Thursday, May 17, 2007

Two Hours from Friday Poetry: Pablo Neruda

I'm getting on a plane in eight hours to go to a wedding, and I'm not expecting to be coherent enough to post Friday Poetry when I leave for the airport. I am going to Miami for a wedding, and I'm going to read this poem at aforementioned wedding. Hence the repeat of our Mr. Neruda. Once again, I don't have the translation, but I will look for it. If anyone has the Spanish version of this poem, please feel free to post it in the comments.

Pablo Neruda
Sonnet XVII

Love the way certain dark things are loved: secretly between the shadows and the soul.
Love as the plant that does not bloom and carries hidden
within itself the light of these flowers.
Love so deeply that in each other's body lives the dense fragrance
that rises from the earth.
Love without knowing how, or when or from where.
Love simply without problems or pride.
Love this way because you do not know any other way of loving;
but this, where there is no I or you.
Love so intimately that your hand upon his chest is his hand.
Love so intimately that when you fall asleep it is her eyes that close.


At 11:23 AM, Blogger tyromaven said...

Here's the spanish. Your translation is very loose, in the imperative, which is appropriate for the occasion, but his is in first person:

No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.

Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de si, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendio de la tierra.

Te amo sin saber como, ni cuando, ni de donde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
asi te amo porque no se amar de otra manera,

sino asi de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mia,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueno.

At 11:26 AM, Blogger tyromaven said...

Here's the english translation that I have:

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.


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