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I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body... and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Pablo Neruda

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Pablo Neruda
Age: 69 †
Born: 1904
Born: July 12
Died: 1973
Died: September 23
Author
Autobiographer
Diplomat
Lyricist
Poet
Politician
Senator Of Chile
Nieh-lu-ta
Neftalí Reyes Basoalto
Pamplo Nerouda
Neftalí Ricardo Reyes
Bāblū Nīrūdā
Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
Nieluda
Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
Neftali Reyes Basualto
Neftali Reyes Basoalto
Neftali Ricardo Reyes
Neftalí Reyes Basualto
Pāplō Nerūda
Lovely
Sunbeam
Hungry
Sniffing
Around
Sunbeams
Body
Erotic
Heart
Twilight
Like
Hunting
Pace
Hot
Flaring

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We the mortals touch the metals, the wind, the ocean shores, the stones, knowing they will go on, inert or burning, and I was discovering, naming all the these things: it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
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What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?
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Am I allowed to ask my book / whether it's true I wrote it?
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Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.
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I think it was very informative, but a lot still needs to be done.
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Political poetry is more profoundly emotional than any other-at least as much as love poetry-and cannot be forced because then it becomes vulgar and unacceptable. It is necessary first to pan though all other poetry in order to become a political poet.
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Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
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There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.
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Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.
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It was at that age that poetry came in search of me.
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I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.
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Your house sounds like a train at midday, the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing, the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew . . .
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For now I ask no more Than the justice of eating.
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Perhaps this war will pass like the others which divided us leaving us dead, killing us along with the killers but the shame of this time puts its burning fingers to our faces. Who will erase the ruthlessness hidden in innocent blood?
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I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.
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Whom can I ask what I came to make happen in this world? Why do I move without wanting to, why am I not able to sit still? Why do I go rolling without wheels, flying without wings or feathers, and why did I decide to migrate if my bones live in Chile?
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The typewriter separated me from a deeper intimacy with poetry, and my hand brought me closer to that intimacy again.
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What did the earth teach the trees? How to speak to the sky.
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I spin on the circle of wave upon wave of the sea.
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The Ardent Hymn that Unites Peoples.
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