TASTE
From false astrology beliefs, somewhat in nature, gloomy and inconclusive customs borne in on us, and always close at hand, I have cherished an impulse, a taste of my own loneliness.
From flimsy table-talks absorbed like used woods, with humble chairs, and a language, that, like slaves, only serve secondary wills, like a milky consistency of deadly weeks, like smog on a city from stagnating air. Who can boast a more tangible patience?
Prudence and good judgment engulf me like being dressed with a compact skin with a color that gathers itself to itself like a
.
All my creatures are born in a massive rejection; one drink of alcohol - alas! - and I wave off the day that I chose for myself, like all of the days of my earthly world.
I live in the fullness of matter; this substance is mute as a matriarch, I bear my fixed patient like a church and its shadow, or the quietness of bones
.
I go full of those waters that are in deep disposition, prepared and expectant, asleep in a tearful vigil.
The inner guitar, the image of my soul, keeps the catch of a ballad, spare a sonorous, abiding, immobile, like a punctual nourishment, like smoke in the air : an element of force in repose, the volatile power in the oil : an incorruptible bird that keeps vigilant watch on my head: an unvarying routine of an angel inhabits my sword.
Monday, January 19, 2015
THE DREAM HORSE. author : Pablo Neruda. Translated by "Nueva Vida Bookstore."
I really enjoy the meaning of this poem coming from the internal world of Neruda. The movement of the corruptible world from its physical realm towards its metaphysical centre gives us a kind of perspective to his poetics words about the "impure."
He said: "It is good, at certain hours of the day and night, to look closely at the world of objects when we are at rest.... the used surfaces of things, the wear that the hands give to the things, the air, tragic at times... all lend a curious attractiveness to the reality of the world ... in them one sees the confused impurity of the human condition, the massing of things, the use and disuse of substances, footprints and fingerprints, the abiding presence of the human engulfing all artifacts, inside and out."
THE DREAM HORSE
Watching myself in a mirror, not because I needed, it was just for the sake of looking closely at the world around me. I am able to see my mind with a garment of passion involved in papers and cinemas, days of weeks... , then I suddenly snatch from my heart the chief captain of my hell and I begin to establish clauses mistakenly sad.
I see my spirit drifting from one place to another, absorbing illusions, converse in the nests of spiritual tailors which their voices sometimes so cold and deadly. I saw them singing together and sorcery going from them.
I see myself in a country spread out inside the sky. It has the image of a credulous carpet of rainbows and crepuscular plants. I decided to move myself toward it, my sensation of fatigue started to surface over my mind when I see my feet trampling over a fresh removed soil full of graves. I see my dreams belonging to this ground of confuse legumes.
I see me walking over origins, then over enjoyed beneficiary documents. I see me dressed like a natural and chopfallen entity wanting the loose honey of respect, the sweets of the preacher under whose leaves drained violets drowse and grow old; and then, I see those bustling abettors, the brooms, in whose image, assuredly, sorrow and certainty are joined. I destroy the whistle of roses, the unavoided anxiety, smashing the attractiveness of extremes -worst of all, I await a symmetrical time beyond measure in which the taste of my spirit disheartens me.
What a morning is here! What a milky-heavy glow in the air that its compact and digital image favor me! I have heard its red horse without the iron bridle, shimmering, whinnying there. Mounted, I see me soaring over churches, galloping the garrisons empty of soldiers while a dissolute army pursues me.
The eucalyptus image of the red horse's eyes raze the darkness and the bell image of its galloping body strikes home.
I see me needing but a spark of that persistent brightness, and my jubilant kindred claiming my inheritance.
He said: "It is good, at certain hours of the day and night, to look closely at the world of objects when we are at rest.... the used surfaces of things, the wear that the hands give to the things, the air, tragic at times... all lend a curious attractiveness to the reality of the world ... in them one sees the confused impurity of the human condition, the massing of things, the use and disuse of substances, footprints and fingerprints, the abiding presence of the human engulfing all artifacts, inside and out."
THE DREAM HORSE
Watching myself in a mirror, not because I needed, it was just for the sake of looking closely at the world around me. I am able to see my mind with a garment of passion involved in papers and cinemas, days of weeks... , then I suddenly snatch from my heart the chief captain of my hell and I begin to establish clauses mistakenly sad.
I see my spirit drifting from one place to another, absorbing illusions, converse in the nests of spiritual tailors which their voices sometimes so cold and deadly. I saw them singing together and sorcery going from them.
I see myself in a country spread out inside the sky. It has the image of a credulous carpet of rainbows and crepuscular plants. I decided to move myself toward it, my sensation of fatigue started to surface over my mind when I see my feet trampling over a fresh removed soil full of graves. I see my dreams belonging to this ground of confuse legumes.
I see me walking over origins, then over enjoyed beneficiary documents. I see me dressed like a natural and chopfallen entity wanting the loose honey of respect, the sweets of the preacher under whose leaves drained violets drowse and grow old; and then, I see those bustling abettors, the brooms, in whose image, assuredly, sorrow and certainty are joined. I destroy the whistle of roses, the unavoided anxiety, smashing the attractiveness of extremes -worst of all, I await a symmetrical time beyond measure in which the taste of my spirit disheartens me.
What a morning is here! What a milky-heavy glow in the air that its compact and digital image favor me! I have heard its red horse without the iron bridle, shimmering, whinnying there. Mounted, I see me soaring over churches, galloping the garrisons empty of soldiers while a dissolute army pursues me.
The eucalyptus image of the red horse's eyes raze the darkness and the bell image of its galloping body strikes home.
I see me needing but a spark of that persistent brightness, and my jubilant kindred claiming my inheritance.
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