I have decided that I am going to start posting an occasional favorite poem on my blog. I used to write my own poetry, "back in the day," as my students say. While I was never on the same level as my favorite poets by any means, I could write a decent line or two once in a while. However, it seems my muse has gone into permanent hibernation. The reason? I'm happy. I have always believed that most great art has to come from sorrow, despair, addiction, mental illness, or some other driving influence. When the artist/author/composer is content, the art suffers. When I was searching for meaning in my life, when I was heartbroken, when I felt my life was incomplete, I could write halfway decent poetry. Now, I couldn't do it if my life depended on it.
I could care less. Let the muse sleep the rest of my days. I'll revel in other people's words, and be content with my new life. It's more than a fair trade, to be sure.
XVII (I do not love you...)
by Pablo Neruda
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.
Translated by Stephen Tapscott
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1 comment:
I know someone else who used to draw from the darkness within for her muse. She tells me she's having trouble writing now as well, because she's happy too.
That poem is lovely, m'dear. :)
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