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PostPosted: Wed Aug 17, 2005 2:47 am 
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Well, here it is. Pablo Neruda, Poem number 20 from his book. "20 poemas de amor y una canción desesperada" (20 poems of love and one song of despair)

Poema 20

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Escribir, por ejemplo: «La noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos.»

El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.

En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.

Oír la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.

Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.

Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.

La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.

De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos,
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,
y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.


Last edited by roxxxie on Wed Aug 17, 2005 3:00 am, edited 1 time in total.

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PostPosted: Wed Aug 17, 2005 2:59 am 
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Well, I managed to find an english version, its not very good but gives the general idea....



Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines
(by Pablo Neruda)




I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.


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PostPosted: Sun Aug 21, 2005 12:30 am 
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i plugged it into freetranslations.com and ended up with:

I can write the saddest verses this night.

Writing, for example: «The night is crashed, and they shiver, blue, the stars, in the distance »

The wind at night revolves in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest verses this night. I wanted it, and at times she also wanted me.

In the nights as this I had it among my arms. I kissed it so many times under the infinite sky.

She wanted me, at times I also he wanted it. How not they to have loved his large fixed eyes.

I can write the saddest verses this night. Thinking that it do not I have. Feeling that I have lost it.

Hearing the more immense, immense night without her. And the verse falls al soul like al pasture the dew.

What imports that my love could not keep it. The night is crashed and she is not with me.

That is all. In the distance someone sings. In the distance. My soul does not please itself with to have lost.

As to approach it my look the search. My heart the search, and she is not with me.

The same night that causes whitens the same trees. We, the of then, no longer we are the same.

No longer I want it, is certain, but how much I wanted it. My voice sought the wind to touch its ear.

Of another. Will be of another. As before my kisses. Its voice, its clear body. Its infinite eyes.

No longer I want it, is certain, but perhaps I want it. He is so short the love, and is so long the oversight.

Because in nights as this I had it among my arms, My soul does not please itself with to have lost.

Although this be the last pain that she causes me, and these be the last verses that I write him.


its a little different, i don't know which one is closer so here they are

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"In my time, nightmares walked among us, skewering victims in plain sight...This to make us laugh. And now nightmares are trapped inside the heads of humans...I wonder whom they angered so to merit such a fate?"


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PostPosted: Sun Aug 21, 2005 12:34 am 
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i'm not sure thats any closer and it doesn't make as much sense but thats what it gave me.

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"In my time, nightmares walked among us, skewering victims in plain sight...This to make us laugh. And now nightmares are trapped inside the heads of humans...I wonder whom they angered so to merit such a fate?"


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PostPosted: Sun Aug 21, 2005 11:05 am 
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Freetranslation.com is not to be trusted. Then again, there's nothing good in this world for free... Not usually.

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PostPosted: Sun Aug 21, 2005 12:26 pm 
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right ... but its better than nothing ..... did u know tht pablo neruda was a nobel laurate 1971 literature

here's a link to his poems: (search by poets you'llget 7)
http://www.poets.org

here's a link to the nobel site from where i got the above link:
http://nobelprize.org/literature/laurea ... da-or.html

my all time fav is its untitled but is usually reffered as "Mortality"

OH! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high
Shall molder to dust and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved;
The mother that infant's affection who proved;
The husband that mother and infant who blessed,--
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure,--her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap;
The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep;
The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven;
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven;
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, and view the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;
To the life we are clinging they also would cling;
But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;
The scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died, aye! they died; and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together in sunshine and rain;
And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,--
Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?


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PostPosted: Sun Aug 21, 2005 1:15 pm 
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That's the kind of ballad I wish I could write!

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PostPosted: Sun Aug 21, 2005 1:32 pm 
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I didn't finish reading it cuz I'm too sleepy! but u can definately get there someday!

Rana

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~Sophocles


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PostPosted: Sun Aug 21, 2005 3:37 pm 
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yeah thts the kinda of expression any one of us would love to write ...... for me its kind of a complete expression ........... words fail me here ........ i was introduced to this poem my Dale Carnegie's book "The Unkown Lincoln" ............ this was lincoln's favourite poem ............. Quoting lincoln here "I would give everything .......... everything i have to be able to write like that" ........ i agree

my Rudyard Kipling's 'If' is another one of my fav's

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!


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PostPosted: Wed Oct 05, 2005 3:52 am 
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The Reader

Who knows him, this youth who's let his face sink down
from this existence to a second one,
which only the swift turning of full pages
sometimes violently interrupts?

Even his mother would not be sure
it's he who sits there reading something
saturated with his shadow. And we, with our hours,
how can we gauge how much of him was lost

before with effort he looked up: lifting
everything that inhered down below in the book
with eyes that, instead of taking, bumped
givingly into our nonporous world:
the way quiet children, having played alone,
suddenly experience what's at hand;
but his features, which were unbewildered,
remained forever recomposed.

Rainier Maria Rilke (translated from the German by Edward Snow)

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PostPosted: Wed Oct 05, 2005 3:53 am 
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Here's another by Rilke:

A Woman's Fate

Just as the king out on a hunt picks up
a glass to drink from-any one at all,-
and afterward he who owns it puts it away
and guards it like some fabled chalice:

so perhaps Fate, thirsty also, at times
raised a woman to its lips and drank,
whom then a small life, much too afraid
of breaking her, locked away from use

inside the timorous glass cabinet
in which its most precious things are kept
(or the things accounted precious).

There she stood strange like something loaned
and became merely old and became blind
and was not precious and was never special.

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PostPosted: Wed Oct 05, 2005 3:54 am 
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I love this one:

La Figlia Che Piange (The Weeping Girl)

O quam te memorem virgo...

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair -
Lean on a garden urn -
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair -
Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise -
Fling them to the ground and turn
With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

So I would have had him leave.
So I would have had her stand and grieve,
So he would have left.
As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,
As the mind deserts the body it has used,
I should find
Some way incomparably light and deft,
Some way both should understand,
Simple and faithless as a smile and a shake of the hand.

She turned away, but with the autumn weather
Compelled my imagination many days,
Many days and many hours:
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
And I wonder how they should have been together!
I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
The troubled midnight, and the noon's repose.

T.S. Eliot

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PostPosted: Wed Oct 05, 2005 3:54 am 
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Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Carl Sandburg

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PostPosted: Wed Oct 05, 2005 3:55 am 
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The Year

I

A storm of white petals,
Buds throwing open baby fists
Into hands of broad flowers.

II

Red roses running upward,
Clambering to the clutches of life
Soaked in crimson.

III

Rabbles of tattered leaves
Holding golden flimsy hopes
Against the tramplings
Into the pits and gullies.

IV

Hoarfrost and silence:
Only the muffling
Of winds dark and lonesone --
Great lullabies to the long sleepers.

Carl Sandburg

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PostPosted: Wed Oct 05, 2005 3:58 am 
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Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

Edgar Allan Poe

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