20 love poems & a song of desperation, p2 | the poetry sentence meme
This sentence meme sources from Pablo Neruda’s Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada.
This is part two of three, using poems 10-19 (excluding 14, which is featured in p1). I’m not listing the translator because I’m sourcing from several places and changing things up according to my own understanding/preference. Though these poems are known for their sensuality and eroticism or w/e, this particular part doesn’t have much of either.
As usual, feel free to make changes as needed in wording/phrasing/pronouns, etc. Change physical descriptors as needed! —LIZZY
We have lost even
No one saw us this
evening, hand in hand while the blue night dropped onto the world.
I have seen from my
window the feast of the western sun in the faraway hills.
Sometimes a piece of
sun burned like a coin between my hands.
I remembered you
with my soul clenched, with that sadness of mine which you already know.
Then where were you?
Between what people? Saying what words?
Why is it that the
whole of love hits me when I feel sad and I feel you distant?
Always, always, you
distance yourself in the evenings, towards where the dusk runs.
Girl who arrived
from far away—brought from far away—sometimes your glance flashes
out beneath the sky.
Rumbling, stormy, cyclone of fury, you cross
above my heart without stopping.
You are made of everything.
chest is enough for my heart, and my wings for your freedom.
was sleeping above your soul will rise out of my mouth to heaven.
you is the illusion of each day.
arrive like dew on
pierce the horizon with your absence.
said before that you sing in the wind like the pines and the masts. Like them you are tall and reserved. And sad all of a sudden, like
are peopled with echoes and nostalgic voices.
birds that had been sleeping in your soul fly and migrate.
have gone marking the blank atlas of your body with crosses of fire.
mouth scuttled across: a spider, trying to hide. In you, behind you, timid, driven by thirst.
I’ve stories to tell on the brink of dawn, sad and sweet doll, so that you wouldn’t be sad. A
swan, a tree, something far away and happy. The season of grapes, the
ripe and fruitful season.
Between lips and voice, something is dying. Something with bird’s wings, of anguish and oblivion.
like it when you’re silent because it’s like you’re gone and you hear me from afar and my voice doesn’t touch you.
looks as though your eyes have flown away and that a kiss would seal your mouth.
As all things are filled with my soul, you emerge from everything, full of my soul.
Dreamtime butterfly, you resemble my soul and you resemble every word that hints at gloom.
I like it when you’re silent and you seem as if you’re distant, and you whimper soft, a cooing butterfly.
Let me quiet myself at last in this silence of yours.
You are like the night, still and constellated.
Your silence is starlike, so distant and so simple.
Just one word, one smile of yours will do.
I’m happy, so happy that it’s not true.
You are far away—farther than anyone.
Who calls? What silence populated with echoes?
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
I love what I do not have. You are so distant.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes. And as I love you, the pines in the wind want to sing your name.
Brown and nimble girl, the sun that forms the fruits, that ripens the wheat and coils the seaweed, has made your joyful body, your luminous eyes, and your mouth that has the smile of water.
A black yearning sun is braided into the strands of your black mane when you stretch your arms.
Girl, tawny and lithe, there is nothing about you that draws me in.
Everything about you bears me farther away, as though you were noon. You are the frenzied youth of the bee, the drunkenness of the wave, the power of the wheat-ear.
I love your joyful body, your slender and flowing voice. Dark butterfly, sweet and definitive like the wheat-field and the sun, the poppy and the water.