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ali Oct 29
i wish to forget you.
but forever will you remain
in the soft curves
and sharp wit
of my poetry,
hidden
behind double meanings
and shards of my heart,

each line
its own wave,
stroking and begging
the shore
to remember,
please remember…
as seaglass eyes
meet my own,

and somehow
i’m drowning
standing still,
when slender hands
follow their own rhythm
and now
i am fire,
full of flames,

just then
those plush pink
lips
drip sugar-coated lies
and soon
i crave
the inadequacy
of your attention

i wish to forget you.
i may pretend,
but you are tangled
within my poetry-

this love may be mortal
but these words are eternal.
*inspired by poet Pablo Neruda* i miss writing, i miss my poetry, i miss the chance to escape and let it free. life is outweighing the burden of my emotions right now- my words are getting pushed further and further down from the stress. hopefully i can get back soon..
Kuzhur Wilson Jul 20
This poem
Allows no entry
For other poets.

Whatever you pontificated
About a jungle with no trespassers
Applies to this poem too.

We were hobnobbing about
A poetry factory that produces
Value added poetry products.
It was then that you started blabbering
“Neruda … Neruda.”

There’s only one way to
Chop Neruda.

Write “Neruda.”

Raise a hack knife and
One chop
Two Cantos.

Now,
I watch you getting shocked
At the sight of two Nerudas
In two Cantos
And laughter erupts in me.

(Note
With the permission of the author, the translator has tweaked the poem at this point.)
Neruda/ Kuzhur Wilson/ Trans by Ra Sh
Leydis Oct 2017
I've already written the saddest verses.  
I have woven in letters the pain of the human experience,
the sorrow of the destitute,
the despot isolation of the elderly,
the impotence of the farmers whose land has been pilfered.    

Yes Neruda,
I've already written the gloomiest verses.  
My ink has voiced the disdain towards the indigenous people.  
How the innocence of our dear children has been embezzled.
How they have violated the existence of women,
and their body is the gold currency exchanged in human trafficking.  

I have written verses about the autocracy of democracy,
about black diaspora,
of hunger and greed,
and that which degenerates the Earth,
the perdition of human kind,
but of him...of him,
I have not been able to shape the verses that
can highlight the majesty that he is.    

I have written euphoric couplets,
sonnets of passion,
of unbridled desire,
yet,
there are no jingles to describe the verb in his kiss.

How do I write that there is divine healing in the warmth of his arms?
I don't know how to describe the synergistic links when our eyes are meet.    
I don't know how to tell him that I love him!
I don't know how to explain that my body still contours to the thought of his name!

There are no verses that describes the
sound my heart disembogued since he is not with me.  
I can define a star, infinity and the universe.  
I can impart on things I have yet to live,
I can even articulate the faith of the atheist...,
But the simplicity of his being,
I do not know how to profess it,
Nor can I transfer with eloquence.

I don't know how one speaks when one is mute.  
I don't know how the blind can experience the majesty of colors.
I might have written verses that enthused my brothers,
Yet, my hands, my heart and my ink
don't know how to describe the fundamental... his love!  
The verse that he left me,
the consonants and the alphabet of beautiful experiences
that eloquently wanted to construct the most beautiful poetry.  

But, it cannot  happen,
my word, my verse and vocabulary have left with him.  

Sir Neruda,
there is no saddest verse
than realizing…………
your love has left you.
*******************­********************­*********
Ya he escrito los versos más tristes.
he tejido en letras el dolor humano,
la dolencia del desamparado
del aislado anciano,
la impotencia del campesino al cual,
sus tierras le han robado.  

Si Neruda,
ya he escrito los versos más tristes.
ha estampado mi tinta la falta de respeto al pueblo indígena.
Como han robado la ingenuidad de la niñez querida,
como han violado la existencia de la mujer,
como su cuerpo es la moneda de oro intercambiada en la trata humana.

He escrito versos sobre la autocracia de los liberales,
la divagante diáspora del *****,
del hambre,
de la avaricia,
lo que degenera la tierra,
de todo lo que pierde a un ser humano,
pero a él…a él no he podido plasmarlo.

Si, ya he escrito coplas eufóricas,
trovas de la pasión, del deseo desbocado,
mas el verbo de sus labios
ese no sé cómo tramarlo.

¿Cómo escribir que en sus brazos hay sanación divina?
No sé cómo describir el enlace sinérgico cuando nuestras miradas se cruzan.  

No sé cómo decirle que ¡lo amo!
no sé cómo explicarle que ¡lo extraña mi cuerpo!
No hay verso que describa el sonido
que prorrumpe mi corazón desde que él no está conmigo.

Si, se hablar de estrellas, de infinidad y del universo.
Se narrar de lo que no he vivido,
incluso, puedo acertar en una rima la fe del ateo….,
más la simpleza de su ser no sé cómo profesarlo,
como transferirlo en palabras que tengan sentido,
no sé cómo se habla cuando uno está inmutado.
No sé cómo el ciego puede acertar la magia de colores.

Pueda ser que haya escrito versos que conmuevan a mis hermanos,
mas mis manos, mi corazón y mi tinta no saben
describir lo más básico…¡su amor!
El verso que me ha dejado,
las consonantes y el silabario
de bellas experiencias que elocuentemente
quisiera confabular en la prosa más bella.

Pero, ya no se puede,
es que mi verbo, mi verso y vocabulario
con él se lo ha llevado.

Don Neruda,
no hay verso más triste
que cuando tu corazón realiza
queamor de tu lado ha marchado.

LeydisProse
10/2/2017
https://www.facebook.com/LeydisProse/n
PUEDO escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos".

El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.

En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.

Oir la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.

Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.

Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.

La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos
           árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.

De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis
          brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,
y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.


Pablo Neruda
Me Díaz Sep 2017
On restless nights
when Orpheus refuses to take me in his arms
I recite Neruda's love poems in bed out loud
I find the sound of his words superimposed over the melodic
rhythmic rise and fall of my theatrical-voice soothing.


M•(e). Díaz
Can that be called narcissism?
Sandoval Aug 2017
With Neruda, I fell in love with you.

It was so beautiful, I felt I had to close my eyes wide shut,

just to remember this was not a dream.

Then Hemingway came along, by then I was feeling a little lost in your eyes. Some days were good, some days were bad. Yet, I still held on.

But when I suddenly found myself with Bukowski on my nightstand.

Well, I knew then, baby, we were ******. He brought me back to reality, and I understood at that moment, that we were finally done.


*Sandoval
Now I don't read any of them, they remind me too much of you..

To Drew.
beth stclair May 2017
"where night is....a boy of
steel"

i've been missing
my heart
sweet boy,

as if the core
of me
was never
there,

blue icicles
like rain drops
that once burnt
like a dying star,

stolen from you
because no
sea could hold
it back,

because it
only wanted love
and some people
just can't take
something that genuine,

and this is what i've
said, so let me now say
that i have now got it back

and my love will never
be held from you again,
my heart burns

with a poem's fire
and for you my love,
grey shore that i reach,

song of the leaves melting
in light and shadow,

and i do melt for you,
the dream of you,
your presence

the chill of my
back bone, the
thrill of my mortal
heart,

love, the swift
bird hanging like
a hammock to
the sky,

love, the only
conceivable way

play with me,
boy of steel
where summer
cries at our
molten bones

centuries of sky
sip forgotten
landscapes,

play with me,
lover, and i'll
love you
the way you wish
to be loved.
Glenn Currier Mar 2017
Dragonfly lights on the lily  
her veined wings translucent
morning sun on the shimmering dewy grass
seeps through seducing my eyes
drawing me in to this delicious glory.
Looking at a stained glass dragonfly plant decoration in our garden room I was reminded of one of my favorite poetry books, Ode to Common Things by Pablo Neruda who is one of my all time top poets.  He could inhabit the essence of a chair to make you think you were friends if not intimate with it.
Sandoval Jan 2017
I* saw my reflection in the glass that I lifted to my face. It was the

reflection of a drunken disappointment,  and this red wine tasted

like  loneliness and sad  poetry. I don't know what you did to

me, but

Hemingway,  Neruda and Fitzgerald all went down in history,

and I'm starting to understand why. Unrequited love. One  more sip

and the next drunken  poet is me.


*-Sandoval
Tim S Sep 2016
I was a hair late.
Those mere hours were enough for her to put me on the back burner,
And move someone else to the front.
I was left wanting, waiting, and waning.

Yes, we will exchange pleasantries,
And even embrace on occasion.
But the embraces will be nothing more than reminders of how platonic I am,
Or how pathetic I've become.

The wayside by which I stand cannot be overcome by merely remaining hopeful.
Yet, the time for action has passed.
Though I still pine like the ghost of Neruda.
This is about a coworker I developed some feelings for. I said nothing for months. I finally did and she let me down very easy. Nice gal. Still friends to this day. Though, we got together for one night after this.
Secret-Author Aug 2016
I love you as certain dark
things are to be loved,
In secret, between the
shadow and the soul.

                                                - Pablo Neruda
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