Fleas interest me so much that I let them bite me for hours.
It’s good to feel you are close to me in the night, love, invisible in your sleep, intently nocturnal, while I untangle my worries as if they were twisted nets.Withdrawn, your heart sails through dream, but your body, relinquished so, breathes seeking me without seeing me perfecting my dream like a plant that seeds itself in the dark.Rising, you will be that other, alive in the dawn, but from the frontiers lost in the night, from the presence and the absence where we meet ourselves,something remains, drawing us into the light of life as if the sign of the shadows had sealed its secret creatures with flame.Beautiful film with words to Morning (Love sonnet XXVII) in Italian...
He who does not travel, who does not read, who does not listen to music, who does not find grace in himself, dies slowly.
"Pablo Neruda: The poet's calling."During his lifetime, Pablo Neruda became the world's most famous poet - a giant of a man who won the Nobel Prize for Literature, counted Pablo Picasso and Diego Rivera as close friends and was so politically active that he became a senator in his native Chile. Yet what emerges as much as anything in Mark Eisner's fine documentary about him, is Neruda's ability to connect with everyday people - not just in the superficial style of a glad-handing politician but in ways that were so genuine and lasting that the people he touched remember him, decades later, with love in their eyes.Neruda’s works are ripe with the images of red poppies, sand, rain, wooden tools, silver stones, horses’ breath, the rugged hands of copper miners, a woman’s “genital fire transformed into delight.†His subjects ranged from politics to the sea, from indigenous Chileans to Richard Nixon.He was a compassionate poet of the people. “I have always wanted the hands of the people to be seen in poetry,†he wrote. “I have always preferred a poetry where the fingerprints show, of loam, where water can sing. A poetry of bread, where everyone may eat.â€Neruda was asked, “Why did you want to write?†He answered, “I wanted to be a voice.â€We interview his surviving best friends, scholars, poets, construction workers, and Rafita, his carpenter who built Neruda's fabled coastal home Isla Negra, as well as his house in Valparaiso. Legendary singer/songwriter Suzanne Vega narrates our documentary. She is a huge Neruda lover. We hope you are or will become one too.(THIS FILM IS STILL UNFINISHED AND NEEDS FUNDING. FOR MORE DETAILS PLEASE CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW) www.redpoppy.net
Classic Simpsons quote... Lisa: Pablo Neruda says "laughter is the language of the soul."Bart: I am familiar with the works of Pablo Neruda.
When I close a book I open life. I hear faltering cries among harbours. Copper ignots slide down sand-pits to Tocopilla. Night time. Among the islands our ocean throbs with fish, touches the feet, the thighs, the chalk ribs of my country. The whole of night clings to its shores, by dawn it wakes up singing as if it had excited a guitar.The ocean's surge is calling. The wind calls me and Rodriguez calls, and Jose Antonio-- I got a telegram from the "Mine" Union and the one I love (whose name I won't let out) expects me in Bucalemu.No book has been able to wrap me in paper, to fill me up with typography, with heavenly imprints or was ever able to bind my eyes, I come out of books to people orchards with the hoarse family of my song, to work the burning metals or to eat smoked beef by mountain firesides. I love adventurous books, books of forest or snow, depth or sky but hate the spider book in which thought has laid poisonous wires to trap the juvenile and circling fly. Book, let me go. I won't go clothed in volumes, I don't come out of collected works, my poems have not eaten poems-- they devour exciting happenings, feed on rough weather, and dig their food out of earth and men. I'm on my way with dust in my shoes free of mythology: send books back to their shelves, I'm going down into the streets. I learned about life from life itself, love I learned in a single kiss and could teach no one anything except that I have lived with something in common among men, when fighting with them, when saying all their say in my song.
All the books I read are full of dazzling heroes, always sure of themselves. I die with envy of them; and in films full of wind and bullets, I goggle at the cowboys, I even admire the horses.But when I call for a hero, out comes my lazy old self; so I never know who I am, nor how many I am or will be. I'd love to be able to touch a bell and summon the real me, because if I really need myself, I mustn't disappear.