a part of the whole

1.20.25

my poetry is not always a poem
and my poem is not always poetry
the universe is always expanding
and my pencil is large enough
to capture it all

jobe

Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

Carl Sandburg

Photo by Maxime Gauthier on Unsplash

this
is how the sunshine tastes
like gold
like power
and this
is how it tastes to be
a man in sunlight
even now in the darkness
the flavor is on my lips
and on my tongue

jobe

A poem from Pablo Neruda.

Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines

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 1904-1972 CE

For me, Neruda is the greatest poet of the 20th century, in any language. Translations are everything when you’re reading a poet who doesn’t write in your language. There are many fine translations of Don Pablo, and my favorites are the ones by William O’Daly, who is also a co-founder of Copper Canyon Press and one of the nicest people you could ever meet.