Falling for Pablo

I’m not really a fan of romantic novels, I have this inexplicable allergy to modern romance, even though the female protagonist plays a heroine or an innocent damsel in distress. Automatically my eye balls would roll and an irritating smirk will build on my face once my mind is able to deduct and map out the possibilities of an impending romantic rendezvous. (really? that obvious!?)

Although people who knows me personally would quite say I’m a hopeless romantic such works doesn’t mesh well with me. (I prefer romance mixed with tragedy)

I prefer calling it a melancholia or a yearning of some sort, dramatic right? yeah I know I’m a bit theatrical, that is why I prefer to express them in poems. In poetry I feel could freely play with such indulgence, of sweet longing and sultry desire, in poetry I feel I could paint a better picture, make you feel and smell, make your blood boil or at least entice and wake up ones desire– or not? I am still trying though.

Anyhow, in this aspect, I could say the love came from Pablo Neruda, his works are just amazing, honest, painful and also hopeful in some way, and I couldn’t help not to read it over and over. Now, I’m not in any way an English major or a literary expert, I’m just a fan, a fan-girl actually who read his sonnets in a careful whisper as if waking up a lover.

It’s that intimacy and honesty that makes it feel real to me, and hopefully that is what I could achieve. I know I’m getting ahead of myself, but hey if I dont dream big, how can the change happen right?. Learning from his works, being inspired by experiences, by feelings of love, anger and devotion, by the world around us. From the rain clouds that cover up the suns rays, to the dew that falls on a leaf, from a smile from your favorite person, to a french kiss after wonderful night.. all things that starts out simple or basic could explode when written, we just need to become more aware to relish it.





Sonnet XVII -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.



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