Featured Poem: Horses

By Pablo Neruda

From the window I saw the horses.

I was in Berlin, in winter. The light
had no light, the sky had no heaven.

The air was white like wet bread.

And from my window a vacant arena,
bitten by the teeth of winter.

Suddenly driven out by a man,
ten horses surged through the mist.

Like waves of fire, they flared forward
and to my eyes filled the whole world,
empty till then. Perfect, ablaze,
they were like ten gods with pure white hoofs,
with manes like a dream of salt.

Their rumps were worlds and oranges.

Their color was honey, amber, fire.

Their necks were towers
cut from the stone of pride,
and behind their transparent eyes
energy raged, like a prisoner.

There, in silence, at mid-day,
in that dirty, disordered winter,
those intense horses were the blood
the rhythm, the inciting treasure of life.

I looked. I looked and was reborn:
for there, unknowing, was the fountain,
the dance of gold, heaven
and the fire that lives in beauty.

I have forgotten that dark Berlin winter.

I will not forget the light of the horses.

Featured Poem: My Name was Reyes

By Pablo Neruda

My name was Reyes, Catrileo,

Arellano, Rodriguez, I have forgotten

my true names.

I was born with a surname

of old oaks, of saplings,

of hissing wood.

I was deposited

among rotting leaves:

this newborn sank down

in the defeat and in the birth

of forests that were falling

and poor houses that had recently been weeping.

I was not born but rather they founded me:

all at once they gave me every name,

every family’s name:

I was called thicket, then plum tree,

larch and then wheat,

that is why I am so much and so little,

so wealthy and so destitute,

because I come from below,

from the earth.

Featured Poem: Never an Illness, Nor an Absence

By Pablo Neruda

Never an illness, nor an absence

of grandeur, no,

nothing is able to kill the best in us,

that kindness, dear sir, we are afflicted with:

beautiful is the flower of man, his conduct,

and every door opens on the beautiful truth

and never hides treacherous whispers.

I always gained something from making myself better,

better than I am, better than I was,

the most subtle citation:

to recover some lost petal

of the sadness I inherited:

to search once more for the light that sings

inside of me, the unwavering light.

Featured Poem: We Are Waiting

We Are Waiting by Pablo Neruda

There are days that haven’t arrived yet,

that are being made

like bread or chairs or a product

from the pharmacies or the woodshops:

there are factories of days to come:

they exist, craftsmen of the soul

who raise and weigh and prepare

certain bitter or beautiful days

that arrive suddenly at the door

to reward us with an orange

or to instantly murder us.

Featured Poem: One Returns to the Self as if to an Old House

By Pablo Neruda

One returns to the self as if to an old house

with nails and slots, so that

a person tired of himself

as of a suit full of holes,

tries to walk naked in the rain,

wants to drench himself in pure water,

in elemental wind, and he cannot

but return to the well of himself,

to the least worry

over whether he existed, whether he knew how to speak his mind

or to pay or to owe or to discover,

as if I were so important

that it must accept or not accept me,

the earth with its leafy name,

in its theater of black walls.