In You the Earth

irremissible:

Little
rose,
roselet,
at times,
tiny and naked,
it seems
as though you would fit
in one of my hands,
as though I’ll clasp you like this
and carry you to my mouth,
but
suddenly
my feet touch your feet and my mouth your lips:
you have grown,
your shoulders rise like two hills,
your breasts wander over my breast,
my arm scarcely manages to encircle the thin
new-moon line of your waist:
in love you have loosened yourself like seawater:
I can scarcely measure the sky’s most spacious eyes
and I lean down to your mouth to kiss the earth. 

(Source: scootinfrooty)

2 notes

"Of all fires love is the only inexhaustible one."

Pablo Neruda (via girlwithoutwings)

(Source: eirenics)

113 notes

"

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, “Tie Your Heart At Night To Mine, Love”

(via bookoasis-deactivated20120227)

141 notes

bookoasis:

Happy Birthday, Pablo Neruda.
July 12, 1904 - September 23, 1973
“The books that help you most are those which make you think the 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

bookoasis:

Happy Birthday, Pablo Neruda.

July 12, 1904 - September 23, 1973

“The books that help you most are those which make you think the 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

(via bookoasis-deactivated20120227)

251 notes

Sonnet 89

aftercloudia:

When I die, I want your hands on my eyes:
I want the light and the wheat of your beloved hands
to pass their freshness over me once more:
I want to feel the softness that changed my destiny.

I want you to live while I wait for you, asleep.
I want your ears still to hear the wind, I want you
to sniff the sea’s aroma that we loved together,
to continue to walk on the sand we walk on.

I want what I love to continue to live,
and you whom I love and sang above everything else
to continue to flourish, full-flowered:

so that you can reach everything my love directs you to,
so that my shadow can travel along in your hair,
so that everything can learn the reason for my song.

— Pablo Neruda

8 notes

Ode to the hummingbird (by Pablo Neruda)

The hummingbird
in flight
is a water-spark,
an incandescent drop
of American
fire,
the jungle’s
flaming résumé,
a heavenly,
precise
rainbow:
the hummingbird is
an arc,
a golden
thread,
a green
bonfire!

Oh
tiny
living
lightning,
when
you hover
in the air,
you are
a body of pollen,
a feather
or hot coal,
I ask you:
What is your substance?
And from where do you originate?
Perhaps during the blind age
of the Deluge,
within fertility’s
mud,
when the rose
crystallized
in an anthracite fist,
and metals matriculated,
each one in
a secret gallery
perhaps then
from a wounded reptile
some fragment rolled,
a golden atom,
the last cosmic scale,
a drop of terrestrial fire
took flight,
suspending your splendor,
your iridescent,
swift sapphire.

You doze
on a nut,
fit into a diminutive blossom;
you are an arrow,
a pattern,
a coat-of-arms,
honey’s vibrato, pollen’s ray;
you are so stouthearted —
the falcon
with his black plumage
does not daunt you:
you pirouette,
a light within the light,
air within the air.
Wrapped in your wings,
you penetrate the sheath
of a quivering flower,
not fearing
that her nuptial honey
may take off your head!

From scarlet to dusty gold,
to yellow flames,
to the rare
ashen emerald,
to the orange and black velvet
of your girdle gilded by sunflowers,
to the sketch
like
amber thorns,
your Epiphany,
little supreme being,
you are a miracle,
shimmering
from torrid California
to Patagonia’s whistling,
bitter wind.
You are a sun-seed,
plumed
fire,
a miniature
flag
in flight,
a petal of
silenced nations,
a syllable
of buried blood,
a feather
of an ancient heart,
submerged.

(Source: cukri)

(Source: mediadetomate)

6 notes

nikkilita:

YOU TWO ARE SO AMAZING I LOVE YOU BOTH THE WAY YOU LOOK AT EACH OTHER MAKES ME WANT TO SCREAM AND CRY AND OH MY GOD WHY YOU GOTTA BE SUCH A BEAUTIFUL COUPLE

(via nikkilita-deactivated20110722)

Cat’s Dream - Pablo Neruda

noruwei-no-mori:

How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings—
a series of burnt circles—
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.

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.

I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger’s great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.

Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.

(Source: seventh-daughter)

2 notes

apoetreflects:

“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.”
—Pablo Neruda, “The Word (A Prose Poem)” from Lives on the Line: The Testimony of Contemporary Latin American Authors, 1988.

apoetreflects:

“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.”

—Pablo Neruda, “The Word (A Prose Poem)” from Lives on the Line: The Testimony of Contemporary Latin American Authors, 1988.

38 notes