Ciao Bella-The Most Romantic Poems

2012-01-26T22:18:00.000+01:00

Sonnet XXV

Before I loved you, love, nothing was my own:
I wavered through the streets, among Objects:

Nothing mattered or had a name:
The world was made of air, which waited.

I knew rooms full of ashes,
Tunnels where the moon lived,
Rough warehouses that growled 'get lost',
Questions that insisted in the sand.

Everything was empty, dead, mute,
Fallen abandoned, and decayed:
Inconceivably alien, it all

Belonged to someone else - to no one:
Till your beauty and your poverty
Filled the autumn plentiful with gifts.

Pablo Neruda

2012-01-26T22:05:00.002+01:00

Morning (Sonnet XXVII)

Naked you are simple as one of your hands;
Smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round.
You've moon-lines, apple pathways
Naked you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.

Naked you are blue as a night in Cuba;
You've vines and stars in your hair.
Naked you are spacious and yellow
As summer in a golden church.

Naked you are tiny as one of your nails;
Curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born
And you withdraw to the underground world.

As if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores;
Your clear light dims, gets dressed, drops its leaves,
And becomes a naked hand again.

Pablo Neruda

2012-01-26T21:56:00.000+01:00

Over the Eyelids of Night

It was a flowing night.
From beneath the spruce trees,
The stream was flowing to far beyond.
The moonlight was illuminating the valley
And the mountain so bright that God could be seen.

We were on the heights.
Far beyond, invisible; surfaces, washed;
And glance, more amorous than ever before.
You handed me the green stalk of a message
And your breath quietly cracked
The Terracotta of Familiarity.
Our heartbeats pouring down the rocks
From an old wine, the summer’s sands flowing in veins
And the Moonlight enameling your behavior
You were wonderful free, and down-to-earth.

The Green Fortune of Life mingled
With the cool mountain air.
Shadows returned
And pennyroyals danced
With the breeze
And ecstasies mingled together.

Sohrab Sepehri

2012-01-25T22:59:00.000+01:00

it is at moments after I have dreamed

it is at moments after i have dreamed
of the rare entertainment of your eyes,
when(being fool to fancy)i have deemed

with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;
at moments when the glassy darkness holds

the genuine apparition of your smile
(it was through tears always)and silence moulds
such strangeness as was mine a little while;

moments when my once more illustrious arms
are filled with fascination,when my breast
wears the intolerant brightness of your charms:

one pierced moment whiter than the rest

-turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
i watch the roses of the day grow deep.

e.e. cummings

2012-01-22T12:07:00.000+01:00

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Pablo Neruda

2012-01-21T17:55:00.002+01:00

The Absence

I speak to you across cities
I speak to you across plains

My mouth is upon your pillow

Both faces of the walls come meeting
My voice discovering you

I speak to you of eternity

O cities memories of cities
Cities wrapped in our desires
Cities come early cities come lately
Cities strong and cities secret
Plundered of their master's builders
All their thinkers all their ghosts

Fields pattern of emerald
Bright living surviving
The harvest of the sky over our earth
Feeds my voice I dream and weep
I laugh and dream among the flames
Among the clusters of the sun

And over my body your body spreads
The sheet of it's bright mirror.

Paul Eluard

2012-01-21T17:53:00.002+01:00

Your Feet

When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.

Pablo Neruda

2012-01-21T17:51:00.002+01:00

Saturday Paseo: Adelina

Oranges
do not grow in the sea
neither is there love in Sevilla.
You in Dark and the I the sun that's hot,
loan me your parasol.

I'll wear my jealous reflection,
juice of lemon and lime-
and your words,
your sinful little words-
will swim around awhile.

Oranges
do not grow in the sea,
Ay, love!
And there is no love in Sevilla!

Federico García Lorca

2012-01-21T17:47:00.002+01:00

I loved you once...

I loved you once: perhaps that love has yet
To die down thoroughly within my soul;
But let it not dismay you any longer;
I have no wish to cause you any sorrow.
I loved you wordlessly, without a hope,
By shyness tortured, or by jealousy.
I loved you with such tenderness and candor
And pray God grants you to be loved that way again.

A. S. Pushkin

2012-01-21T17:44:00.002+01:00

La Vita Nuova

In that book which is
My memory . . .
On the first page
That is the chapter when
I first met you
Appear the words . . .
Here begins a new life

Dante Alighieri

2012-01-21T17:43:00.002+01:00

I am Not Alone

The night, it is deserted
from the mountains to the sea.
But I, the one who rocks you,
I am not alone!

The sky, it is deserted
for the moon falls to the sea.
But I, the one who holds you,
I am not alone !

The world, it is deserted.
All flesh is sad you see.
But I, the one who hugs you,
I am not alone!

Gabriela Mistral

2010-12-13T00:33:00.015+01:00

Always for the First Time

Always for the first time

Hardly do I know you by sight

You return at some hour of the night to a house at an angle to my window

A wholly imaginary house

It is there that from one second to the next

In the inviolate darkness

I anticipate once more the fascinating rift occurring

The one and only rift

In the facade and in my heart

The closer I come to you

In reality

The more the key sings at the door of the unknown room

Where you appear alone before me

At first you coalesce entirely with the brightness

The elusive angle of a curtain

It's a field of jasmine I gazed upon at dawn on a road in the vicinity of Grasse

With the diagonal slant of its girls picking

Behind them the dark falling wing of the plants stripped bare

Before them a T-square of dazzling light

The curtain invisibly raised

In a frenzy all the flowers swarm back in

It is you at grips with that too long hour never dim enough until sleep

You as though you could be

The same except that I shall perhaps never meet you

You pretend not to know I am watching you

Marvelously I am no longer sure you know

You idleness brings tears to my eyes

A swarm of interpretations surrounds each of your gestures

It's a honeydew hunt

There are rocking chairs on a deck there are branches that may well scratch you in the forest

There are in a shop window in the rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette

Two lovely crossed legs caught in long stockings

Flaring out in the center of a great white clover

There is a silken ladder rolled out over the ivy

There is

By my leaning over the precipice

Of your presence and your absence in hopeless fusion

My finding the secret

Of loving you

Always for the first time

Andre Breton

2010-03-27T03:42:00.012+01:00

A Love Song

Reject me not if I should say to you
I do forget the sounding of your voice,
I do forget your eyes that searching through
The mists perceive our marriage, and rejoice.

Yet, when the apple-blossom opens wide
Under the pallid moonlight’s fingering,
I see your blanched face at my breast, and hide
My eyes from diligent work, malingering.

Ah, then, upon my bedroom I do draw
The blind to hide the garden, where the moon
Enjoys the open blossoms as they straw
Their beauty for his taking, boon for boon.

And I do lift my aching arms to you,
And I do lift my anguished, avid breast,
And I do weep for very pain of you,
And fling myself at the doors of sleep, for rest.

And I do toss through the troubled night for you,
Dreaming your yielded mouth is given to mine,
Feeling your strong breast carry me on into
The peace where sleep is stronger even than wine.

DH Lawrence

2010-03-27T03:40:00.005+01:00

The Faithless Wife

So I took her to the river
believing she was a maiden,
but she already had a husband.
It was on St. James night
and almost as if I was obliged to.
The lanterns went out
and the crickets lighted up.
In the farthest street corners
I touched her sleeping breasts
and they opened to me suddenly
like spikes of hyacinth.
The starch of her petticoat
sounded in my ears
like a piece of silk
rent by ten knives.
Without silver light on their foliage
the trees had grown larger
and a horizon of dogs
barked very far from the river.

Past the blackberries,
the reeds and the hawthorne
underneath her cluster of hair
I made a hollow in the earth
I took off my tie,
she too off her dress.
I, my belt with the revolver,
She, her four bodices.
Nor nard nor mother-o’-pearl
have skin so fine,
nor does glass with silver
shine with such brilliance.
Her thighs slipped away from me
like startled fish,
half full of fire,
half full of cold.
That night I ran
on the best of roads
mounted on a nacre mare
without bridle stirrups.

As a man, I won’t repeat
the things she said to me.
The light of understanding
has made me more discreet.
Smeared with sand and kisses
I took her away from the river.
The swords of the lilies
battled with the air.

I behaved like what I am,
like a proper gypsy.
I gave her a large sewing basket,
of straw-colored satin,
but I did not fall in love
for although she had a husband
she told me she was a maiden
when I took her to the river.

Federico García Lorca

2010-03-27T03:32:00.005+01:00

Lady Love

She is standing on my eyelids
And her hair is in my hair
She has the color of my eye
She has the body of my hand
In my shade she is engulfed
As a stone against the sky

She will never close her eyes
And she does not let me sleep
And her dreams in the bright day
Make the suns evaporate
And me laugh cry and laugh
Speak when I have nothing to say

Paul Eluard

2010-03-27T03:09:00.006+01:00

Another Birth

My whole being is a dark chant
which will carry you
perpetuating you
to the dawn of eternal growths and blossoming
in this chant I sighed you sighed
in this chant
I grafted you to the tree to the water to the fire.

Life is perhaps
a long street through which a woman holding
a basket passes every day

Life is perhaps
a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch
life is perhaps a child returning home from school.

Life is perhaps lighting up a cigarette
in the narcotic repose between two love-makings
or the absent gaze of a passerby
who takes off his hat to another passerby
with a meaningless smile and a good morning .

Life is perhaps that enclosed moment
when my gaze destroys itself in the pupil of your eyes
and it is in the feeling
which I will put into the Moon's impression
and the Night's perception.

In a room as big as loneliness
my heart
which is as big as love
looks at the simple pretexts of its happiness
at the beautiful decay of flowers in the vase
at the sapling you planted in our garden
and the song of canaries
which sing to the size of a window.

Ah
this is my lot
this is my lot
my lot is
a sky which is taken away at the drop of a curtain
my lot is going down a flight of disused stairs
a regain something amid putrefaction and nostalgia
my lot is a sad promenade in the garden of memories
and dying in the grief of a voice which tells me
I love
your hands.

I will plant my hands in the garden
I will grow I know I know I know
and swallows will lay eggs
in the hollow of my ink-stained hands.

I shall wear
a pair of twin cherries as ear-rings
and I shall put dahlia petals on my finger-nails
there is an alley
where the boys who were in love with me
still loiter with the same unkempt hair
thin necks and bony legs
and think of the innocent smiles of a little girl
who was blown away by the wind one night.

There is an alley
which my heart has stolen
from the streets of my childhood.

The journey of a form along the line of time
inseminating the line of time with the form
a form conscious of an image
coming back from a feast in a mirror

And it is in this way
that someone dies
and someone lives on.

No fisherman shall ever find a pearl in a small brook
which empties into a pool.

I know a sad little fairy
who lives in an ocean
and ever so softly
plays her heart into a magic flute
a sad little fairy
who dies with one kiss each night
and is reborn with one kiss each dawn.

Forugh Farrokhzad

2009-10-29T06:07:00.010+01:00

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

E. E. Cummings

2009-09-20T04:51:00.003+02:00

Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint

Never let me lose the marvel

of your statue-like eyes, or the accent

the solitary rose of your breath

places on my cheek at night.

I am afraid of being, on this shore,

a branchless trunk, and what I most regret

is having no flower, pulp, or clay

for the worm of my despair.

If you are my hidden treasure,

if you are my cross, my dampened pain,

if I am a dog, and you alone my master,

never let me lose what I have gained,

and adorn the branches of your river

with leaves of my estranged Autumn.

Federico García Lorca

2009-09-12T11:10:00.010+02:00

Second Poem, Absence of Love

Beloved

in whose body I rest,

What will your dream be like

when I have sought you without finding you?

Oh,

my love, most sweet

as the allusion of a spikenard

between distant brown scents,

What will become of your heart when I love you?

What will it be like to find you when your body is love

and your voice

a bouquet of light?

Beloved,

Today I have sought you

throughout my city

and your strange city,

where the buildings

do not rejoice to the sun,

like shells of fruit

and celestial dwellings.

And I walked

with twilight tangled around my tongue,

With a lagoon-like air

and a cloak of danger.

An aura of jasper

saw me from its tower,

As I walked searching for you

among the green smell of the city’s horses,

Among matrons

with diapers and birds;

Thinking about your mouth

my eyes rested

like diurnal doves

on bitter grasses.

And I searched for you then

through the immediacy of my body.

You could come to me then

from the fervid event

Beloved

Today I have sought you without finding you

throughout my city

and your strange city,

Close to wandering farmhouses

—guarded by fields—

surrounded and defeated by rustling pastures.

Suddenly you arrived,

host of my happiness,

and your brilliant offerings

filled me with islands.

From the cool breeze you arrived

like a boy with a white handkerchief

And night ascended dreaming among branches,

alongside the water’s joy and the bee’s trace.

Beloved,

in whose body I repose

and into whose arms my soul empties,

What will it be like to not find you in the distance,

to arrive at your body like food

reunited with the warmth of a necessary

and lost grace?

To exist where I am no more than transient

to not exist where your breath holds me

and shatters my soul

like a stone.

What will it be like

to have my body divided

and my heart in my hands

held together, yet alone?

Beloved

Today I have sought you without finding you

throughout my city and your strange city

and I have not found you.

What will it be like to seek you in the distance?

Eunice Odio

2009-06-14T13:33:00.008+02:00

Friday

My silent Friday,
My deserted Friday,
My Friday: sad, like old abandoned lanes.

My Friday:
The cold day of ailing, idle thoughts,
Moist day of long, evil bore,
loaded with grief
grief for my faith, for my hope,
Oh, my Friday, this renouncing day…

Oh, this empty room,
Oh, this gloomy house…

These isolating walls from attacks of youth,
These collapsing roofs on my slight daydream of light,
In this place of lone, reflection and doubt,
In this space of shade, text, image and sign.

My life, like a mysterious river,
streamed into those silent, deserted days,
so calmly with a lot of pride.

My life, like a mysterious river,
Streamed into those empty, gloomy rooms,
so calmly with a lot of pride

Forough Farokhzad

2009-06-11T15:45:00.012+02:00

Your laughter

Take breath away from me, if you wish,

take air away, but

do not take from me your laughter.

Do not take away the rose,

the lanceflower that you pluck,

the water that suddenly

bursts forth in your joy,

the sudden wave

of silver born in you.

My struggle is harsh and I come back

with eyes tired

at times from having seen

the unchanging earth,

but when your laughter enters

it rises to the sky seeking me

and it opens for me all

the doors of life.

My love, in the darkest

hour your laughter

opens, and if suddenly

you see my blood staining

the stones of the street,

laugh, because your laughter

will be for my hands

like a fresh sword.

Next to the sea in the autumn,

your laughter must raise

its foamy cascade,

and in the spring, love,

I want your laughter like

the flower I was waiting for,

the blue flower, the rose

of my echoing country.

Laugh at the night,

at the day, at the moon,

laugh at the twisted

streets of the island,

laugh at this clumsy

boy who loves you,

but when I open

my eyes and close them,

when my steps go,

when my steps return,

deny me bread, air,

light, spring,

but never your laughter

for I would die.

Pablo Neruda

2009-06-09T13:44:00.010+02:00

Ode to a Beautiful Nude

With a chaste heart

With pure eyes I celebrate your beauty

Holding the leash of blood

So that it might leap out and trace your outline

Where you lie down in my Ode

As in a land of forests or in surf

In aromatic loam, or in sea music

Beautiful nude

Equally beautiful your feet

Arched by primeval tap of wind or sound

Your ears, small shells

Of the splendid American sea

Your breasts of level plenitude

Fulfilled by living light

Your flying eyelids of wheat

Revealing or enclosing

The two deep countries of your eyes

The line your shoulders have divided into pale regions

Loses itself and blends into the compact halves of an apple

Continues separating your beauty down into two columns of

Burnished gold

Fine alabaster

To sink into the two grapes of your feet

Where your twin symmetrical tree burns again and rises

Flowering fire

Open chandelier

A swelling fruit

Over the pact of sea and earth

From what materials

Agate?

Quartz?

Wheat?

Did your body come together?

Swelling like baking bread to signal silvered hills

The cleavage of one petal

Sweet fruits of a deep velvet

Until alone remained

Astonished

The fine and firm feminine form

It is not only light that falls over the world spreading inside your body

Yet suffocate itself

So much is clarity

Taking its leave of you

As if you were on fire within

The moon lives in the lining of your skin

Pablo Neruda

2009-06-08T20:33:00.010+02:00

Leaning Into The Afternoons

Leaning into the afternoons I cast my sad nets
towards your oceanic eyes.

There in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames,
its arms turning like a drowning man's.

I send out red signals across your absent eyes
that smell like the sea or the beach by a lighthouse.

You keep only darkness, my distant female,
from your regard sometimes the coast of dread emerges.

Leaning into the afternoons I fling my sad nets
to that sea that is thrashed by your oceanic eyes.

The birds of night peck at the first stars
that flash like my soul when I love you.

The night gallops on its shadowy mare
shedding blue tassels over the land.

Pablo Neruda