Sunday, January 9, 2011

A poem titled poetry

Poetry always accompanies pensiveness or wistfulness for me, especially when it comes in the name of Pablo Neruda. And you know a little something about him? He always wrote in green ink as it was the colour of "esperanza" or hope.

Poetry might look so garbed at first sight, but actually, I don't think there is a medium that can be as incisive or unpretentious. The freedom of movement that it enjoys in its form unfailingly allows it to speak to the soul when it wants to.

And my melancholy soul seeking fuchsia wants only that right now - poetry in green that gives esperanza.

Poetry

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

- Pablo Neruda

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