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Alin Marin Elena's

Republic of Numbers and Letters
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By: Alin Marin | March 10, 2010

by Pablo Neruda



White bee, you buzz in my soul, drunk with honey,

and your flight winds in slow spirals of smoke.



I am the one without hope, the word without echoes,

he who lost everything and he who had everything.



Last hawser, in you creaks my last longing.

In my barren land you are the final rose.



Ah you who are silent!



Let your deep eyes close. There the night flutters.

Ah your body, a frightened statue, naked.



You have deep eyes in which the night flails.

Cool arms of flowers and a lap of rose.



Your breasts seem like white snails.

A butterfly of shadow has come to sleep on your belly.



Ah you who are silent!



Here is the solitude from which you are absent.

It is raining. The sea wind is hunting stray gulls.



The water walks barefoot in the wet streets.

Fro...

Category: daily 

Tags: daily, english, Pablo Neruda 

By: Alin Marin | March 09, 2010

by Pablo Neruda

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have
lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense
without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is sta...

Category: daily 

Tags: daily, english, Pablo Neruda 

By: Alin Marin | February 27, 2010

by Pablo Neruda


Leaning into the afternoons I cast my sad nets

towards your oceanic eyes.


There in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and

flames,

its arms turning like a drowning man's.


I send out red signals across your absent eyes

that move like the sea near a lighthouse.


You keep only darkness, my distant female,

from your regard sometimes the coast of dread

emerges.


Leaning into the afternoons I fling my sad nets

to that sea that beats on your marine eyes.


The birds of night peck at the first stars

that flash like my soul when I love you.


The night gallops on its shadowy mare

shedding blue tassels over the land.



from twenty love poems and a song of despair, translated by WS Merwin at Jonathan Cape London

Category: daily 

Tags: daily, english, Pablo Neruda 

By: Alin Marin | February 26, 2010

by Pablo Neruda


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.


Wind that bears off the dead leaves with a quick raid

and deflects the pulsing arrows of the birds.


Wind that topples her in a wave without spray

and substance without weight, and leaning fires.


Her mass of kisses breaks and sinks,

assailed in the door of the summer's wind.


from twenty love poems and a song of despair, translated by WS Merwin at Jonathan Cape London


Category: daily 

Tags: daily, english, Pablo Neruda 

By: Alin Marin | February 25, 2010

by Pablo Neruda


Every day you play with the light of the universe.

Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.

You are more than this white head that I hold tightly

as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.


You are like nobody since I love you.

Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.

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.


Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut

window.

The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.

Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.

The rain takes off her clothes.


The birds go by fleeing.

The wind. The wind.

I can contend only against the power of men.

The storm whirls dark leaves

and turns ...

Category: daily 

Tags: daily, english, Pablo Neruda