Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda

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.

Poetry post! 

In my April Housekeeping post I said I would post two poems a week, one that I had written and one that was written by someone else. Earlier this week I posted “Having a Coke with You” by Frank O’Hara, so this is the post that features a poem that I have written. I don’t normally have titles for my poems, so they’ll all be titled with the date and time they were written. Enjoy!
March 10, 2017 10:12pm 


I’m soft and have a capacity for love.

I have retreated into myself so well,

I struggle with the present. I’m boring.

I’m boring. Often, I find myself

in circles, endless loops of the same

empty thoughts pressing into my brain,

weighing my shoulders, until my back

is curved away from the sun

and I’m closer to the earth, the flowers.

 

There are small joys in everything.

I use them to orient an overstimulating

world. When I can’t sleep at night

I push myself into alternate universes

and write poetry. I don’t count.

We’ll never stop getting older; the sun

will never stop getting closer. Oh,

I don’t know. I guess I just want it

to all add up somehow.

Having a coke with you 

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonneor being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona

partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian

partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt

partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches

partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary

it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still

as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it

in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth

between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint

you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them

                                                                                                              I look

at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world

except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick

which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together for the first time

and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism

just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or

at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me

and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them

when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank

or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully

as the horse

                               it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience

which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I’m telling you about it 

Frank O’Hara 1926-1966