Featured Poem, Poetry

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, Poetry

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, Poetry

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, Poetry

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.

Featured Poem, Poetry

Featured Poem: It Rains

By Pablo Neruda

It rains

over the sand, over the roof

the theme

of the rain:

the long ls of rain fall slowly

over the pages

of my everlasting love,

this salt of every day:

rain, return to your old nest,

return with your needles to the past:

today I long for the whitest space,

winter’s whiteness for a branch

of green rosebush and golden roses:

something of infinite spring

that today was waiting, under a cloudless sky

and whiteness was waiting,

when the rain returned

to sadly drum

against the window,

then to dance with unmeasured fury

over my heart and over the roof,


its place,

asking me for a cup

to fill once more with needles,

with transparent time,

with tears.

Featured Poem, Poetry

Featured Poem: After Sunrise

By Pablo Neruda

After sunrise how many things

are needed to sustain this day?

Lethal lights, golden rays crossing the land,

centrifugal glowworms,

drops of moon, blisters, axiom,

all material superimposed

upon time’s passage: sadnesses, existences,

rights and responsibilities:

nothing is equal while the day eats away

at its clear light and grows

and then loses its power.

Hour after hour one spoonful

of acid falls from the sky,

as today falls from the day,

from the day of this day.

Featured Poem, Poetry

Featured Poem: When I Decided to Clarify My Life

By Pablo Neruda

When I decided to clarify my life

and, hand by hand, to seek out misfortune

by throwing the dice,

I met the woman who accompanies me

everywhere and at all hours,

in clouds and in silence.

Matilde is the one

who answers to this name

from Chillan

and even if it rains

or thunders or rises,

the day with blue hair

or the slender night,

she is the one,

who goes and goes,

ready for my body,

for the space of my body,

opening all the windows to the sea

so that the written word flies off,

so that the furniture fills

with silent signals,

with green fire.