blog Mayan Hands Adventure 2009 for a further sampling of her writing & some, well, adventure! But for now, enjoy how she summons Neruda in this marvelous poem.

ODE TO THE ORANGE

“…Give us

this day

orange daylight

and every day

may mankind’s heart,

And its cluster of fruit,

Be both bitter and sweet…”

-Pablo Neruda

trans. Ken Krabbenhoft

Making Juice

by Laura Whalen

Making juice before your birthday—

ruby grapefruit, Spanish clementines,

organic tangerines from California.

And me, armed with crystal pitcher and wooden reamer.

First, cutting the perfect globes until

they shine rays of pink, orange and gold

like little suns during this dark time of year.

Their bright fire blazing with citrus sweet.

Then, squeezing out the liquid from each half,

using the fine yet simple wooden tool,

better than any electrical gadget

to fill the glass container bit by bit

until there is a ruddy pitcher full.

Placing the rind in the compost bucket

Knowing I will brave the cold moments later

To empty it on the pile out back,

food for my flowers next spring.

May these round fruits refresh and feed you,

your South American sun-starved soul, with their

distilled love of light – their sweet-sourness

flooding the dark.

An elixir, a love potion, a cold winter cure—

simply a pitcher of fresh juice to greet you

tomorrow from the cold shelf of the fridge.

Their round fruit emptied of all flesh and blood.

They gave themselves for you entirely—

as I am only learning to do…

ODA A LA NARANGA

“Anaranjada sea

la luz

de cada

dia,

y el corazon del hombre

sus racimos,

acido y dulce sea…”

-Pablo Neruda

answer for the shuttered heart

The Poet's Obligation

by Pablo Neruda

(translated by Alistair Reed, in On The Blue Shore of Silence)

To whoever is not listening to the sea
this Friday morning, to whoever is cooped up
in house or office, factory or woman
or street or mine or harsh prison cell:
to him I come, and, without speaking or looking,
I arrive and open the door of his prison,
and a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,
a great fragment of thunder sets in motion
the rumble of the planet and the foam,
the raucous rivers of the ocean flood,
the star vibrates swiftly in its corona,
and the sea is beating, dying and continuing.

So, drawn on by my destiny,
I ceaselessly must listen to and keep
the sea's lamenting in my awareness,
I must feel the crash of the hard water
and gather it up in a perpetual cup
so that, wherever those in prison may be,
wherever they suffer the autumn's castigation,
I may be there with an errant wave,
I may move, passing through windows,
and hearing me, eyes will glance upward
saying, "How can I reach the sea?"
And I shall broadcast, saying nothing,
the starry echoes of the wave,
a breaking up of foam and of quicksand,
a rustling of salt withdrawing,
the grey cry of sea-birds on the coast.

So, through me, freedom and the sea
will make their answer to the shuttered heart.

poetry in black stones

Black Islands

by Martin Espada

for Darío

At Isla Negra,
between Neruda's tomb
and the anchor in the garden,
a man with stonecutter's hands
lifted up his boy of five
so the boy's eyes could search mine.
The boy's eyes were black olives.
Son, the father said, this is a poet,
like Pablo Neruda.
The boy's eyes were black glass.
My son is called Darío,
for the poet of Nicaragua,
the father said.
The boy's eyes were black stones.
The boy said nothing,
searching my face for poetry,
searching my eyes for his own eyes.
The boy's eyes were black islands.

Best use of "zither" in a poem

Only up for an hour or so & I've read or heard three Neruda poems already. Here comes four.... The Separate Rose: I
by Pablo Neruda Translated by William O'Daly
Today is that day, the day that carried a desperate light that since has died. Don’t let the squatters know: let’s keep it all between us, day, between your bell and my secret. Today is dead winter in the forgotten land that comes to visit me, with a cross on the map and a volcano in the snow, to return to me, to return again the water fallen on the roof of my childhood. Today when the sun began with its shafts to tell the story, so clear, so old, the slanting rain fell like a sword, the rain my hard heart welcomes. You, my love, still asleep in August, my queen, my woman, my vastness, my geography kiss of mud, the carbon-coated zither, you, vestment of my persistent song, today you are reborn again and with the sky’s black water confuse me and compel me: I must renew my bones in your kingdom, I must still uncloud my earthly duties.

the splendor of roots

It's the birthday of one of my favorite poets, Pablo Neruda

from The Book of Questions

by Pablo Neruda Translated by William O'Daly

III. Tell me, is the rose naked or is that her only dress? Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots? Who hears the regrets of the thieving automobile? Is there anything in the world sadder than a train standing in the rain?

If only I had married someone more romantic...

I knew Ryan was planning to put up this mosquito screen for our dinner, but...

I really wish he had put some time & thought into it! :)

view from the porch

rock detail

solar lantern

reading neruda...

The Queen
by Pablo Neruda
(trans. by Donald D. Walsh)

I have named you queen.
There are taller ones than you, taller.
There are purer ones than you, purer.
There are lovelier ones than you, lovelier.

But you are the queen.

When you go through the streets
no one recognizes you.
No one sees your crystal crown, no one looks
at the carpet of red gold
that you tread as you pass,
the nonexistent carpet.

And when you appear
all the rivers sound
in my body, bells
shake the sky,
and a hymn fills the world.

Only you and I,
only you and I, my love,
listen to it.

RIP SammyDog

We'll miss you, SammyDog! I mean to write something of my own here...an ode to Sammy or whatnot, but for now, do enjoy this Pablo Neruda poem, sent to me by a good friend...

A Dog Has Died


My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.

Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.

No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.

Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.

So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.

Translated, from the Spanish, by Alfred Yankauer