Pablo Neruda

"Kommt, seht das Blut in den Straßen, // kommt, seht // das Blut in den Straßen, // kommt, seht doch das Blut // in den Straßen!"

"Sie können alle Blumen abschneiden, aber nie werden sie den Frühling aufhalten können."

"Debajo de tu piel vive la luna."

"Mi amor se nutre de tu amor, amada"

"¿Sabes que en las calles no hay nadie y adentro de las casas tampoco?'Sólo hay ojos en las ventanas. Si no tienes dònde dormir toca una puerta y te abrirán, te abrirán hasta cierto punto y verás que hace frío adentro, que aquella casa está vacía, y no quiere nada contigo, no valen nada tus historias, y si insistes con tu ternura te muerden el perro y el gato."

"Y algo golpeaba en mi alma, fiebre o alas perdidas, y me fui haciendo solo, descifrando aquella quemadura y escribí la primera línea vaga, vaga, sin cuerpo, pura, tontería pura sabiduría del que no sabe nada, y vi de pronto el cielo desgranado y abierto."

"Allí en Rangoon comprendí que los dioses eran tan enemigos como Dios del pobre ser humano. Dioses de alabastro tendidos como ballenas blancas, dioses dorados como las espigas, dioses serpientes enroscados al crimen de nacer, budhas desnudos y elegantes sonriendo en el coktail de la vacía eternidad como Cristo en su cruz horrible, todos dispuestos a todo, a imponernos su cielo, todos con llagas o pistola para comprar piedad o quemarnos la sangre, dioses feroces del hombre para esconder la cobardía, y allí todo era así, toda la tierra olía a cielo, a mercadería celeste."

"Es la hora, amor mío, de apartar esta rosa sombría, cerrar las estrellas, enterrar la ceniza en la tierra: y, en la insurrección de la luz, despertar con los que despertaron o seguir en el sueño alcanzando la otra orilla del mar que no tiene otra orilla."

"Sólo con una ardiente paciencia conquistaremos la espléndida ciudad que dará luz, justicia y dignidad a todos los hombres. Así la poesía no habrá cantado en vano."

"Un pilar soportando consuelos Y no me digan nada ¿Y bien? ¿Te sana el metaloide pálido? Tengo un miedo terrible de ser un animal íY, si después de tantos palabras La cólera que quiebra al hombre en niños"

"¿Quién escribe tu nombre con letras de humo entre las estrellas del sur? Ah déjame recordarte cómo eras entonces, cuando aún no existías."

"Quiero hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos."

"Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente, y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca."

"Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche."

"Es tan corto el amor y tan largo el olvido."

"Estoy solo entre materias desvencijadas, la lluvia cae sobre mí, y se me parece, se me parece con su desvarío,solitaria en el mundo muerto, rechazada al caer, y sin forma obstinada."

"Enterrado junto al cocotero hallarás más tarde el cuchillo que escodí allí por temor de que me mataras, y ahora repentinamente quisiera oler su acero de cocina acostumbrado al peso de tu mano y al brillo de tu pie: bajo la humedad de la tierra, entre las sordas raíces, de los lenguajes humanos el pobre sólo sabría tu nombre, y la espesa tierra no comprende tu nombre hecho de impenetrables y substancias divinas."

"No quiero para mí tantas desgracias. No quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba, de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos ateridos, muriéndome de pena."

"Si me preguntáis en dónde he estado debo decir "Sucede." Debo de hablar del suelo que oscurecen las piedras, del río que durando se destruye: no sé sino las cosas que los pájaros pierden, el mar dejado atrás, o mi hermana llorando. ¿Por qué tantas regiones, por qué un día se junta con un día? ¿Por qué una negra noche se acumula en la boca? ¿Por qué muertos?"

"Preguntaréis: ¿Y dónde están las lilas? ¿Y la metafísica cubierta de amapolas? ¿Y la lluvia que a menudo golpeaba sus palabras llenándolas de agujeros y pájaros?"

"Preguntaréis ¿por qué su poesía no nos habla del sueño, de las hojas, de los grandes volcanes de su país natal?'Venid a ver la sangre por las calles, venid a ver la sangre por las calles, venid a ver la sangre por las calles!"

"Muere lentamente quien no viaja, quien no lee, quien no oye música, quien no encuentra gracia en sí mismo. Muere lentamente quien destruye su amor propio, quien no se deja ayudar..."

"Podrán cortar todas las flores, pero no podrán detener la primavera."

"The influence of Pablo Neruda began to be felt after I left Chile. I took along a suitcase, photographs of my family, a small bag filled with soil and one volume of the complete works of Pablo Neruda. Every time I felt the need to recover my country, I read Neruda because he is Chile, he is the voice of Chile. It is a beautiful metaphor that he died following the military coup. With his death, the voice of the people and the voice of freedom grew silent...Pablo Neruda is a poet of emotion and sensuality. Although he is lacking Gabriela Mistral's mystical bent, I feel very close to his way of approaching, smelling, touching, tasting, and walking the world. I like this very much."

"I don't know if he influenced my writing but he's a big influence in my life. Pablo Neruda is a poet of the senses. For example, I think of his "Ode to Oil." You may have used oil all your life, but you've never seen the transparency or the color, felt the texture, smelled it; you don't know where it comes from or how it's made. The beautiful nature of oil becomes real when you read Neruda."

"I'm fairly certain that if you study any poet of any given time, any sex, any class background, the question of searching for identity is there. It's inherent. It is a process of self-understanding, of going through life. Take Pablo Neruda, ambassador for his country, writing poetry reflecting the issues of his life. What I'm saying is that the difference between me and Neruda is that I'm not a man from a middle-class elitist background. My government is not sending me as ambassador so I can go and write poetry in some other place. What is different with women of color is that they are the very last permitted a voice. What we are hearing now is this very unique, silenced, previously censored voice."

"I always wonder why some poets become "international"? I guess they were tremendously good. I think of people like Pablo Neruda. He crossed all sorts of geographical lines. But he was also from that place, located in that place."

"I love Chilean writer Pablo Neruda, for that powerful lyric voice he has, and also the commitment he had for his people."

"I love poets who bring together poetry and life in all its motion: Neruda, Forché, Cardenal, Dugan, Bishop"

"Pablo Neruda is a New World poet whose fate differs from the other Whitman descendants because he was born into a country where the majority of the citizens did not mistake themselves for Englishmen or long to find themselves struggling, at most, with cucumber sandwiches and tea. He was never European. His anguish was not aroused by three piece suits and rolled umbrellas... Specifically, Neruda's self-conscious decision to write in a manner readily comprehensible to the masses of his countrymen, and his self-conscious decision to specify, outright, the United Fruit Company when that was the instigating subject of his become unfortunate moments in an otherwise supposedly sublime, not to mention surrealist, deeply Old World and European but nonetheless Chilean case history. To assure the validity of this perspective, the usual American critic and translator presents you with a smattering of the unfortunate, ostensibly political poetry and, on the other hand, buries you under volumes of Neruda's early work that antedates the Spanish Civil War or, in other words, that antedates Neruda's serious conversion to a political world view."

"When I was in high school, I had never read Black poetry. The one poet of color whom I had read, and loved, was Pablo Neruda. I have to say that Neruda and Millay were the two poets I loved. All the others didn't make much sense."

"Neruda died on the day that the military junta took power. Even more than in his life, he became a symbol of Chilean resistance. Both in his writings of and for and to his country, and in his countrypeople's response to him, there was a dialogue reaching beyond death. He was internationally famous, of course; of the middle class; a male. It was not the poetry of a dark-skinned mestizo-still less, a mestiza-that so commanded love and respect. Yet he could have betrayed, and did not; could have escaped into the international literary elite, and did not. The fence below his locked and off-limits house became a place for people to continue voicing their hopes and angers, a collective page greater even than the poet's books, a page made possible because of his books, because of the hand that had once crawled over line after line, writing the poems."

"Pablo Neruda of Chile, one of the world’s greatest poets"

"I also read poetry — from Pablo Neruda to Warsan Shire — fairly regularly, and it keeps my sense of what words can do wide open and my sense of beauty awake."

"Neruda adored life. He was wild about everything - painting, art in general, books, rare editions, food, drink. Eating and drinking were almost a mystical experience for him. A wonderfully likeable man, full of vitality-if you forget his poems in praise of Stalin, of course. He lived in a near-feudal world, where everything led to his rejoicing, his sweet-toothed exuberance for life. I had the good fortune to spend a weekend on Isla Negra. It was wonderful! A kind of social machinery worked around him: hordes of people who cooked and worked-and always quantities of guests. It was a very funny society, extraordinarily alive, without the slightest trace of intellectualism. Neruda was exactly the opposite of Borges, the man who appeared never to drink, smoke, or eat, who one would have said had never made love, for whom all these things seemed completely secondary, and if he had done them it was out of politeness and nothing more. That's because ideas, reading, reflection, and creation were his life, the purely cerebral life. Neruda comes out of the Jorge Amado and Rafael Alberti tradition that says literature is generated by a sensual experience of life."

"Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?"