Jorge Gonzalo Fernandez
Nobody could visit Pablo Neruda's house
after his death in Isla Negra:
another curse of dictatorship.
But his poetry shot at people's heart
long before the militaries could get their arms:
they couldn't stop those poetic minds
from leaving Neruda messages written with nails
or pencils on a wooden fence around his house.
I like to think Neruda is still there,
lying on his bed, kissing Poetry
as she touches the body of his body,
drawing invisible poems on his infinite skin:
"poetry upon poetry" - my friend would say.
(Forgive them, Pablo)
My flesh still murmurs.
Pablo Neruda's house is before me.
I get a paper and write something fast.
My eyes don't respect me and cry.
My hands tremble gently
as I pin my message
to the wooden slats of his fence:
I have finished writing my note.
It only says "Thank you"
but if you look close
you will read "I will always love you"
in between lines.
Karla BardanzaFor Danny who loves Pablo Neruda.
after his death in Isla Negra:
another curse of dictatorship.
But his poetry shot at people's heart
long before the militaries could get their arms:
they couldn't stop those poetic minds
from leaving Neruda messages written with nails
or pencils on a wooden fence around his house.
I like to think Neruda is still there,
lying on his bed, kissing Poetry
as she touches the body of his body,
drawing invisible poems on his infinite skin:
"poetry upon poetry" - my friend would say.
(Forgive them, Pablo)
My flesh still murmurs.
Pablo Neruda's house is before me.
I get a paper and write something fast.
My eyes don't respect me and cry.
My hands tremble gently
as I pin my message
to the wooden slats of his fence:
I have finished writing my note.
It only says "Thank you"
but if you look close
you will read "I will always love you"
in between lines.
Karla BardanzaFor Danny who loves Pablo Neruda.
Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012
No comments:
Post a Comment