Neruda 11 & 17 - Studies in Indifference or not

Cien sonetos de amor (100 Love Sonnets) is a collection of sonnets written by the Chilean poet and Nobel Laureate Pablo Neruda originally published in Argentina in 1959.

It was dedicated to his beloved wife -at the time-, Matilde Urrutia, but that is another long and complicated story.

It is divided into the four stages of the day: morning, afternoon, evening, and night.

This collect has always been a bit of a Rorschach test for me: which poem do you like the best and why. The easy answer has always been  No. 11 – it is obvious – vulgar in an appealing way – soft and gooey in an unappealing way.

I have always loved No. 17 – almost dropped it when it appeared in Patch Adams (horrible movie!) but it always draws me in when I go on a Neruda jag.

Take a look – let me know what you think – if you have another candidate, I am always delighted to find new avenues to explore.

Love Sonnet XI

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Sonnet XVII

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.