neruda | Zdeaconblue's Blog

Amidst the flowers a jug of wine,
I pour alone lacking companionship.
So raising the cup I invite the Moon,
Then turn to my shadow which makes three of us.
Because the Moon does not know how to drink,
My shadow merely follows the movement of my body.
The moon has brought the shadow to keep me company a while,
The practice of mirth should keep pace with spring.
I start a song and the moon begins to reel,
I rise and dance and the shadow moves grotesquely.
While I’m still conscious let’s rejoice with one another,
After I’m drunk let each one go his way.
Let us bind ourselves for ever for passionless journeyings.
Let us swear to meet again far in the Milky Way.

July Poetry Day 9 – Pablo Neruda

Posted: July 9, 2012 in photography, poetry
Tags: love, neruda, pablo neruda, photography, poem, poetry

Today one of my favorite poets, no writer paints images of love with words like Pablo Neruda. The one for today is a little more complex than most of his pieces but no less beautiful, enjoy. ~ ZD Blue

Image by Rich Krissel

In the wave-strike over unquiet stones

By Pablo Neruda

In the wave-strike over unquiet stones
the brightness bursts and bears the rose
and the ring of water contracts to a cluster
to one drop of azure brine that falls.
O magnolia radiance breaking in spume,
magnetic voyager whose death flowers
and returns, eternal, to being and nothingness:
shattered brine, dazzling leap of the ocean.
Merged, you and I, my love, seal the silence
while the sea destroys its continual forms,
collapses its turrets of wildness and whiteness,
because in the weft of those unseen garments
of headlong water, and perpetual sand,
we bear the sole, relentless tenderness.

June Poetry Day 20 – Poems on the Dark Side Neruda, Bennett

Posted: June 20, 2011 in poetry
Tags: blog, june poetry, life, neruda, outlaw, poem, poet, poetry

June Poetry Day 20 – Poems on the Dark Side Neruda, Bennett

Today a couple of pieces on the darker side of life including a dark piece from Pablo Neruda and one from www.outlawpoetry.com by John Bennett, I hope you enjoy them.

Christian Charity by John Bennett

I piss on it all
from a
considerable height
said Celine,
& then he
came down
off the
mountain &
spent the
rest of his life
ministering
to the
sickly &
poor &
died
that way
himself
If he were
around today
he’d piss
on us too,
the richest
nation on
earth
unwilling to
mead out
a little
Christian
charity
to the
impoverished &
ill,
leave alone
give them
universal
health care.

***************************

Walking around by Pablo Neruda

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don’t want so much misery.
I don’t want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.

That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.

June Poetry: Poem 1 – Bukowski

Posted: June 1, 2011 in poetry
Tags: alone, alone with everybody, bukowski, iambic pentameter, june, life, neruda, poem, poet, poetry

So originally I had hoped to have enough submissions from folks to do 30 original unpublished poems for the month, that didn’t happen. Oh sure I could inundate you with 30 of mine but that seems a bit over the top although I will certainly sprinkle in several of mine as we go through the month. I am still taking submissions so if you are reading this and want to send one along please do, you can publish under a pen name if you prefer. Send them along to zdeaconblue@aol.com I look forward to seeing and publishing your work.

So before we get in to the original pieces we will start with some of my favorite poets, Bukowski, Neruda, McWilliams, might even toss in a little Poe to shake things up. Today I start with the Poet Laureate of the Gutter, Charles Bukowski. I love his work, it’s honest and foul and plain-spoken, everything your English teacher poetry should never be, but it does for me what all art should, it makes me feel. So to hell with grammar and iambic pentameter, and hears to feeling:

Alone With Everybody

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there’s no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.

~Charles Bukowski

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June Poetry: Poem 1 – Bukowski

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