Pablo Neruda

1:In the distance someone is singing. ~ Pablo Neruda,

2:in secret, between the shadow and the soul. ~ Pablo Neruda,

3:Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood. ~ Pablo Neruda,

4:Am I allowed to ask my book / whether it's true I wrote it? ~ Pablo Neruda,

5:I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know. ~ Pablo Neruda,

6:Love is so short, forgetting is so long." ~ Pablo Neruda, @Sufi_Path

7:I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul. ~ Pablo Neruda,

8:Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air. ~ Pablo Neruda,

9:I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me." ~ Pablo Neruda,

10:I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way. ~ Pablo Neruda,

11:But when I call for a hero, out comes my lazy old self; so I never know who I am, nor how many I am or will be. I'd love to be able to touch a bell and summon the real me, because if I really need myself, I mustn't disappear. ~ Pablo Neruda,

12:And I, a materialist who does not believe in the starry heaven promised to a human being, for this dog and for every dog I believe in heaven, yes, I believe in a heaven that I will never enter, but he waits for me wagging his big fan of a tail so I, soon to arrive, will feel welcomed. ~ Pablo Neruda,

13:I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close. ~ Pablo Neruda,

* WISDOM TROVE *

1:You are like nobody since I love you" -Pablo Neruda This art of love discloses the special and sacred identity of the other person. Love is the only light that can truly read the secret signature of the other person's individuality and soul. Love alone is literate in the world of origin; it can decipher identity and destiny ~ john-odonohue, @wisdomtrove

2:In everyone's life, there is great need for an anam cara, a soul friend. In this love, you are understood as you are without mask or pretension. The superficial and functional lies and half-truths of social acquaintance fall away, you can be as you really are. Love allows understanding to dawn, and understanding is precious. Where you are understood, you are at home. Understanding nourishes belonging. When you really feel understood, you feel free to release yourself into the trust and shelter of the other person's soul. This recognition is described in a beautiful line from Pablo Neruda: "You are like nobody since I love you." This art of love discloses the special and sacred identity of the other person. Love is the only light that can truly read the secret signature of the other person's individuality and soul. Love alone is literate in the world of origin; it an decipher identity and destiny. ~ john-odonohue, @wisdomtrove

* NEWFULLDB 2.4M *

1:If each day falls ~ Pablo Neruda,

2:We must dream our way. ~ Pablo Neruda,

3:Poetry is an act of peace. ~ Pablo Neruda,

4:Love is a war of lightning, ~ Pablo Neruda,

5:Love is a clash of lightnings ~ Pablo Neruda,

6:Hands make the world each day. ~ Pablo Neruda,

7:Perhaps the earth can teach us ~ Pablo Neruda,

8:The darkness of a day elapsed, ~ Pablo Neruda,

9:I love all the things there are, ~ Pablo Neruda,

10:Under your skin the moon is alive. ~ Pablo Neruda,

11:In the distance someone is singing. ~ Pablo Neruda,

12:I was the owner of my own darkness. ~ Pablo Neruda,

13:I need the sea because it teaches me ~ Pablo Neruda,

14:In the distance someone is singing. ~ Pablo Neruda,

15:The Ardent Hymn that Unites Peoples. ~ Pablo Neruda,

16:There is no insurmountable solitude. ~ Pablo Neruda,

17:What did the earth teach the trees? ~ Pablo Neruda,

18:Laughter is the language of the soul. ~ Pablo Neruda,

19:Love! Love until the night collapses! ~ Pablo Neruda,

20:You are like nobody since I love you. ~ Pablo Neruda,

21:I move in the university of the waves. ~ Pablo Neruda,

22:Love, how many roads to obtain a kiss. ~ Pablo Neruda,

23:Love is short, but forgetting is long. ~ Pablo Neruda,

24:My soul is an empty carousel at sunset. ~ Pablo Neruda,

25:Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long. ~ Pablo Neruda,

26:Love is so short, forgetting is so long. ~ Pablo Neruda,

27:Love is the mystery of water and a star. ~ Pablo Neruda,

28:We bear the sole, relentless tenderness. ~ Pablo Neruda,

29:I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. ~ Pablo Neruda,

30:It was my destiny to love and say goodbye. ~ Pablo Neruda,

31:He who does not travel, who does not read, ~ Pablo Neruda,

32:Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss. ~ Pablo Neruda,

33:Megaphone in which the wind passes singing. ~ Pablo Neruda,

34:There is no space wider than that of grief. ~ Pablo Neruda,

35:Without doubt I praise the wild excellence. ~ Pablo Neruda,

36:I love you as one loves certain dark things. ~ Pablo Neruda,

37:In one kiss, you'll know all I haven't said. ~ Pablo Neruda,

38:Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes? ~ Pablo Neruda,

39:I am made of earth, and my song made of words. ~ Pablo Neruda,

40:You & I, Love, together we ratify the silence, ~ Pablo Neruda,

41:She did not speak for speech was unknown to her. ~ Pablo Neruda,

42:For now I ask no more Than the justice of eating. ~ Pablo Neruda,

43:In love, you have loosened yourself like seawater ~ Pablo Neruda,

44:Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots? ~ Pablo Neruda,

45:Every day you play with the light of the universe. ~ Pablo Neruda,

46:I spin on the circle of wave upon wave of the sea. ~ Pablo Neruda,

47:Death is the stone into which our oblivion hardens. ~ Pablo Neruda,

48:In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins. ~ Pablo Neruda,

49:It was at that age that poetry came in search of me. ~ Pablo Neruda,

50:Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach; ~ Pablo Neruda,

51:sometimes i get up at dawn, and even my soul is wet. ~ Pablo Neruda,

52:The hardest way of learning is that of easy reading. ~ Pablo Neruda,

53:When did the lemons learn the same creed as the sun? ~ Pablo Neruda,

54:In what language does rain fall over tormented cities? ~ Pablo Neruda,

55:I say love, and the world populates itself with doves. ~ Pablo Neruda,

56:Let us forget with generosity those who cannot love us ~ Pablo Neruda,

57:Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood. ~ Pablo Neruda,

58:Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude. ~ Pablo Neruda,

59:Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand. ~ Pablo Neruda,

60:Why wasn't Christopher Columbus able to discover Spain? ~ Pablo Neruda,

61:And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture. ~ Pablo Neruda,

62:Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood. ~ Pablo Neruda,

63:What can I say without touching the earth with my hands? ~ Pablo Neruda,

64:Whom can I ask what I came to make happen in this world? ~ Pablo Neruda,

65:Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows. ~ Pablo Neruda,

66:Today is today, and yesterday is gone. There is no doubt. ~ Pablo Neruda,

67:You can crush the flowers, but you can't stop the spring. ~ Pablo Neruda,

68:Am I allowed to ask my book / whether it's true I wrote it? ~ Pablo Neruda,

69:And what importance do I have in the courtroom of oblivion? ~ Pablo Neruda,

70:I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees. ~ Pablo Neruda,

71:Am I allowed to ask my book / whether it's true I wrote it? ~ Pablo Neruda,

72:What does autumn go on paying for with so much yellow money? ~ Pablo Neruda,

73:Cómo se acuerda con los pájaros la traducción de sus idiomas? ~ Pablo Neruda,

74:I want to do for you what the spring does for the cherry trees ~ Pablo Neruda,

75:What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood? ~ Pablo Neruda,

76:Conspirators in pajamas who exchange deep kisses for passwords. ~ Pablo Neruda,

77:Give me silence, water, hope Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes. ~ Pablo Neruda,

78:I want
To do with you what spring does with the cherry trees. ~ Pablo Neruda,

79:The tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness. ~ Pablo Neruda,

80:The wound is the place where the light enters you. —Pablo Neruda ~ Ellery Adams,

81:All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are. ~ Pablo Neruda,

82:I am everybody and every time, I always call myself by your name. ~ Pablo Neruda,

83:I want to do with you what the spring does with the cherry trees. ~ Pablo Neruda,

84:Look around—there's only one thing of danger for you here—poetry. ~ Pablo Neruda,

85:While I'm writing, I'm far away; and when I come back, I've gone. ~ Pablo Neruda,

86:I think it was very informative, but a lot still needs to be done. ~ Pablo Neruda,

87:La heradera del dia destruida. (The heiress of the destroyed day.) ~ Pablo Neruda,

88:The night is shattered, and the blue stars shiver in the distance. ~ Pablo Neruda,

89:Love has to be…flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss. ~ Pablo Neruda,

90:You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming. ~ Pablo Neruda,

91:You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming. ~ Pablo Neruda,

92:Place gifts of silver in our hands. Give us this day our daily fish. ~ Pablo Neruda,

93:why is there day, why must night come … – Pablo Neruda, ‘Ode to a Dog ~ Andr Alexis,

94:In what language does rain fall over tormented cities? —PABLO NERUDA ~ Arundhati Roy,

95:If nothing saves us from death, at least love should save us from life ~ Pablo Neruda,

96:I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window. ~ Pablo Neruda,

97:To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life. ~ Pablo Neruda,

98:I have never thought of my life as divided between poetry and politics. ~ Pablo Neruda,

99:The best poet is the man who delivers our daily bread: the local baker. ~ Pablo Neruda,

100:What did the tree learn from the earth to be able to talk with the sky? ~ Pablo Neruda,

101:with your name on my mouth and a kiss that never broke away from yours. ~ Pablo Neruda,

102:Two things make a story. The net and the air that falls through the net. ~ Pablo Neruda,

103:About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you ~ Pablo Neruda,

104:When your hands leap towards mine, love, what do they bring me in flight? ~ Pablo Neruda,

105:I love you as one loves certain dark things —Pablo Neruda, “Sonnet XVII ~ Cassandra Clare,

106:Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations. ~ Pablo Neruda,

107:You can pick all the flowers but you can’t stop the spring. —PABLO NERUDA ~ Jack Kornfield,

108:Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness. ~ Pablo Neruda,

109:Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank! ~ Pablo Neruda,

110:Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread. ~ Pablo Neruda,

111:With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea? ~ Pablo Neruda,

112:my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping but I shall go on living. ~ Pablo Neruda,

113:As if you were on fire from within. The moon lives in the lining of your skin. ~ Pablo Neruda,

114:I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything. ~ Pablo Neruda,

115:I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know. ~ Pablo Neruda,

116:Like them you are tall and taciturn, and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage. ~ Pablo Neruda,

117:The road made wet by the water of August shines like it was cut in full moonlight ~ Pablo Neruda,

118:He who has nothing—it has been said many times—has nothing to lose but his chains. ~ Pablo Neruda,

119:Poetry was made for the bath, Mitzi believed. She was partial to Pablo Neruda. ~ Elin Hilderbrand,

120:my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping
but
I shall go on living. ~ Pablo Neruda,

121:The birds of night peck at the first stars that flash like my soul when I love you. ~ Pablo Neruda,

122:To love is to tilt with the lightning, two bodies routed by a single honey's sweet. ~ Pablo Neruda,

123:I like on the table, when we're speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine. ~ Pablo Neruda,

124:As if you were on fire from within.

The moon lives in the lining of your skin. ~ Pablo Neruda,

125:Tonight I can write the saddest lines
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. ~ Pablo Neruda,

126:Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly. ~ Pablo Neruda,

127:I love you as certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. ~ Pablo Neruda,

128:We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, And lay like fish Under the net of our kisses. ~ Pablo Neruda,

129:I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. ~ Pablo Neruda,

130:You are like night, calmed, constellated. Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true. ~ Pablo Neruda,

131:Take bread away from me, if you wish, take air away, but do not take from me your laughter. ~ Pablo Neruda,

132:But from each crime are born bullets that will one day seek out in you where the heart lies. ~ Pablo Neruda,

133:Then Scale by scale, We strip off The delicacy And eat The peaceful mush Of its green heart. ~ Pablo Neruda,

134:In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood. ~ Pablo Neruda,

135:And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us. ~ Pablo Neruda,

136:I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. ~ Pablo Neruda,

137:The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement. ~ Pablo Neruda,

138:Shyness is a condition foreign to the heart - a category, a dimension which leads to loneliness. ~ Pablo Neruda,

139:From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping. ~ Pablo Neruda,

140:White bee, even when you are gone you buzz in my soul You live again in time, slender and silent. ~ Pablo Neruda,

141:I believed that the way passed through Man, and that it was from there that destiny had to emerge. ~ Pablo Neruda,

142:I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul. ~ Pablo Neruda,

143:I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul. ~ Pablo Neruda,

144:Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness, and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar. ~ Pablo Neruda,

145:Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air. ~ Pablo Neruda,

146:By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together in their sleep will defeat the darkness ~ Pablo Neruda,

147:I'm not me but living matter fermenting and forming its own shapes in the fruitfulness of every day. ~ Pablo Neruda,

148:I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long. ~ Pablo Neruda,

149:Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air. ~ Pablo Neruda,

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

151:I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases. ~ Pablo Neruda,

152:I want to see thirst In the syllables, Tough fire In the sound; Feel through the dark For the scream. ~ Pablo Neruda,

153:For me writing is like breathing. I could not live without breathing and I could not live without writing. ~ Pablo Neruda,

154:Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit. ~ Pablo Neruda,

155:so I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache. ~ Pablo Neruda,

156:I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love. ~ Pablo Neruda,

157:Como se reparten el sol en el naranjo las naranjas? How do the oranges divide up sunlight in the orange tree? ~ Pablo Neruda,

158:Love is not about property, diamonds and gifts. It is about sharing your very self with the world around you. ~ Pablo Neruda,

159:I am no longer in love with her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long. ~ Pablo Neruda,

160:I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul … —Pablo Neruda ~ Laura Thalassa,

161:O merry, merry, merry, like only dogs know how to be happy and nothing more, with an absolute shameless nature. ~ Pablo Neruda,

162:Then love knew it was called love. And when I lifted my eyes to your name, suddenly your heart showed me my way ~ Pablo Neruda,

163:There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle. ~ Pablo Neruda,

164:I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter. ~ Pablo Neruda,

165:And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy. ~ Pablo Neruda,

166:so I wait for you like a lonely house
till you will see me again and live in me.
Till then my windows ache. ~ Pablo Neruda,

167:So the freshness lives on in a lemon, in the sweet-smelling house of the rind, the proportions, arcane and acerb. ~ Pablo Neruda,

168:When I got the chance I asked them a slew of questions. They offered to burn me; it was the only thing they knew. ~ Pablo Neruda,

169:When I sleep every night, what am I called or not called? And when I wake, who am I if I was not I while I slept? ~ Pablo Neruda,

170:A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory. ~ Pablo Neruda,

171:Day-colored wine, night-colored wine, wine with purple feet or wine with topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth. ~ Pablo Neruda,

172:Fue adondo a mi me perdieron quw logre por fin encontrarme? Was it where they lost me that I finally found myself? ~ Pablo Neruda,

173:Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles? ~ Pablo Neruda,

174:Donde termina el arco iris, en tu alma o en el horizonte? Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon? ~ Pablo Neruda,

175:Pablo Neruda: No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams. You will go, we will go, together over the waters of time. ~ Kathryn Nolan,

176:The typewriter separated me from a deeper intimacy with poetry, and my hand brought me closer to that intimacy again. ~ Pablo Neruda,

177:WANT TO DO WITH YOU WHAT SPRING DOES WITH THE CHERRY TREES.” Pablo Neruda, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair * ~ Chance Carter,

178:Everything is so alive, that I can be alive. Without moving I can see it all. In your life I see everything that lives. ~ Pablo Neruda,

179:Then love knew it was called love.
And when I lifted my eyes to your name,
suddenly your heart showed me my way ~ Pablo Neruda,

180:We must sit on the rim
of the well of darkness
and fish for fallen light
with patience.
--Pablo Neruda ~ Wendy Brown Baez,

181:When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keep hidden takes over all that I say. ~ Pablo Neruda,

182:But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me. ~ Pablo Neruda,

183:And here am I, budding among the ruins with only sorrow to bite on, as if weeping were a seed and I the earth's only furrow. ~ Pablo Neruda,

184:Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed. ~ Pablo Neruda,

185:I hunger for your sleek laugh and your hands the color of a furious harvest. I want to eat the sunbeams flaring in your beauty. ~ Pablo Neruda,

186:Is 4 the same 4 for everybody? Are all sevens equal? When the convict ponders the light is it the same light that shines on you? ~ Pablo Neruda,

187: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. ~ Pablo Neruda,

188:Your house sounds like a train at midday, the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing, the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew . . . ~ Pablo Neruda,

189:"I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me." ~ Pablo Neruda,

190:Pablo Neruda said laughter is the language of the soul.” (To which Bart replies, “I am familiar with the works of Pablo Neruda.”) ~ Alan Sepinwall,

191:Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly. —Pablo Neruda “Jedediah Craig. It’s a pleasure ~ Ellery Adams,

192:Hay algo más tonto en la vida Que llamarse Pablo Neruda? (is there anything more insane in this life than being called Pablo Neruda?) ~ Pablo Neruda,

193:But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me. ~ Pablo Neruda,

194:To feel the affection that comes from those whom we do not know ... widens out the boundaries of our being, and unites all living things. ~ Pablo Neruda,

195:Once more I am the silent one who came out of the distance wrapped in cold rain and bells: I owe to earth's pure death the will to sprout. ~ Pablo Neruda,

196:I want to see thirst In the syllables, Touch fire In the sound; Feel through the dark For the scream. Pablo Neruda, “Word,” Five Decades T ~ Cornelia Funke,

197:O happy childhood! blessed youth! But once we know thy potent power; But once we live all careless free; No cross to mar our love-lit bower. ~ Pablo Neruda,

198:Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew. ~ Pablo Neruda,

199:Hate is like a swordfish, working through water invisibly and then you see it coming with blood along its blade, but transparency disarms it. ~ Pablo Neruda,

200:Tonight I can write the saddest lines...Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her. ~ Pablo Neruda,

201:Where were you then? Who else was there? Saying what? Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away? ~ Pablo Neruda,

202:Only do not forget, if I wake up crying it's only because in my dream I'm a lost child hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands. ~ Pablo Neruda,

203:Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life. ~ Pablo Neruda,

204:I don't know who it is who lives or dies, who rests or wakes, but it is your heart that distributes all the graces of the daybreak in my breast. ~ Pablo Neruda,

205:I had no more alphabet than the journeying of the swallows, the pure and tiny water of the small, fiery bird that dances rising from the pollen. ~ Pablo Neruda,

206:A child who does not play is not a child, but the man who doesn't play has lost forever the child who lived in him and who he will miss terribly. ~ Pablo Neruda,

207:And what has become of it, where is that onetime love? Now it is the grave of a bird, a drop of black quartz, a chunk of wood eroded by the rain. ~ Pablo Neruda,

208:Give me Pablo Neruda, picnic beneath a full moon & iridescent stars, black olives, cherries, dark things, canoe on a river...that's romance. ~ Brandi L Bates,

209:I got lost in the night, without the light of your eyelids, and when the night surrounded me I was born again: I was the owner of my own darkness. ~ Pablo Neruda,

210:Sufre mas el que espera siempre que aquel que nunca espero a nadie? Does he who is always waiting suffer more than he who’s never waited for anyone? ~ Pablo Neruda,

211:And it follows that I am, because you are: it follows from 'you are', that I am, and we: and, because of love, you will, I will, we will, come to be. ~ Pablo Neruda,

212:Oh love, rose made wet by mermaids and foams, fire that dances and climbs up the invisible stairs and awakens the blood in the tunnel of sleeplessness. ~ Pablo Neruda,

213:And our problems will crumble apart, the soul / blow through like a wind, and here where we live will all be clean again, with fresh bread on the table. ~ Pablo Neruda,

214:I have named you queen. There are taller than you, taller. There are purer than you, purer. There are lovelier than you, lovelier. But you are the queen. ~ Pablo Neruda,

215: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. ~ Pablo Neruda,

216:Only do not forget, if I wake up crying
it's only because in my dream I'm a lost child

hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands.... ~ Pablo Neruda,

217:Our love was born outside the walls, in the wind, in the night, in the earth, and that's why the clay and the flower, the mud and the roots know your name. ~ Pablo Neruda,

218:We are dust and to dust return. In the end we're neither air, nor fire, nor water, just dirt, neither more nor less, just dirt, and maybe some yellow flowers. ~ Pablo Neruda,

219:If suddenly you do not exist, If suddenly you are not living, I shall go on living. I do not dare, I do not dare to write it, if you die. I shall go on living. ~ Pablo Neruda,

220: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. ~ Pablo Neruda,

221:I do not love you-except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you, from waiting to not waiting for you my heart moves from the cold into the fire. ~ Pablo Neruda,

222:I will bring you flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees. ~ Pablo Neruda,

223:Someday, somewhere—anywhere, unfailingly, you’ll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.” -Pablo Neruda ~ Brittainy C Cherry,

224:I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests. ~ Pablo Neruda,

225:In you is the illusion of each day. You arrive like the dew to the cupped flowers. You undermine the horizon with your absence. Eternally in flight like the wave. ~ Pablo Neruda,

226:I learned about life from life itself, love I learned in a single kiss and could teach no one anything except that I have lived with something in common among men. ~ Pablo Neruda,

227:I walked around as you do, investigating the endless star, and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind. ~ Pablo Neruda,

228:Bitter love, a violet with it's crown of thorns in a thicet of spiky passions, spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come to conquer my soul? What brought you? ~ Pablo Neruda,

229:Oh each successive night that comes has something in it of an abandoned ember that is slowly burning out, and it falls swathed in ruins, surrounded by funereal objects. ~ Pablo Neruda,

230:I want to see the thirst inside the syllables I want to touch the fire in the sound: I want to feel the darkness of the cry. I want words as rough as virgin rocks.” - Verb. ~ Pablo Neruda,

231:Maybe someone will know I didn't weave crowns to draw blood; that I faught against mockery; that I did fill the high tide of my soul with truth. I repaid vileness with doves. ~ Pablo Neruda,

232:At night I dream that you and I are two plants that grew together, roots entwined, and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth, since we are made of earth and rain. ~ Pablo Neruda,

233:We open the halves of a miracle, and a clotting of acids brims into the starry divisions: creation's original juices, irreducible, changeless, alive: so the freshness lives on ~ Pablo Neruda,

234:¿Cuánto vive el hombre, por fin? ¿Vive mil años o uno solo? ¿Vive una semana o varios siglos? ¿Por cuánto tiempo muere el hombre? ¿Qué quiere decir para siempre? PABLO NERUDA ~ Isabel Allende,

235:Who do I belong to? How come I mortgaged my being till I don't belong to myself? How come I sold my blood? And who now owns my indecisions, my hands, my private pain, my pride? ~ Pablo Neruda,

236:Algún día, en cualquier parte, en cualquier lugar, indefectiblemente te encontrarás a ti mismo, y esa, solo esa, puede ser la más feliz o la más amarga de tus horas. —Pablo Neruda ~ Lorena Franco,

237:As slippery as smooth grapes, words exploding in the light like dormant seeds waiting in the vaults of vocabulary, alive again, and giving life: once again the heart distills them. ~ Pablo Neruda,

238:Don't leave me, even for an hour, because then the little drops of anguish will all run together, the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift into me, choking my lost heart. ~ Pablo Neruda,

239:I don't want to go on being a root in the dark, vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep, downward, in the soaked guts of the earth, absorbing and thinking, eating each day. ~ Pablo Neruda,

240:Loving is a journey with water and with stars, with smothered air and abrupt storms of flour: loving is a clash of lightning-bolts and two bodies defeated by a single drop of honey. ~ Pablo Neruda,

241:so I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. ~ Pablo Neruda,

242:I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body... and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue. ~ Pablo Neruda,

243:I don’t love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. ~ Pablo Neruda,

244:I love you only because it's you the one I love; I hate you deeply, and hating you Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you Is that I do not see you but love you blindly. ~ Pablo Neruda,

245:Ah, love is a voyage with water and a star, in drowning air and squalls of precipitate bran; love is a war of lights in the lightning flashes, two bodies blasted in a single burst of honey. ~ Pablo Neruda,

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

247:How much does a man live, after all?/ Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries?/ How long does a man spend dying?/ What does it mean to say 'for ever'? ~ Pablo Neruda,

248:I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps. ~ Pablo Neruda,

249:Between lips and lips there are cities of great ash and moist summit, drops of when and how, vague comings and goings: between lips and lips as along a shore of sand and glass the wind passes. ~ Pablo Neruda,

250:When I go to the shore, I take along the poems of Pablo Neruda. I suppose it's because the poems are simultaneously lush and ripe and kind of lazy, yet throbbing with life - like summer itself. ~ Tom Robbins,

251:De pronto mientras ibas conmigo, te toqué y se detuvo mi vida: frente a mis ojos estabas, reinándome, y reinas. Como la hoguera en los bosques, el fuego es tu reino. PABLO NERUDA, Cien sonetos de amor ~ Anonymous,

252:The bare earth, plantless, waterless, is an immense puzzle. In the forests or beside rivers everything speaks to humans. The desert does not speak. I could not comprehend its tongue; its silence... ~ Pablo Neruda,

253:It is not so much light that falls over the world extended by your body its suffocating snow, as brightness, pouring itself out of you, as if you were burning inside. Under your skin the moon is alive. ~ Pablo Neruda,

254: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. ~ Pablo Neruda,

255:We the mortals touch the metals, the wind, the ocean shores, the stones, knowing they will go on, inert or burning, and I was discovering, naming all the these things: it was my destiny to love and say goodbye. ~ Pablo Neruda,

256:I have slept with you all night long while the dark earth spins with the living and the dead, and on waking suddenly in the midst of the shadow my arm encircled your waist. Neither night nor sleep could separate us. ~ Pablo Neruda,

257:We the mortals touch the metals,
the wind, the ocean shores, the stones,
knowing they will go on, inert or burning,
and I was discovering, naming all the these things:
it was my destiny to love and say goodbye. ~ Pablo Neruda,

258:But when I call for a hero, out comes my lazy old self; so I never know who I am, nor how many I am or will be. I'd love to be able to touch a bell and summon the real me, because if I really need myself, I mustn't disappear. ~ Pablo Neruda,

259:But when I call for a hero, out comes my lazy old self; so I never know who I am, nor how many I am or will be. I'd love to be able to touch a bell and summon the real me, because if I really need myself, I mustn't disappear. ~ Pablo Neruda,

260: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? ~ Pablo Neruda,

261:There's a country spread out in the sky, a credulous carpet of rainbows and crepuscular plants: I move toward it just a bit haggardly, trampling a gravedigger's rubble still moist from the spade to dream in a bedlam of vegetables. ~ Pablo Neruda,

262:We have to discard the past / and, as one builds / floor by floor, window by window, / and the building rises, / so do we keep shedding - first, broken tiles, / then proud doors... and each new day / gleams / like an empty / plate. ~ Pablo Neruda,

263:The books that help you most are those which make you think that most. The hardest way of learning is that of easy reading; but a great book that comes from a great thinker is a ship of thought, deep freighted with truth and beauty. ~ Pablo Neruda,

264: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? ~ Pablo Neruda,

265:Tomorrow we will only give them a leaf of the tree of our love, a leaf which will fall on the earth like if it had been made by our lips like a kiss which falls from our invincible heights to show the fire and the tenderness of a true love. ~ Pablo Neruda,

266:How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans. ~ Pablo Neruda,

267:From scarlet to powdered gold, to blazing yellow, to the rare ashen emerald, to the orange and black velvet of your shimmering corselet, out to the tip that like an amber thorn begins you, small, superlative being, you are a miracle, and you blaze ~ Pablo Neruda,

268:And that's why i have to go back to so many places there to find myself and constantly examine myself with no witness but the moon and then whistle with joy, ambling over rocks and clods of earth, with no task but to live, with no family but the road. ~ Pablo Neruda,

269:Whom can I ask what I came to make happen in this world? Why do I move without wanting to, why am I not able to sit still? Why do I go rolling without wheels, flying without wings or feathers, and why did I decide to migrate if my bones live in Chile? ~ Pablo Neruda,

270:Political poetry is more profoundly emotional than any other-at least as much as love poetry-and cannot be forced because then it becomes vulgar and unacceptable. It is necessary first to pan though all other poetry in order to become a political poet. ~ Pablo Neruda,

271:Writing poetry, we live among the wild beasts, and when we touch a man, the stuff of someone in whom we believed, and he goes to pieces like a rotten pie, you... gather together whatever can be salvaged, while I cup my hands around the live coal of life. ~ Pablo Neruda,

272:Someone will ask later, sometimes searching for a name, his own or someone's else's why I neglected his sadness or his love... But I didn't have enough time or ink for everyone. Or maybe it was the strain of the city, of time the cold heart of the clocks. ~ Pablo Neruda,

273:I should like to sleep like a cat, with all the fur of time, with a tongue rough as flint, with the dry sex of fire; and after speaking to no one, stretch myself over the world, over roofs and landscapes, with a passionate desire to hunt the rats in my dreams. ~ Pablo Neruda,

274:I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything, I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the line: underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling. ~ Pablo Neruda,

275:On our earth, before writing was invented, before the printing press was invented, poetry flourished. That is why we know that poetry is like bread; it should be shared by all, by scholars and by peasants, by all our vast, incredible, extraordinary family of humanity. ~ Pablo Neruda,

276:Give me, for my life, all lives, give me all the pain of everyone, I'm going to turn it into hope. Give me all the joys, even the most secret, because otherwise how will these things be known? I have to tell them, give me the labors of everyday, for that's what I sing. ~ Pablo Neruda,

277:Nobody can claim the name of Pedro, nobody is Rosa or María, all of us are dust or sand, all of us are rain under rain. They have spoken to me of Venezuelas, of Chiles and Paraguays; I have no idea what they are saying. I know only the skin of the earth and I know it has no name. ~ Pablo Neruda,

278:I ask permission to be like everybody else,like the rest of the world and what's more, like anybody else:I beg you, with all my heart,if we are talking about me, since we are talking about me,please resist blasting the trumpet during my visitand resign yourselves to my quiet absence. ~ Pablo Neruda,

279:And I, a materialist who does not believe in the starry heaven promised to a human being, for this dog and for every dog I believe in heaven, yes, I believe in a heaven that I will never enter, but he waits for me wagging his big fan of a tail so I, soon to arrive, will feel welcomed. ~ Pablo Neruda,

280:Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance climbed up through my conscious mind as if suddenly the roots I had left behind cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood - and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent. ~ Pablo Neruda,

281:And I, a materialist who does not believe in the starry heaven promised to a human being, for this dog and for every dog I believe in heaven, yes, I believe in a heaven that I will never enter, but he waits for me wagging his big fan of a tail so I, soon to arrive, will feel welcomed. ~ Pablo Neruda,

282:Let us look for secret things somewhere in the world on the blue shore of silence or where the storm has passed rampaging like a train. There the faint signs are left, coins of time and water, debris ,celestial ash and the irreplaceable rapture of sharing in the labour of soitude in the sand. ~ Pablo Neruda,

283:If you no longer live, if you my beloved, my love, if you have died, all the leaves will fall in my breast, it will rain in my soul night and day, the snow will burn my heart, I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow, my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping, but I shall live ~ Pablo Neruda,

284:I built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each I built little houses, so that your eyes, which I adore and sing to, might live in them. Now that I have declared the foundations of my love, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life. ~ Pablo Neruda,

285:You can say anything you want, yessir, but it's the words that sing, they soar and descend...I bow to them...I love them, I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them, I melt them down...I love words so much...The unexpected ones...The ones I wait for greedily or stalk until, suddenly, they drop. ~ Pablo Neruda,

286:If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death Perhaps the world can teach us as when everything seems dead but later proves to be alive. ~ Pablo Neruda,

287:My duty moves along with my song: I am I am not: that is my destiny. I exist not if I do not attend to the pain of those who suffer: they are my pains. For I cannot be without existing for all, for all who are silent and oppressed, I come from the people and I sing for them: my poetry is song and punnishment. ~ Pablo Neruda,

288:You came to my life with what you were bringing, made of light and bread and shadow I expected you, and Like this I need you, Like this I love you, and to those who want to hear tomorrow that which I will not tell them, let them read it here, and let them back off today because it is early for these arguments. ~ Pablo Neruda,

289:The morning is full of storm in the heart of summer. The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of goodbye, the wind, travelling, waving them in its hands. The numberless heart of the wind beating above our loving silence. Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees like a language full of wars and songs. ~ Pablo Neruda,

290:I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close. ~ Pablo Neruda,

291:Death arrives among all that sound like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it, comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it, comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue,with no throat. Nevertheless its steps can be heard and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree. ~ Pablo Neruda,

292:We must pass through solitude and difficulty, isolation and silence, to find that enchanted place where we can dance our clumsy dance and sing our sorrowful song. But in that dance, and in that song, the most ancient rites of our conscience fulfill themselves in the awareness of being human. —Pablo Neruda, Toward the Splendid City ~ Dan Millman,

293:Over your breasts of motionless current, over your legs of firmness and water, over the permanence and the pride of your naked hair I want to be, my love, now that the tears are thrown into the raucous baskets where they accumulate, I want to be, my love, alone with a syllable of mangled silver, alone with a tip of your breast of snow. ~ Pablo Neruda,

294:You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me. ~ Pablo Neruda,

295:I love you between shadow and soul. I love you as the plant that hasn't bloomed yet, and carries hidden within itself the light of flowers. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. Because of you, the dense fragrance that rises from the earth lives in my body, rioting with hunger for the eternity of our victorious kisses. ~ Pablo Neruda,

296:It's hard to tell / if we close our eyes or if night / opens in us other starred eyes, / if it burrows into the wall of our dream / till some other door opens. / But the dream is only the flitting costume of one moment, / is spent in one beat / of the darkness, / and falls at our feet, cast off / as the day stirs and sails away with us. ~ Pablo Neruda,

297:Who hasn't sharpened the edge of his soul? When, just as our eyes are opened, we see hate, and just after learning to walk, we are tripped, and just for wanting to love, we are hated, and for no more than touching, we are hurt, which of us hasn't started to arm himself, to make himself sharp, somehow, like a knife, to pay back the hurt? ~ Pablo Neruda,

298:Here I came to the very edge where nothing at all needs saying, everything is absorbed through weather and the sea, and the moon swam back, its rays all silvered, and time and again the darkness would be broken by the crash of a wave, and every day on the balcony of the sea, wings open, fire is born, and everything is blue again like morning. ~ Pablo Neruda,

299:Raw hatred took its time making an outpost of its rage and prepared for me a savage crown with rusty, bloodstained spikes. It wasn't pride that made me keep my heart at a distance from such terror, nor did I waste on revenge or the pursuit of power the forces that came from my selfish griefs or my accumulated joys. It was something else-my helplessness. ~ Pablo Neruda,

300:Of everything I have seen, it's you I want to go on seeing: of everything I've touched, it's your flesh I want to go on touching. I love your orange laughter. I am moved by the sight of you sleeping. What am I to do, love, loved one? I don't know how others love or how people loved in the past. I live, watching you, loving you. Being in love is my nature. ~ Pablo Neruda,

301: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. ~ Pablo Neruda,

302:Latin America is very fond of the word "hope." We like to be called the "continent of hope." Candidates for deputy, senator, president, call themselves "candidates of hope." This hope is really something like a promise of heaven, an IOU whose payment is always being put off. It is put off until the next legislative campaign, until next year, until the next century. ~ Pablo Neruda,

303:Take it all back. Life is boring, except for flowers, sunshine, your perfect legs. A glass of cold water when you are really thirsty. The way bodies fit together. Fresh and young and sweet. Coffee in the morning. These are just moments. I struggle with the in-betweens. I just want to never stop loving like there is nothing else to do, because what else is there to do? ~ Pablo Neruda,

304:Girl lithe and tawny, the sun that forms the fruits, that plumps the grains, that curls seaweeds filled your body with joy, and your luminous eyes and your mouth that has the smile of the water. A black yearning sun is braided into the strands of your black mane, when you stretch your arms. You play with the sun as with a little brook and it leaves two dark pools in your eyes. ~ Pablo Neruda,

305:If you should ask me where I've been all this time I have to say "Things happen." I have to dwell on stones darkening the earth, on the river ruined in its own duration: I know nothing save things the birds have lost, the sea I left behind, or my sister crying. Why this abundance of places? Why does day lock with day? Why the dark night swilling round in our mouths? And why the dead? ~ Pablo Neruda,

306:Vivo en la villa de los nombres reales, dijo de nuevo, como si necesitara recomenzar la frase para continuarla: Lucila Godoy Alcayaga es el verdadero nombre de Gabriela Mistral, explicó, y Neftalí Reyes Basoalto el nombre real de Pablo Neruda. Sobrevino un silencio largo que rompí diciéndole lo primero que se me ocurrió: vivir aquí debe ser mucho mejor que vivir en el pasaje Aladino. ~ Alejandro Zambra,

307:I am not jealous of what came before me. Come with a man on your shoulders, come with a hundred men in your hair, come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet, come like a river full of drowned men which flows down to the wild sea, to the eternal surf, to Time! Bring them all to where I am waiting for you; we shall always be alone, we shall always be you and I alone on earth, to start our life! ~ Pablo Neruda,

308:I love all things, not because they are passionate or sweet-smelling but because, I don't know, because this ocean is yours, and mine: these buttons and wheels and little forgotten treasures, fans upon whose feathers love has scattered its blossoms, glasses, knives and scissors -- all bear the trace of someone's fingers on their handle or surface, the trace of a distant hand lost in the depths of forgetfulness. ~ Pablo Neruda,

309:Each in the most hidden sack kept the lost jewels of memory, intense love, secret nights and permanent kisses, the fragment of public or private happiness. A few, the wolves, collected thighs, other men loved the dawn scratching mountain ranges or ice floes, locomotives, numbers. For me happiness was to share singing, praising, cursing, crying with a thousand eyes. I ask forgiveness for my bad ways: my life had no use on earth. ~ Pablo Neruda,

310:Well, now If little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you Little by little If suddenly you forget me Do not look for me For I shall already have forgotten you If you think it long and mad the wind of banners that passes through my life And you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots Remember That on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms And my roots will set off to seek another land ~ Pablo Neruda,

311:De pronto no puedo decirte lo que yo te debo decir, hombre,perdóname; sabrás que aunque no escuches mis palabras no me eché a llorar ni a dormir y que contigo estoy sin verte desde hace tiempo y hasta el fin. I can't just suddenly tell you what I should be telling you, friend, forgive me; you know that although you don't hear my words, I wasn't asleep or in tears, that I am with you without seeing you for a good long time and until the end. ~ Pablo Neruda,

312:To harden the earth the rocks took charge: instantly they grew wings: the rocks that soared: the survivors flew up the lightning bolt, screamed in the night, a watermark, a violet sword, a meteor. The succulent sky had not only clouds, not only space smelling of oxygen, but an earthly stone flashing here and there changed into a dove, changed into a bell, into immensity, into a piercing wind: into a phosphorescent arrow, into salt of the sky. ~ Pablo Neruda,

313:Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain. I love you still among these cold things. Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels that cross the sea towards no arrival. I see myself forgotten like those old anchors. The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there. My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose. I love what I do not have. You are so far. My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights. But night comes and starts to sing to me. ~ Pablo Neruda,

314:The genius of the Spanish writer has always flourished through excessive rhetoric, which expresses a fundamental element in our nature and in our culture. If you think of our great writers, all of them are great rhetoricians. Think of Pablo Neruda, for instance, a great poet. It is the exuberance, the excess. Creation is something that appears like a natural phenomena, a kind of transpiration of nature more than an intellectual exercise. ~ Mario Vargas Llosa,

315:You must know that I do not love and that I love you, because everything alive has its two sides; a word is one wing of silence, fire has its cold half. I love you in order to begin to love you, to start infinity again and never to stop loving you: that’s why I do not love you yet. I love you, and I do not love you, as if I held keys in my hand: to a future of joy- a wretched, muddled fate- My love has two lives, in order to love you. -Sonnet XLIV ~ Pablo Neruda,

316:There is no insurmountable solitude. All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are. And we must pass through solitude and difficulty, isolation and silence in order to reach forth to the enchanted place where we can dance our clumsy dance and sing our sorrowful song - but in this dance or in this song there are fulfilled the most ancient rites of our conscience in the awareness of being human and of believing in a common destiny. ~ Pablo Neruda,

317:And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy. It climbs the same way on damp walls. You are to blame for this cruel sport. They are fleeing from my dark lair. You fill everything, you fill everything. Before you they peopled the solitude that you occupy, and they are more used to my sadness than you are. Now I want them to say what I want to say to you to make you hear as I want you to hear me. ~ Pablo Neruda,

318:This time is difficult. Wait for me. We will live it out vividly. Give me your small hand: we will rise and suffer, we will feel, we will rejoice. We are once more the pair who lived in bristling places, in harsh nests in the rock. This time is difficult. Wait for me with a basket, with a shovel, with your shoes and your clothes. Now we need each other, not only for the carnations' sake, not only to look for honey — we need our hands to wash with, to make fire. ~ Pablo Neruda,

319:I look over at my hero shelf and see Philip Levine, Rainer Maria Rilke, Virginia Woolf, Shunryu Suzuki, Adrienne Rich, Pablo Neruda, Subcomandante Marcos, Eduardo Galeano, James Baldwin. These books are, if they are instructions at all, instructions in extending our identities out into the world, human and nonhuman, in imagination as a great act of empathy that lifts you out of yourself, not locks you down into your gender.
(“80 Books No Woman Should Read”) ~ Rebecca Solnit,

320:This means that we have barely disembarked into life, that we've only just now been born, let's not fill our mouths with so many uncertain names, with so many sad labels, with so many pompous letters, with so much yours and mine, with so much signing of papers. I intend to confuse things, to unite them, make them new-born intermingle them, undress them, until the light of the world has the unity of the ocean, a generous wholeness, a fragrance alive and crackling. ~ Pablo Neruda,

321:Well, now
If little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you
Little by little
If suddenly you forget me
Do not look for me
For I shall already have forgotten you

If you think it long and mad the wind of banners that passes through my life
And you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots
Remember
That on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms
And my roots will set off to seek another land ~ Pablo Neruda,

322:I have been a lucky man. To feel the intimacy of brothers is a marvelous thing in life. To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life. But to feel the affection that comes from those whom we do not know, from those unknown to us, who are watching over our sleep and solitude, over our dangers and our weaknesses – that is something still greater and more beautiful because it widens out the boundaries of our being, and unites all living things. ~ Pablo Neruda,

323:I have named you queen. There are taller than you, taller. There are purer than you, purer. There are lovelier 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. ~ Pablo Neruda,

324:Then I speak to her in a language she has never heard, I speak to her in Spanish, in the tongue of the long, crepuscular verses of Díaz Casanueva; in that language in which Joaquín Edwards preaches nationalism. My discourse is profound; I speak with eloquence and seduction; my words, more than from me, issue from the warm nights, from the many solitary nights on the Red Sea, and when the tiny dancer puts her arm around my neck, I understand that she understands. Magnificent language! ~ Pablo Neruda,

325:Pablo Neruda's poems tramped through the mud [with the fieldworker]...knocked at the doors of mansions...sat at the table of the baker...The shopkeeper leaned over his counter and read them to his customers...The poems became books that people passed from hand to hand. The books traveled over fences. and bridges. and across borders. soaring from continent to continent. until he had passed thousands of gifts through a hole in the fence to a multitude of people in every corner of the world. ~ Pam Mu oz Ryan,

326:Sonnet XXV Before I loved you, love, nothing was my own: I wavered through the streets, among Objects: Nothing mattered or had a name: The world was made of air, which waited. I knew rooms full of ashes, Tunnels where the moon lived, Rough warehouses that growled 'get lost', Questions that insisted in the sand. Everything was empty, dead, mute, Fallen abandoned, and decayed: Inconceivably alien, it all Belonged to someone else - to no one: Till your beauty and your poverty Filled the autumn plentiful with gifts. ~ Pablo Neruda,

327:Never an illness, nor the absence of grandeur, no, nothing is able to kill the best in us, that kindness, dear sir, we are afflicted with: beautiful is the flower of man, his conduct, and every door opens on the beautiful truth and never hides treacherous whispers. I always gained something from making myself better, better than I am, better than I was, that most subtle citation: to recover some lost petal of the sadness I inherited: to search once more for the light that sings inside of me, the unwavering light. ~ Pablo Neruda,

328:I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrence risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body. and: No one can stop the river of your hands, your eyes and their sleepiness, my dearest. You are the trembling of time, which passes between the vertical light and the darkening sky. and: From the stormy archipelagoes I brought my windy accordian, waves of crazy rain, the habitual slowness of natural things: they made up my wild heart. ~ Pablo Neruda,

329:I stalk certain words... I catch them in mid-flight, as they buzz past, I trap them, clean them, peel them, I set myself in front of the dish, they have a crystalline texture to me, vibrant, ivory, vegetable, oily, like fruit, like algae, like agates, like olives... I stir them, I shake them, I drink them, I gulp them down, I mash them, I garnish them... I leave them in my poem like stalactites, like slivers of polished wood, like coals, like pickings from a shipwreck, gifts from the waves... Everything exists in the word. ~ Pablo Neruda,

330:The days aren't discarded or collected, they are bees that burned with sweetness or maddened the sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net. They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesn't divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion, a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal that climbs or descends burning in your bones. ~ Pablo Neruda,

331:Tie your heart at night to mine, love, and both will defeat the darkness like twin drums beating in the forest against the heavy wall of wet leaves. Night crossing: black coal of dream that cuts the thread of earthly orbs with the punctuality of a headlong train that pulls cold stone and shadow endlessly. Love, because of it, tie me to a purer movement, to the grip on life that beats in your breast, with the wings of a submerged swan, So that our dream might reply to the sky's questioning stars with one key, one door closed to shadow. ~ Pablo Neruda,

332:Eating alone is a disappointment. But not eating matter more, is hollow and green, has thorns like a chain of fish hooks, trailing from the heart, clawing at your insides. Hunger feels like pincers, like the bite of crabs; it burns, burns, and has no fur. Let us sit down soon to eat with all those who haven't eaten; let us spread great tablecloths, put salt in lakes of the world, set up planetary bakeries, tables with strawberries in snow, and a plate like the moon itself from which we can all eat. For now I ask no more than the justice of eating. ~ Pablo Neruda,

333:Pablo Neruda's poems tramped through the mud [with the fieldworker]...knocked at the doors of mansions...sat at the table of the baker...The shopkeeper leaned over his counter and read them to his customers and said "Do you know him? He is my brother."

The poems became books that people passed from hand to hand. The books traveled over fences... and bridges... and across borders... soaring from continent to continent... until he had passed thousands of gifts through a hole in the fence to a multitude of people in every corner of the world. ~ Pam Mu oz Ryan,

334:Maybe nothingness is to be without your presence, without you moving, slicing the noon like a blue flower, without you walking later through the fog and the cobbles, without the light you carry in your hand, golden, which maybe others will not see, which maybe no one knew was growing like the red beginnings of a rose. In short, without your presence: without your coming suddenly, incitingly, to know my life, gust of a rosebush, wheat of wind: since then I am because you are, since then you are, I am, we are, and through love I will be, you will be, we will be. ~ Pablo Neruda,

335:I do not love you except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you, From waiting to not waiting for you My heart moves from cold to fire. I love you only because it's you the one I love; I hate you deeply, and hating you Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you Is that I do not see you but love you blindly. Maybe January light will consume My heart with its cruel Ray, stealing my key to true calm. 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 blood. ~ Pablo Neruda,

336:According to Padilla, remembered Amalfitano, all literature could be classified as heterosexual, homosexual, or bisexual. Novels, in general, were heterosexual. Poetry, on the other hand, was completely homosexual. Within the vast ocean of poetry he identified various currents: faggots, queers, sissies, freaks, butches, fairies, nymphs, and philenes. But the two major currents were faggots and queers. Walt Whitman, for example, was a faggot poet. Pablo Neruda, a queer. William Blake was definitely a faggot. Octavio Paz was a queer. Borges was a philene, or in other words he might be a faggot one minute and simply asexual the next. ~ Roberto Bola o,

337:I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue. ~ Pablo Neruda,

338:Don't go far off, not even for a day,
because I don't know how to say it - a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in
an empty station when the trains are
parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because then
the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve
on the beach, may your eyelids never flutter
into the empty distance. Don't LEAVE me for
a second, my dearest, because in that moment you'll
have gone so far I'll wander mazily
over all the earth, asking, will you
come back? Will you leave me here, dying? ~ Pablo Neruda,

339:An admirable line of Pablo Neruda’s, “My creatures are born of a long denial,” seems to me the best definition of writing as a kind of exorcism, casting off invading creatures by projecting them into universal existence, keeping them on the other side of the bridge… It may be exaggerating to say that all completely successful short stories, especially fantastic stories, are products of neurosis, nightmares or hallucination neutralized through objectification and translated to a medium outside the neurotic terrain. This polarization can be found in any memorable short story, as if the author, wanting to rid himself of his creature as soon and as absolutely as possible, exorcises it the only way he can: by writing it. ~ Julio Cort zar,

340:Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way than this:

where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. ~ Pablo Neruda,

341:I've read dozens of interviews and accounts that basically come down to How Poets Do It and the truth is they're all do-lally and they're all different. There's Gerard Manly Hopkins in his black Jesuit clothes lying face down on the ground to look at an individual bluebell, Robert Frost who never used a desk, was once caught short by a poem coming and wrote it on the sole of his shoe, T.S. Eliot in his I'm-not-a-Poet suit with his solid sensible available-for-poetry three hours a day, Ted Hughes folded into his tiny cubicle at the top of the stairs where there is no window, no sight or smell of earth or animal but the rain clatter on the roof bows him to the page, Pablo Neruda who grandly declared poetry should only ever be handwritten, and then added his own little bit of bonkers by saying: in green ink. Poets are their own nation. Most of them know. ~ Niall Williams,

342:Dentro del inmenso océano de la poesía distinguía varias corrientes: maricones, maricas, mariquitas, locas, bujarrones, mariposas, ninfos y filenos. Las dos corrientes mayores, sin embargo, eran la de los maricones y la de los maricas. Walt Whitman, por ejemplo, era un poeta maricón. Pablo Neruda, un poeta marica. William Blake era maricón, sin asomo de duda, y Octavio Paz marica. Borges era fileno, es decir de improviso podía ser maricón y de improviso simplemente asexual. Rubén Darío era una loca, de hecho la reina y el paradigma de las locas.
—En nuestra lengua, claro está —aclaró—; en el mundo ancho y ajeno el paradigma sigue siendo Verlaine el Generoso.
Una loca, según San Epifanio, estaba más cerca del manicomio florido y de las alucinaciones en carne viva mientras que los maricones y los maricas vagaban sincopadamente de la Ética a la Estética y viceversa. ~ Roberto Bola o,

343:Love.

Because of you, in gardens of blossoming
Flowers I ache from the perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer
Remember your hands; how did your lips
Feel on mine?

Because of you, I love the white statues
Drowsing in the parks, the white statues that
Have neither voice nor sight.

I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice;
I have forgotten your eyes.

Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to
My vague memory of you. I live with pain
That is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
Make to me an irreperable harm.

Your caresses enfold me, like climbing
Vines on melancholy walls.

I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to
Glimpse you in every window.

Because of you, the heady perfumes of
Summer pain me; because of you, I again
Seek out the signs that precipitate desires:
Shooting stars, falling objects. ~ Pablo Neruda,

344:The Other Side Of The Page
I pass to the other side of the page.
-Pablo Neruda
On the other side of the page
where the last days go,
where the lost poems go,
where the forgotten dreams
breaking up like morning fog
go
go
go
I am preparing myself for death.
I am teaching myself emptiness:
the gambler's hunger for love,
the nun's hunger for God,
the child's hunger for chocolate
in the brown hours
of the dark.
I am teaching myself love:
the lean love of marble
kissed away by rain,
the cold kisses of snow crystals
on granite grave markers,
the soul kisses of snow
as it melts in the spring.
On the other side of the page
I lie making a snow angel
with the arcs
of my arms.
I lie like a fallen skier
who never wants to get up.
219
I lie with my poles, my pens
flung around me in the snow
too far to reach.
The snow seeps
into the hollows of my bones
& the calcium white of the page
silts me in like a fossil.
I am fixed in my longing for speech,
I am buried in the snowbank of my poems,
I am here where you find me
dead
on the other side of the page.
~ Erica Jong,

345:Pablo Neruda, "Keeping Quiet.”

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth
let’s not speak in any language,
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines,
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victory with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go. ~ Jon Kabat Zinn,

346:If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine. ~ Pablo Neruda,

347:Good Carpenters
I mourn a dead friend, like myself, a good carpenter.
-Pablo Neruda about César Vallejo
I looked at the book.
'It will stand,' I thought.
Not a palace
built by a newspaper czar,
nor a mud hovel
that the sea will soften,
but a good house of words
near the sea
with everything plumb.
That is the most I can ask.
I have cut the wood myself
from my own forests,
I have sanded it smooth
with the grain.
I have left knotholes
for the muse to whistle through
-old siren that she is.
At least the roof does not leak.
& the fireplace is small
but it draws.
The wind whips the house
but it stands.
& the waves lick
the pilings
with their tongues
but at least they do not suck me
out to sea.
The sea is wordless
but it tries to talk to us.
We carpenters are also translators.
We build with sounds, with whispers & with wind.
We try to speak the language of the sea.
We want to build to last
88
yet change forever.
We want to be as endless as the sea.
& yet she mocks us
with her barnacle & rust stains;
she tells us what we build will also fall.
Our words are grains of sand,
our walls are wood,
our windowpanes are sprayed with solemn salt.
We whisper, as we build, 'Forever please,'
-by which we mean at least for thirty years.
~ Erica Jong,

348:We Learned
The decorum of fire...
-- Pablo Neruda
We learned the decorum of fire,
the flame's curious symmetry,
the blue heat at the center of the thighs,
the flickering red of the hips,
& the tallow gold of the breasts
lit from within
by the lantern in the ribs.
You tear yourself out of me
like a branch that longs to be grafted
onto a fruit tree,
peach & pear
crossed with each other,
fig & banana served on one plate,
the leaf & the luminous snail
that clings to it.
We learned that the tearing
could be a joining,
that the fire's flickering
could be a kindling,
that the old decorum of love-to die into the poem,
leaving the lover lonely with her pen-was all an ancient lie.
So we banished the evil eye:
you have to be unhappy to create;
you have to let love die before it writes;
you have to lose the joy to have the poem-& we re-wrote our lives with fire.
See this manuscript covered
with flesh-colored words?
It was written in invisible ink
& held up to our flame.
267
The words darkened on the page
as we sank into each other.
We are ink & blood
& all things that make stains.
We turn each other golden as we turn,
browning each other's skins like suns.
Hold me up to the light;
you will see poems.
Hold me in the dark;
you will see light.
~ Erica Jong,

349:I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her. ~ Pablo Neruda,

350:If you place two living heart cells from different people in a Petrie dish, they will in time find and maintain a third and common beat. —MOLLY VASS This biological fact holds the secret of all relationship. It is cellular proof that beneath any resistance we might pose and beyond all our attempts that fall short, there is in the very nature of life itself some essential joining force. This inborn ability to find and enliven a common beat is the miracle of love. This force is what makes compassion possible, even probable. For if two cells can find the common pulse beneath everything, how much more can full hearts feel when all excuses fall away? This drive toward a common beat is the force beneath curiosity and passion. It is what makes strangers talk to strangers, despite the discomfort. It is how we risk new knowledge. For being still enough, long enough, next to anything living, we find a way to sing the one voiceless song. Yet we often tire ourselves by fighting how our hearts want to join, seldom realizing that both strength and peace come from our hearts beating in unison with all that is alive. It feels incredibly uplifting that without even knowing each other, there exists a common beat between all hearts, just waiting to be felt. It brings to mind the time that the great poet Pablo Neruda, near the end of his life, stopped while traveling at the Lota coal mine in rural Chile. He stood there stunned, as a miner, rough and blackened by his work inside the earth, strode straight for Neruda, embraced him, and said, “I have known you a long time, my brother.” Perhaps this is the secret—that every time we dare to voice what beats within, we invite some other cell of heart to find what lives between us and sing. ~ Mark Nepo,

351:FEBRUARY 2 Two Heart Cells Beating If you place two living heart cells from different people in a Petrie dish, they will in time find and maintain a third and common beat. —MOLLY VASS This biological fact holds the secret of all relationship. It is cellular proof that beneath any resistance we might pose and beyond all our attempts that fall short, there is in the very nature of life itself some essential joining force. This inborn ability to find and enliven a common beat is the miracle of love. This force is what makes compassion possible, even probable. For if two cells can find the common pulse beneath everything, how much more can full hearts feel when all excuses fall away? This drive toward a common beat is the force beneath curiosity and passion. It is what makes strangers talk to strangers, despite the discomfort. It is how we risk new knowledge. For being still enough, long enough, next to anything living, we find a way to sing the one voiceless song. Yet we often tire ourselves by fighting how our hearts want to join, seldom realizing that both strength and peace come from our hearts beating in unison with all that is alive. It feels incredibly uplifting that without even knowing each other, there exists a common beat between all hearts, just waiting to be felt. It brings to mind the time that the great poet Pablo Neruda, near the end of his life, stopped while traveling at the Lota coal mine in rural Chile. He stood there stunned, as a miner, rough and blackened by his work inside the earth, strode straight for Neruda, embraced him, and said, “I have known you a long time, my brother.” Perhaps this is the secret—that every time we dare to voice what beats within, we invite some other cell of heart to find what lives between us and sing. ~ Mark Nepo,

352:To Pablo Neruda
Again & again
I have read your books
without ever wishing to know you.
I suck the alphabet of blood.
I chew the iron filings of your words.
I kiss your images like moist mouths
while the black seeds of your syllables
fly, fly, fly
into my lungs.
Untranslated, untranslatable,
you are rooted inside menot you-but the you
of your poems:
the man of his word,
the lover who digs into the alien soil
of one North American woman
& plants a babylove-child of Whitman
crossed with the Spanish language,
embryo, sapling, half-breed
of my tongue.
I saw you onceyour fleshat Columbia.
My alma mater
& you the visiting soul.
Buddha-like
you sat before a Buddha;
& the audience
craned its neck
to take you in.
Freak showvisiting poet.
252
You sat clothed
in your thick
imperious flesh.
I wanted to comfort you
& not to stare.
Our words knew each other.
That was enough.
Now you are dead
of fascism & canceryour books scattered,
the oil cruet on the floor.
The sea surges through your house
at Isla Negra,
& the jackboots
walk on water.
Poet of cats & grapefruits,
of elephant saints;
poet of broken dishes
& Machu Picchu;
poet of panthers
& pantheresses;
poet of lemons,
poet of lemony light.
The flies swarm
thicker than print on a page,
& poetry blackens
like overripe bananas.
The fascists you hated,
the communists you loved,
obscure the light, the lemons
with their buzzing.
We were together
on the side of light.
We walked together
though we never met.
253
The eyes are not political,
nor the tastebuds,
& the flesh tastes salty always
like the sea;
& the sea
turns back the flies.
~ Erica Jong,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

WORDNET

* WISDOM TROVE *

* NEWFULLDB 2.4M *