Poetry Friday: A Poem by Pablo Neruda

On Monday, I featured Pablo Neruda: Poet of the People for Nonfiction Monday.  Today a poem from Pablo Neruda.

Only in Death
~translated by Robert Bly

There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.

The rest of the poem can be found HERE.

Poetry Friday is at Teaching Authors.  I have some original poems for Poem A Day challenge for November at Deowriter.

Happy Reading.

MsMac

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PAD: Day 10

Written, Thursday, November 10

I Come From

I come from a Scottish grandfather I never met.
He sailed to India in a three-masted schooner.
I lament never meeting him.
I come from mystery and intrigue.

He sailed to India in a three-masted schooner.
He married my grandmother years later.
I come from mystery and intrigue.
Conversations at dinner were lively.

He married my grandmother years later.
I come from my grandmother’s laughter and love of writing.
Conversations at dinner were lively for adults
especially when my grandmother visited.

I come from my grandmother’s laughter and love of writing.
Stories about my grandfather were told,
especially when my grandmother visited.
Self-tattoos in tribal designs, a runaway, and becoming mayor

Stories about my grandfather told.
I come from a Scottish grandfather I never met.
Self-tattoos in tribal designs, a runaway, and becoming mayor
I lament never meeting him.

This poem was started a month ago at the Silver Falls writing retreat. I didn’t get it finished and the threads were waiting to be woven together.

My grandfather was born in 1863.  He left Scotland at 13 and claimed that wherever the British flag flew there was slavery.  My grandmother was 26 years younger than him. He was sixty years old when my father was born.