Neruda's poetry has always been one that I stop and read, obviously I know the twenty love poems and poem of despair the best since I own a slim volume of it. I know that he wrote plenty about politics and government but wanted to expand my knowledge of other poetry that he had written so this thick tome of poetry, including sometimes the Spanish version and pulled from many different volumes with a few English translations too, this was helpful in knowing more about his work as a whole.
I was surprised by the range! And my new favorites are his Odes! And "Guilty" and I want to now borrow The Book of Questions at some point that he wrote between 1971-1973. This is part of my deeper dives into things I've loved to know and explore more.
"'Only Death' There are long cemeteries, / tombs filled with soundless bones, / the heart passing through a tunnel / dark, dark, dark; / like a shipwreck we die inward, / like smothering in our hearts, / like slowly falling from our skin down to our soul. // There are corpses, / there are feet of sticky, cold gravestone, / there is death in the bones, / like a pure sound, / like a bark without a dog, / coming from certain bells, from certain tombs, / growing in the dampness like teardrops or raindrops. // I see alone, at times, / coffins with sails / weighing anchor with pale corpses, with dead-tressed women, / with bakers white as angels, / with pensive girls married to notaries, / coffins going up the vertical river of the dead, / the dark purple river, / upstream, with the sails swollen by the sound of death, / swollen by the silent sound of death. // To resonance comes death / like a show without a foot, like a suit without a man, / she comes to knock with a stoneless and fingerless ring, / she comes to shout without mouth, without tongue, without throat. / Yet her steps sound / and her dress sounds, silent, like a tree. // I know little, I am not well acquainted, I can scarcely see, / but I think that her song has the color of moist violets, / of violets accustomed to the earth, / because the face of death is green, / and the gaze of death is green, / with the sharp dampness of a violet leaf / and its dark color of exasperated winter // But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom, / she licks the ground looking for corpses, / death is in the broom, / it is death's tongue looking for dead bodies, / it is death's needle looking for thread. // Death is in the cots: / in the slow mattresses, in the black blankets / she lives stretched out, and she suddenly blows: / she blows a dark sound that puffs out sheets, / and there are beds sailing to a port / where she is waiting, dressed as an admiral."
"Here are the bread- the wine- the table- the house: / a man's needs, and a woman's, and a life's. / Peace whirled through and settled in this place: / the common fire burned, to make this light."