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The Poetry of Pablo Neruda
The most comprehensive English-language collection of work ever by "the greatest poet of the twentieth century - in any language" - Gabriel García Márquez
"In his work a continent awakens to consciousness." So wrote the Swedish Academy in awarding the Nobel Prize to Pablo Neruda, the author of more than thirty-five books of poetry and one of Latin America's most revered writers, lionized during his lifetime as "the people's poet." This selection of Neruda's poetry, the most comprehensive single volume available in English, presents nearly six hundred poems. Scores of them are in new and sometimes multiple translations, and many accompanied by the Spanish original. In his introduction, Ilan Stavans situates Neruda in his native milieu as well as in a contemporary English-language one, and a group of new translations by leading poets testifies to Neruda's enduring, vibrant legacy among English-speaking writers and readers today.
"In his work a continent awakens to consciousness." So wrote the Swedish Academy in awarding the Nobel Prize to Pablo Neruda, the author of more than thirty-five books of poetry and one of Latin America's most revered writers, lionized during his lifetime as "the people's poet." This selection of Neruda's poetry, the most comprehensive single volume available in English, presents nearly six hundred poems. Scores of them are in new and sometimes multiple translations, and many accompanied by the Spanish original. In his introduction, Ilan Stavans situates Neruda in his native milieu as well as in a contemporary English-language one, and a group of new translations by leading poets testifies to Neruda's enduring, vibrant legacy among English-speaking writers and readers today.
1040 pages, Paperback
First published December 1, 1951
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35269 people want to read
About the author
Pablo Neruda
1,081 books9,620 followersPablo Neruda, born Ricardo Eliécer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto in 1904 in Parral, Chile, was a poet, diplomat, and politician, widely considered one of the most influential literary figures of the 20th century. From an early age, he showed a deep passion for poetry, publishing his first works as a teenager. He adopted the pen name Pablo Neruda to avoid disapproval from his father, who discouraged his literary ambitions. His breakthrough came with Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada (Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, 1924), a collection of deeply emotional and sensual poetry that gained international recognition and remains one of his most celebrated works.
Neruda’s career took him beyond literature into diplomacy, a path that allowed him to travel extensively and engage with political movements around the world. Beginning in 1927, he served in various consular posts in Asia and later in Spain, where he witnessed the Spanish Civil War and became an outspoken advocate for the Republican cause. His experiences led him to embrace communism, a commitment that would shape much of his later poetry and political activism. His collection España en el corazón (Spain in Our Hearts, 1937) reflected his deep sorrow over the war and marked a shift toward politically engaged writing.
Returning to Chile, he was elected to the Senate in 1945 as a member of the Communist Party. However, his vocal opposition to the repressive policies of President Gabriel Gonzalez Videla led to his exile. During this period, he traveled through various countries, including Argentina, Mexico, and the Soviet Union, further cementing his status as a global literary and political figure. It was during these years that he wrote Canto General (1950), an epic work chronicling Latin American history and the struggles of its people.
Neruda’s return to Chile in 1952 marked a new phase in his life, balancing political activity with a prolific literary output. He remained a staunch supporter of socialist ideals and later developed a close relationship with Salvador Allende, who appointed him as Chile’s ambassador to France in 1970. The following year, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, recognized for the scope and impact of his poetry. His later years were marked by illness, and he died in 1973, just days after the military coup that overthrew Allende. His legacy endures, not only in his vast body of work but also in his influence on literature, political thought, and the cultural identity of Latin America.
Neruda’s career took him beyond literature into diplomacy, a path that allowed him to travel extensively and engage with political movements around the world. Beginning in 1927, he served in various consular posts in Asia and later in Spain, where he witnessed the Spanish Civil War and became an outspoken advocate for the Republican cause. His experiences led him to embrace communism, a commitment that would shape much of his later poetry and political activism. His collection España en el corazón (Spain in Our Hearts, 1937) reflected his deep sorrow over the war and marked a shift toward politically engaged writing.
Returning to Chile, he was elected to the Senate in 1945 as a member of the Communist Party. However, his vocal opposition to the repressive policies of President Gabriel Gonzalez Videla led to his exile. During this period, he traveled through various countries, including Argentina, Mexico, and the Soviet Union, further cementing his status as a global literary and political figure. It was during these years that he wrote Canto General (1950), an epic work chronicling Latin American history and the struggles of its people.
Neruda’s return to Chile in 1952 marked a new phase in his life, balancing political activity with a prolific literary output. He remained a staunch supporter of socialist ideals and later developed a close relationship with Salvador Allende, who appointed him as Chile’s ambassador to France in 1970. The following year, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, recognized for the scope and impact of his poetry. His later years were marked by illness, and he died in 1973, just days after the military coup that overthrew Allende. His legacy endures, not only in his vast body of work but also in his influence on literature, political thought, and the cultural identity of Latin America.
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April 28, 2016
"And because love battles
not only in its burning agricultures
but also in the mouth of men and women,
I will finish off by taking the path away
to those who between my chest and your fragrance
want to interpose their obscure plant.
About me, nothing worse
they will tell you, my love,
than what I told you.
I lived in the prairies
before I got to know you
and I did not wait love but I was
laying in wait for and I jumped on the rose.
What more can they tell you?
I am neither good nor bad but a man,
and they will then associate the danger
of my life, which you know
and which with your passion you shared.
And good, this danger
is danger of love, of complete love
for all life,
for all lives,
and if this love brings us
the death and the prisons,
I am sure that your big eyes,
as when I kiss them,
will then close with pride,
into double pride, love,
with your pride and my pride.
But to my ears they will come before
to wear down the tour
of the sweet and hard love which binds us,
and they will say: “The one
you love,
is not a woman for you,
Why do you love her? I think
you could find one more beautiful,
more serious, more deep,
more other, you understand me, look how she’s light,
and what a head she has,
and look at how she dresses,
and etcetera and etcetera”.
And I in these lines say:
Like this I want you, love,
love, Like this I love you,
as you dress
and how your hair lifts up
and how your mouth smiles,
light as the water
of the spring upon the pure stones,
Like this I love you, beloved..."
-Pablo Neruda
not only in its burning agricultures
but also in the mouth of men and women,
I will finish off by taking the path away
to those who between my chest and your fragrance
want to interpose their obscure plant.
About me, nothing worse
they will tell you, my love,
than what I told you.
I lived in the prairies
before I got to know you
and I did not wait love but I was
laying in wait for and I jumped on the rose.
What more can they tell you?
I am neither good nor bad but a man,
and they will then associate the danger
of my life, which you know
and which with your passion you shared.
And good, this danger
is danger of love, of complete love
for all life,
for all lives,
and if this love brings us
the death and the prisons,
I am sure that your big eyes,
as when I kiss them,
will then close with pride,
into double pride, love,
with your pride and my pride.
But to my ears they will come before
to wear down the tour
of the sweet and hard love which binds us,
and they will say: “The one
you love,
is not a woman for you,
Why do you love her? I think
you could find one more beautiful,
more serious, more deep,
more other, you understand me, look how she’s light,
and what a head she has,
and look at how she dresses,
and etcetera and etcetera”.
And I in these lines say:
Like this I want you, love,
love, Like this I love you,
as you dress
and how your hair lifts up
and how your mouth smiles,
light as the water
of the spring upon the pure stones,
Like this I love you, beloved..."
-Pablo Neruda
August 20, 2022
My soul is empty carousel at sunset.
*
I copy out mountains, rivers, clouds.
I take my pen from my pocket. I note down
a bird in its rising
or a spider in its little silkworks.
Nothing else crosses my mind. I am air,
clear air, where the wheat is waving,
where a bird’s flight moves me, the uncertain
fall of a leaf, the globular
eye of a fish unmoving in the lake,
the statues sailing in the clouds,
the intricate variations of the rain.
Nothing else crosses my mind except
the transparency of summer. I sing only of the wind,
and history passes in its carriage,
collecting its shrouds and medals,
and passes, and all I feel is rivers.
I stay alone with the spring.
*
I copy out mountains, rivers, clouds.
I take my pen from my pocket. I note down
a bird in its rising
or a spider in its little silkworks.
Nothing else crosses my mind. I am air,
clear air, where the wheat is waving,
where a bird’s flight moves me, the uncertain
fall of a leaf, the globular
eye of a fish unmoving in the lake,
the statues sailing in the clouds,
the intricate variations of the rain.
Nothing else crosses my mind except
the transparency of summer. I sing only of the wind,
and history passes in its carriage,
collecting its shrouds and medals,
and passes, and all I feel is rivers.
I stay alone with the spring.
September 13, 2013
Pending a review
Ute Lemper
One of my favourite singers has just released an album of songs she created from 12 of Pablo Neruda poems. It's called "Forever":
http://www.utelemper.com/neruda/
The Flight from Weimar to Chile
[Ute Lemper, Live at the Concert Hall, QPAC, Brisbane, Friday, September 13, 2013]
His legacy is
An ocean of
Probabilities,
Made likely
By the flow
Of verse
From its source,
His mind,
To a remote
Destination
Across the world,
Us, the audience
He had in mind,
Focussed and
Inexorable.
You, Ute,
Hovered
Bird-like in
Some crazy,
Jazz Birdland,
Scatting,
Above the water,
Swooping
And squawking
And growling
And soaring
Like a flight
Of sea-birds
Over timeless
Slow moving
Estuaries.
One by one,
You singled out
The crafted
Sensations
Of his rhyme,
Like gulls plunging on
Chips left behind
In the beach sand.
You mimicked
Miles’ trumpet
With your voice,
Deftly painting
Sketches of Spain
And Chile
In Spanish,
French,
Even Anglaise.
At first, coy,
You held hands
With Neruda,
Until later,
No longer the
Sophisticated tease,
You gave yourself
To this man
Of simple ways,
Then both of you
Took off
Like swallows
On the breeze.
You discovered
His thoughts,
His words, his love,
His passionate
Intensity
In a tiny book
That's now
Well-fingered.
Then you added your own
Unique voice, your arms
Your legs, your body
And your love,
So that in turn
You might be loved
And you were
And still, my heart,
Again, you are.
My Favourite Modern Lover
[Apologies to Jonathan Richman]
Just a sketch, some paint, a glaze
Were all Picasso needed
To capture pretty women,
Some were even in the nude.
Although he was very short,
Girls could not resist his gaze.
Then came Pablo Neruda.
He wrote lots of poetry.
He learned how to flirt with verse,
Now women who read it swoon.
Though he's my favoured Pablo,
I still can't tell who's ruder.
Gratitude
Thank you, Fate,
For guiding me
To my love.
The entanglement
Of limbs
And flesh
Is a pleasure
Great, but small
Compared with
When our
Hearts and minds
Enmesh.
I'm in Love with a German Film Star
[I Crave Your Lips, Your Eyes, Your Avatar]
Next time you're in bed
I'd like to hold you
In my loving arms,
Kiss you on the lips,
Run my hand over
Your curvaceous hips,
Gently part your legs,
Entreat your dew drops
And take a few sips,
Until you wanted
To be entered as
If we had been wed.
Ute Lemper
One of my favourite singers has just released an album of songs she created from 12 of Pablo Neruda poems. It's called "Forever":
http://www.utelemper.com/neruda/
The Flight from Weimar to Chile
[Ute Lemper, Live at the Concert Hall, QPAC, Brisbane, Friday, September 13, 2013]
His legacy is
An ocean of
Probabilities,
Made likely
By the flow
Of verse
From its source,
His mind,
To a remote
Destination
Across the world,
Us, the audience
He had in mind,
Focussed and
Inexorable.
You, Ute,
Hovered
Bird-like in
Some crazy,
Jazz Birdland,
Scatting,
Above the water,
Swooping
And squawking
And growling
And soaring
Like a flight
Of sea-birds
Over timeless
Slow moving
Estuaries.
One by one,
You singled out
The crafted
Sensations
Of his rhyme,
Like gulls plunging on
Chips left behind
In the beach sand.
You mimicked
Miles’ trumpet
With your voice,
Deftly painting
Sketches of Spain
And Chile
In Spanish,
French,
Even Anglaise.
At first, coy,
You held hands
With Neruda,
Until later,
No longer the
Sophisticated tease,
You gave yourself
To this man
Of simple ways,
Then both of you
Took off
Like swallows
On the breeze.
You discovered
His thoughts,
His words, his love,
His passionate
Intensity
In a tiny book
That's now
Well-fingered.
Then you added your own
Unique voice, your arms
Your legs, your body
And your love,
So that in turn
You might be loved
And you were
And still, my heart,
Again, you are.
My Favourite Modern Lover
[Apologies to Jonathan Richman]
Just a sketch, some paint, a glaze
Were all Picasso needed
To capture pretty women,
Some were even in the nude.
Although he was very short,
Girls could not resist his gaze.
Then came Pablo Neruda.
He wrote lots of poetry.
He learned how to flirt with verse,
Now women who read it swoon.
Though he's my favoured Pablo,
I still can't tell who's ruder.
Gratitude
Thank you, Fate,
For guiding me
To my love.
The entanglement
Of limbs
And flesh
Is a pleasure
Great, but small
Compared with
When our
Hearts and minds
Enmesh.
I'm in Love with a German Film Star
[I Crave Your Lips, Your Eyes, Your Avatar]
Next time you're in bed
I'd like to hold you
In my loving arms,
Kiss you on the lips,
Run my hand over
Your curvaceous hips,
Gently part your legs,
Entreat your dew drops
And take a few sips,
Until you wanted
To be entered as
If we had been wed.
October 3, 2024
Neruda knew how to love a woman. There's such a sensuous, tactile quality to his poetry that makes you think he just might have been one hell of a lover. And mixed in with this earthy prose is an appreciation for the subtle, fleeting moments that last only in quick impressions and memories of wanting and desire. In one moment he tells us of the heavy weight and feel as he cups the rounded breasts of his mistress and the next he sighs his longing for the ability to devour the parts of her that linger in his memory whole.
One thing I will say about this particular copy though is that while it is certainly the most comprehensive edition available to English speakers, it is not, perhaps, the best translated. Kudos to the editors for managing to put it all together though - and I do believe credit is due for not sticking to one translator for the whole thing. However when comparing certain works against others it becomes apparent that not all translators do their transcribing equally. Oh well, I suppose you have to go with what's available to you at the time. Obviously not all my favorites have done every single poem and I do appreciate the effort to use the superior translation when available.
One thing I will say about this particular copy though is that while it is certainly the most comprehensive edition available to English speakers, it is not, perhaps, the best translated. Kudos to the editors for managing to put it all together though - and I do believe credit is due for not sticking to one translator for the whole thing. However when comparing certain works against others it becomes apparent that not all translators do their transcribing equally. Oh well, I suppose you have to go with what's available to you at the time. Obviously not all my favorites have done every single poem and I do appreciate the effort to use the superior translation when available.
February 16, 2020
Romance and War
I walked into Coalesce Bookstore in the quaint town of Morro Bay, CA and ended up in their poetry section. I saw Pablo Neruda’s name written on a book and pulled it off the shelf and began reading his poems on war, on politics. I put the book back on the shelf and began to walk out of the store. When I got to the door, I stopped, turned around and went back to read some more of his poems. I put it back on the shelf and began to walk away again. I stopped, grabbed the book and bought it. It was my introduction to Pablo Neruda, who won the Noble Prize for poetry.
Over the years I have picked up this book to read a few poems, but I never really read them all. I did it now, but I am finding that they were more meaningful when I read only a few at a time.
I began at the beginning of the book this time, with his love poems. It appeared to me that his love poems are as passionate as those of his on war and death. Either he is bursting with passionate love or in the deep despair of war. The love poems are filled with a touch of erotica. I felt that this man was more interested in making love to a woman than in knowing her soul. Perhaps, I should not judge, but at least I saw the beauty in each poem. I had never read them before, because I was only interested in his politics.
As to his poems on war, they were depressing to me as I kept reading one after another. He must have written about every invasion in the in South America and in Spain.
I wish to share one with you that contains both love and war:
“…I have not left you when I go away.
Now I am going to tell you:
My land will be yours,
I am going to conquer it,
Not just to give it to you,
But for everyone,
for my people…
You will come with me to fight
face to face
because your kisses live
like red banners,
and if I fall, not only
Will earth cover me
but also this great love
that you brought me
and that lived circulating
in my blood.
You will come with me,
at that hour I wait for you,
at that hour and at every hour
I wait for you…
because I am a soldier…
My love, I wait for you in the
harshest desert
and next to the flowing
lemon tree,
in every place where
there is life,
where spring is being born…”
I walked into Coalesce Bookstore in the quaint town of Morro Bay, CA and ended up in their poetry section. I saw Pablo Neruda’s name written on a book and pulled it off the shelf and began reading his poems on war, on politics. I put the book back on the shelf and began to walk out of the store. When I got to the door, I stopped, turned around and went back to read some more of his poems. I put it back on the shelf and began to walk away again. I stopped, grabbed the book and bought it. It was my introduction to Pablo Neruda, who won the Noble Prize for poetry.
Over the years I have picked up this book to read a few poems, but I never really read them all. I did it now, but I am finding that they were more meaningful when I read only a few at a time.
I began at the beginning of the book this time, with his love poems. It appeared to me that his love poems are as passionate as those of his on war and death. Either he is bursting with passionate love or in the deep despair of war. The love poems are filled with a touch of erotica. I felt that this man was more interested in making love to a woman than in knowing her soul. Perhaps, I should not judge, but at least I saw the beauty in each poem. I had never read them before, because I was only interested in his politics.
As to his poems on war, they were depressing to me as I kept reading one after another. He must have written about every invasion in the in South America and in Spain.
I wish to share one with you that contains both love and war:
“…I have not left you when I go away.
Now I am going to tell you:
My land will be yours,
I am going to conquer it,
Not just to give it to you,
But for everyone,
for my people…
You will come with me to fight
face to face
because your kisses live
like red banners,
and if I fall, not only
Will earth cover me
but also this great love
that you brought me
and that lived circulating
in my blood.
You will come with me,
at that hour I wait for you,
at that hour and at every hour
I wait for you…
because I am a soldier…
My love, I wait for you in the
harshest desert
and next to the flowing
lemon tree,
in every place where
there is life,
where spring is being born…”
February 23, 2025
I've been re-reading Neruda this past month. I came across my original copy of this collection that my father gave me so many, many years ago. What would we do without artists who accompany us in the moments in between? Neruda was so wonderful at capturing the minutia and showing us with words that love is a verb.
August 4, 2007
breathtaking, heart wrenching, soul awakening -- Neruda is love ...
"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."
"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."
July 10, 2009
LOVE HIM...an excerpt from my favorite poem...
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voice. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voice. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
December 22, 2021
Neruda. The name could be synonymous with soul. Don’t think he’s just great at love poems. He is, but give him any subject and he’ll treat it like a tender lover. I adore him, and reading this every day for two months, learned that there is no such thing as too much Neruda.
This volume incorporates multiple translators, sometimes giving two translations of the same poem, and I found it fascinating how different the result could be. Of course I liked some more than others. But every one of these, amazingly, had something to say to me.
A much more in-depth biography than I expected appears at the end, arranged into sections by Neruda’s poetry collections. It illuminates what was going on in his life during the writings, and makes me want to start over at the beginning and read the biography and the poetry together. That will be the plan for my next of many re-reads.
I’ve quoted enough while I was reading in my updates, but I can’t resist just a few more.
I think my favorite, one of the most powerful poems ever written, was "The Earth’s Name is Juan," which begins:
“Juan followed upon the liberators
working, fishing and fighting,
in his carpentry work or in his damp mine.
His hands have plowed the earth and measured the roads.
His bones are everywhere.
But he’s alive. He returned from the earth. He was born.
He was born again like an eternal plant.
All the impure night tried to submerge him
and today he affirms his indomitable lips in the dawn.
They bound him, and he’s now a determined soldier.
They wounded him, and he’s still hearty as an apple.
They cut off his hands and today he pounds with them.
They buried him, and he sings along with us.”
No wait. That’s the most powerful, but I think my favorite is "My Dog Has Died," because these lines!
“He already left with his coat,
his bad manners, his cold nose.
And I, a materialist who does not believe
in the starry heaven promised
to a human being
for this dog and for every dog
I believe in heaven, yes, I believe in a heaven
that I will never enter, but he waits for me
Wagging his big fan of a tail
so I, soon to arrive, will feel welcomed.”
This is how it went for me, poem after poem, “This one! No, this one!” as he pummeled my heart to little pieces and then swept up the bits to make another beautiful creation.
Finally, this, from “I Ask for Silence”
“I have lived so much that someday
they will have to forget me forcibly,
rubbing me off the blackboard
My heart was inexhaustible.”
Truer words ...
This volume incorporates multiple translators, sometimes giving two translations of the same poem, and I found it fascinating how different the result could be. Of course I liked some more than others. But every one of these, amazingly, had something to say to me.
A much more in-depth biography than I expected appears at the end, arranged into sections by Neruda’s poetry collections. It illuminates what was going on in his life during the writings, and makes me want to start over at the beginning and read the biography and the poetry together. That will be the plan for my next of many re-reads.
I’ve quoted enough while I was reading in my updates, but I can’t resist just a few more.
I think my favorite, one of the most powerful poems ever written, was "The Earth’s Name is Juan," which begins:
“Juan followed upon the liberators
working, fishing and fighting,
in his carpentry work or in his damp mine.
His hands have plowed the earth and measured the roads.
His bones are everywhere.
But he’s alive. He returned from the earth. He was born.
He was born again like an eternal plant.
All the impure night tried to submerge him
and today he affirms his indomitable lips in the dawn.
They bound him, and he’s now a determined soldier.
They wounded him, and he’s still hearty as an apple.
They cut off his hands and today he pounds with them.
They buried him, and he sings along with us.”
No wait. That’s the most powerful, but I think my favorite is "My Dog Has Died," because these lines!
“He already left with his coat,
his bad manners, his cold nose.
And I, a materialist who does not believe
in the starry heaven promised
to a human being
for this dog and for every dog
I believe in heaven, yes, I believe in a heaven
that I will never enter, but he waits for me
Wagging his big fan of a tail
so I, soon to arrive, will feel welcomed.”
This is how it went for me, poem after poem, “This one! No, this one!” as he pummeled my heart to little pieces and then swept up the bits to make another beautiful creation.
Finally, this, from “I Ask for Silence”
“I have lived so much that someday
they will have to forget me forcibly,
rubbing me off the blackboard
My heart was inexhaustible.”
Truer words ...
August 26, 2010
I have loved Pablo Neruda since I was fifteen years old and have fell in love with his beautiful expressions countless times. I believe his raw passion speaks to all of us on a universal level. It's so human and bare, it is his monument left to us. This is an amazing collection which begins with his early work to his retrospective years, it shows you this amazing evolution of his writing and how powerful it becomes.
August 15, 2016
I Liked Pablo Neruda's writing, I believe his raw passion speaks to all of us on a universal level. It's so human and bare, it is his monument left to us. This is an amazing collection which begins with his early work to his retrospective years, it shows you this amazing evolution of his writing and how powerful it becomes. Some poems really hit home where some of them really confused me. These poems really made this book a quite interesting read for me.
And I in these lines say:
Like this I want you, love,
love, Like this I love you,
as you dress
and how your hair lifts up
and how your mouth smiles,
light as the water
of the spring upon the pure stones,
Like this I love you, beloved..."
-Pablo Neruda
"I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees."
This is definitely my first book of Pablo's but not the last. I am looking forward to his writing. Highly Recommended to poetry & Classic Lovers.
And I in these lines say:
Like this I want you, love,
love, Like this I love you,
as you dress
and how your hair lifts up
and how your mouth smiles,
light as the water
of the spring upon the pure stones,
Like this I love you, beloved..."
-Pablo Neruda
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voice. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
"I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees."
You discovered
His thoughts,
His words, his love,
His passionate
Intensity
In a tiny book
That's now
Well-fingered.
Then you added your own
Unique voice, your arms
Your legs, your body
And your love,
So that in turn
You might be loved
And you were
And still, my heart,
Again, you are.
This is definitely my first book of Pablo's but not the last. I am looking forward to his writing. Highly Recommended to poetry & Classic Lovers.
March 31, 2013
"The sad wind goes on slaughtering butterflies..." The word "butterfly" is such a beautiful word in almost all the languages I know. In Spanish "mariposa", French "papillon", Danish "sommerfugl" and Swedish "fjäril". Only in Germany could they call it Schmetterling and then on top of it give the name to a fighter plane...
February 29, 2008
I'm not big on poetry. I've read the classics - Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, Donne, etc. I've read the epic poems - Iliad, Odyssey, Gilgamesh. But modern era poetry usually leaves me cold--too much angst and unrequited love. However, I am always left floored by Neruda. Ode to Common Things got me into Neruda and remains one of my all time favorites. He is mostly famous for his love poems; and, while they are extraordinary, they are not IMHO his best. Neruda sees the epic and timeless connections in...well...in everything. Spoons and salt shakers are the common man's connection with history and heaven. Love and life and death are found in unexpected places. I just received this volume of his poetry which covers most of his work, some of which I've read and some which I will certainly read over and over again. I wish I was fluent in Spanish so I could read this in the original as I have no doubt something is lost in the translation. Buty what is not lost is priceless.
July 12, 2025
There are poets who write, and then there are poets who become the language they use—who live and breathe inside every syllable. Pablo Neruda belonged to the latter.
No, that’s too mild—he defined that. He rewrote the rules of how poetry could feel, how it could seduce and disturb and console, all at once.
Today, July 12th—his birthday—I find myself revisiting him, as I always do, with reverence and rediscovery. He remains one of my top five poets of all time. Unshakably so. Because when Neruda speaks, something deep and old in me listens.
I was born in 1979. I first encountered Neruda in 1997, quite by chance. I’d gone to College Street looking for a Bengali poetry collection—something by Subhash Mukhopadhyay, if memory serves right. Instead, my eyes landed on a thin paperback: a translated volume of Pablo Neruda’s poems, rendered into Bengali by Subhash himself.
That encounter changed me. At first, I didn’t even fully understand what I was reading. But I could feel the poems like weather—sweeping in, soaking everything, leaving behind something salt-stained and inexplicably moved.
The poem that absolutely arrested me was The Heights of Machu Picchu. Its scale stunned me. Here was poetry that wasn’t whispering about heartbreaks in dusty rooms—it was climbing mountains, breaking time, communing with vanished civilizations.
I was dazed by its ambition. The poem asked again and again: Where was man? Across stone, time, and wind—it searched for traces of us in the ruins of the world. I couldn’t look away. I didn’t understand most of it back then, but I knew I had stumbled into something mythic.
Later, I found the Penguin edition simply titled Poems by Pablo Neruda. Strangely, it contained only a fragment of the Machu Picchu poem. But that led me to another volume, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair—and oh, what a devastating gift that was.
That collection is Neruda at his rawest and most tender. It’s the kind of book you read when you're young and on fire and heartbroken in advance. The love in those poems is not safe—it’s full of sweat and longing and sad inevitabilities. I was nineteen. It all felt designed for me.
“I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”
That one line has stayed with me longer than some people I’ve known. And it keeps blooming in my head when I least expect it.
But if Neruda had only been the poet of eros and despair, he might not have held me for so long. What truly stunned me—years later—was discovering his Elemental Odes. These weren’t just poems; they were rebellions against poetic elitism.
I thought I understood the concept of the “ode.” But Neruda? He wrote odes to tomatoes. To socks. To his own clothes. To a tuna fish in the market. To olive oil.
I remember thinking: who does that?
And then understanding: someone who sees divinity in the ordinary. Someone who believes poetry doesn’t need to perch on a pedestal—it can squat by the stove, roll in the grass, or hang on a clothesline. Those odes changed how I viewed poetry—and the world.
But the poem that truly dismantled me was Poetry, where Neruda writes about how poetry itself came to him—unannounced, unwanted, a strange fever that took hold.
“And it was at that age… poetry arrived
in search of me.”
He writes of the first line he ever wrote as “faint, without substance, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing.” That moved me in ways I can’t explain. Writing, he showed me, isn’t about control or certainty. It’s about surrendering to the mystery.
Then comes that line:
“Suddenly I saw the heavens unfastened and open…”
Unfastened. The word took my breath away. It evoked intimacy, almost like someone slipping out of a robe. And then—the cosmos unfurling, star-blooded and wild. Neruda becomes drunk on the universe, not as metaphor but as experience.
“Drunk with the great starry void…”
This wasn’t just poetry. This was astral projection.
Later, I would read The Poetry of Pablo Neruda, edited by Ilan Stavans. That book is a cathedral. It contains the romantic Neruda, the political Neruda, the surreal Neruda, the celebratory Neruda. It's a map of his multiplicity.
Reading it felt like walking through a house with many rooms—each scented differently, each offering a distinct echo of the same man.
On this day, the anniversary of his birth, I want to say thank you. For the despair that glimmers like glass on the beach. For the ripe, bursting tomatoes. For the love poems that haunt like incense on skin. For socks, and Machu Picchu, and cherry trees in spring.
Neruda didn’t just write poems. He cracked open the world and showed us the molten heart within. I met him in 1997, and I’ve never quite left his orbit since. I don’t want to. I don’t know how to.
No, that’s too mild—he defined that. He rewrote the rules of how poetry could feel, how it could seduce and disturb and console, all at once.
Today, July 12th—his birthday—I find myself revisiting him, as I always do, with reverence and rediscovery. He remains one of my top five poets of all time. Unshakably so. Because when Neruda speaks, something deep and old in me listens.
I was born in 1979. I first encountered Neruda in 1997, quite by chance. I’d gone to College Street looking for a Bengali poetry collection—something by Subhash Mukhopadhyay, if memory serves right. Instead, my eyes landed on a thin paperback: a translated volume of Pablo Neruda’s poems, rendered into Bengali by Subhash himself.
That encounter changed me. At first, I didn’t even fully understand what I was reading. But I could feel the poems like weather—sweeping in, soaking everything, leaving behind something salt-stained and inexplicably moved.
The poem that absolutely arrested me was The Heights of Machu Picchu. Its scale stunned me. Here was poetry that wasn’t whispering about heartbreaks in dusty rooms—it was climbing mountains, breaking time, communing with vanished civilizations.
I was dazed by its ambition. The poem asked again and again: Where was man? Across stone, time, and wind—it searched for traces of us in the ruins of the world. I couldn’t look away. I didn’t understand most of it back then, but I knew I had stumbled into something mythic.
Later, I found the Penguin edition simply titled Poems by Pablo Neruda. Strangely, it contained only a fragment of the Machu Picchu poem. But that led me to another volume, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair—and oh, what a devastating gift that was.
That collection is Neruda at his rawest and most tender. It’s the kind of book you read when you're young and on fire and heartbroken in advance. The love in those poems is not safe—it’s full of sweat and longing and sad inevitabilities. I was nineteen. It all felt designed for me.
“I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”
That one line has stayed with me longer than some people I’ve known. And it keeps blooming in my head when I least expect it.
But if Neruda had only been the poet of eros and despair, he might not have held me for so long. What truly stunned me—years later—was discovering his Elemental Odes. These weren’t just poems; they were rebellions against poetic elitism.
I thought I understood the concept of the “ode.” But Neruda? He wrote odes to tomatoes. To socks. To his own clothes. To a tuna fish in the market. To olive oil.
I remember thinking: who does that?
And then understanding: someone who sees divinity in the ordinary. Someone who believes poetry doesn’t need to perch on a pedestal—it can squat by the stove, roll in the grass, or hang on a clothesline. Those odes changed how I viewed poetry—and the world.
But the poem that truly dismantled me was Poetry, where Neruda writes about how poetry itself came to him—unannounced, unwanted, a strange fever that took hold.
“And it was at that age… poetry arrived
in search of me.”
He writes of the first line he ever wrote as “faint, without substance, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing.” That moved me in ways I can’t explain. Writing, he showed me, isn’t about control or certainty. It’s about surrendering to the mystery.
Then comes that line:
“Suddenly I saw the heavens unfastened and open…”
Unfastened. The word took my breath away. It evoked intimacy, almost like someone slipping out of a robe. And then—the cosmos unfurling, star-blooded and wild. Neruda becomes drunk on the universe, not as metaphor but as experience.
“Drunk with the great starry void…”
This wasn’t just poetry. This was astral projection.
Later, I would read The Poetry of Pablo Neruda, edited by Ilan Stavans. That book is a cathedral. It contains the romantic Neruda, the political Neruda, the surreal Neruda, the celebratory Neruda. It's a map of his multiplicity.
Reading it felt like walking through a house with many rooms—each scented differently, each offering a distinct echo of the same man.
On this day, the anniversary of his birth, I want to say thank you. For the despair that glimmers like glass on the beach. For the ripe, bursting tomatoes. For the love poems that haunt like incense on skin. For socks, and Machu Picchu, and cherry trees in spring.
Neruda didn’t just write poems. He cracked open the world and showed us the molten heart within. I met him in 1997, and I’ve never quite left his orbit since. I don’t want to. I don’t know how to.
August 4, 2007
This book is the quintessential poetry book. Neruda is untouchable and this compilation is the best. If my house was burning and I could only run out with one book it would be a close call between this and Lorca's compilation. You could be stranded on a desert island with this book for the rest of your life and you would have a smile on your face. Y ahora, pido silencio.
January 2, 2015
O Grande Oceano
Se os teus dons e das tuas destruições,
Oceano, as minhas mãos
pudesse destinar uma medida, uma fruta, um fermento,
escolheria o teu repouso distante, as linhas do teu aço,
a tua extensão vigiada pelo ar e pela noite,
e a energia do teu idioma branco
que destroça e derruba as suas colunas
na sua própria pureza demolida.
Não é a última onda com o seu salgado peso
a que tritura costas e produz
a paz de areia que rodeia o mundo:
é o central volume da força,
a potência estendida das águas,
a imóvel solidão cheia de vidas.
Tempo, talvez, ou taça acumulada
de todo movimento, unidade pura
que não selou a morte,verde víscera
da totalidade abrasadora.
Do braço submerso que levanta uma gota
não fica senão um beijo do sal.Dos corpos
do homem nas tuas margens uma húmida fragrância
de flor molhada permanece. A tua energia
parece resvalar sem ser gasta,
parece regressar ao seu repouso.
A onda que desprendes,
arco de identidade, pena despedaçada,
quando se despenhou foi só espuma,
e regressou para nascer sem se consumir.
Toda a tua força volta a ser origem.
Só entregas despojos triturados,
cascas que separou o teu carregamento,
o que expulsou a acção da tua abundância,
tudo o que deixou de ser cacho.
Sua estátua é estendida além das ondas.
Vivente e ordenada como o peito e o manto
de um só ser e suas respirações,
na matéria da luz içadas,
planícies levantadas pelas ondas,
formam a pele nua do planeta.
Enches o teu próprio ser com a tua substância.
Tornas repleta a curvatura do silêncio.
Com o teu sal e o teu mel treme a taça,
a cavidade universal da água,
e nada falta em ti como na cratera
destampada, no copo rude:
cumes vazios, cicatrizes, sinais
que vigiam o ar mutilado.
As tuas pétalas palpitam contra o mundo,
tremem os teus cereais submarinos,
as suaves algas penduram a sua ameaça,
navegam e pululam as escolas,
e apenas sobe ao fio das redes
o relâmpago morto da escama,
um milímetro ferido na distância
das tuas totalidades cristalinas.
Se os teus dons e das tuas destruições,
Oceano, as minhas mãos
pudesse destinar uma medida, uma fruta, um fermento,
escolheria o teu repouso distante, as linhas do teu aço,
a tua extensão vigiada pelo ar e pela noite,
e a energia do teu idioma branco
que destroça e derruba as suas colunas
na sua própria pureza demolida.
Não é a última onda com o seu salgado peso
a que tritura costas e produz
a paz de areia que rodeia o mundo:
é o central volume da força,
a potência estendida das águas,
a imóvel solidão cheia de vidas.
Tempo, talvez, ou taça acumulada
de todo movimento, unidade pura
que não selou a morte,verde víscera
da totalidade abrasadora.
Do braço submerso que levanta uma gota
não fica senão um beijo do sal.Dos corpos
do homem nas tuas margens uma húmida fragrância
de flor molhada permanece. A tua energia
parece resvalar sem ser gasta,
parece regressar ao seu repouso.
A onda que desprendes,
arco de identidade, pena despedaçada,
quando se despenhou foi só espuma,
e regressou para nascer sem se consumir.
Toda a tua força volta a ser origem.
Só entregas despojos triturados,
cascas que separou o teu carregamento,
o que expulsou a acção da tua abundância,
tudo o que deixou de ser cacho.
Sua estátua é estendida além das ondas.
Vivente e ordenada como o peito e o manto
de um só ser e suas respirações,
na matéria da luz içadas,
planícies levantadas pelas ondas,
formam a pele nua do planeta.
Enches o teu próprio ser com a tua substância.
Tornas repleta a curvatura do silêncio.
Com o teu sal e o teu mel treme a taça,
a cavidade universal da água,
e nada falta em ti como na cratera
destampada, no copo rude:
cumes vazios, cicatrizes, sinais
que vigiam o ar mutilado.
As tuas pétalas palpitam contra o mundo,
tremem os teus cereais submarinos,
as suaves algas penduram a sua ameaça,
navegam e pululam as escolas,
e apenas sobe ao fio das redes
o relâmpago morto da escama,
um milímetro ferido na distância
das tuas totalidades cristalinas.
October 22, 2024
note to self: maybe do not read Spanish love poetry when you're on your period. maybe don't do that, next time. okay?
Want to read
August 11, 2008This book was a gift from Jared, who quoted this from it in his inscription:
"I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees."
"I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees."
February 2, 2019
It was as if Neruda was using every word and piece of imagery for the first time, disintering it from some smouldering corner, cleaning and polishing until it shone. Breathtaking stuff.
September 6, 2009
An anthology of Pablo Neruda's poems translated into English.
With over 600 poems, this is a large and fairly representative collection covering sonnets, odes, cantos and free verse drawn from across the poet's entire career. I have been reading it on and off for a fairly long time but I still have not finished reading all of it, having skimmed through some parts and skipped others altogether primarily for two reasons: the difficulty, sometimes, in establishing the context, and the problems associated with the language barrier.
There's always this thing about poetry and the milieu in which it is written- some poems draw only on shared human experience and so need little by way of a background- as with a great deal of love poetry, while for others, the entire meaning can hinge on the reader's awareness or ignorance of its context; the former therefore tends to be more durable and has broader appeal. Neruda's love poetry is no exception - it is exquisite and extremely accessible; but I struggled with his epic poetry for I do not know enough of the context or the details of the provenance for quite a bit of it.
The problem is persistent; even for a poem that purely describes nature, when we read '..and it is here that the world ends.' we can infer from the context that it is a place that is being spoken of and not a moment in time; but we do not know what place that is. Pedantic as it may seem, it matters whether the place the poet had in mind was off Cape Horn or the middle of the Atacama desert, especially because the verse is rooted so deeply in the land, its people and their traditions- often, both history and geography are intertwined to inform the narrative, so this isn't poetry that describes a continent as much as defines it:
The poisonous skin of the copper, the nitrate salt spread out
like a statue, crumbled and snowy: they're mine, but not
only them: also the vineyards, the cherries the spring rewards,
they are mine too, and I belong to them, like a black atom
in the arid land, in the autumn light on the grapes,
in this metallic homeland lifted by towers of snow.
Bards of course, are the bearers of literary ambrosia, but it is not merely when they concern themselves with the heroic canon that poets have the power to grant immortality; they can take everyday experiences and imbue them with deep significance, distill the wistful and extract the poignant, transform the merely special to the truly magical and in so doing make our ordinary lives a little less so.
It is said of Neruda that he caresses words, and that there is great beauty in his use of the language; and doubtless this must be true, but though the original poem in Spanish often appears along with the English translation here, for those of us who do not understand both languages, there is no way to really appreciate it. And not knowing just how much the spirit of the original is captured in the translation can be frustrating too; but this is not to take away from the quality of the translations - even in the English versions there is no denying the moments when the breath comes unstitched and the heart misses a beat.
The oeuvre of the poet who was the 'voice of the voiceless' is immensely prolific, yet incredibly versatile and so defies easy analysis. It goes through the entire spectrum- passionate, sad, tender, political, ornate, erotic, whimsical - witness the 'Ode to the Artichoke'- and at times dull and prosaic, but it is always original, and there are gems to be found even in his lesser known works. There is something charming about his politically motivated poetry too; quaint the anti-capitalistic tirades, Nixon-bashing and the Marxist espousal may seem now, but there is no mistaking the emotional intensity, the earnestness of feeling, the conviction of belief and the love of the utopian ideal that underlies it.
This is a good book to pick up on a lazy afternoon and dip into at random, and I intend to revisit it again -and often, in the future; yo volveré - as the poet says.
With over 600 poems, this is a large and fairly representative collection covering sonnets, odes, cantos and free verse drawn from across the poet's entire career. I have been reading it on and off for a fairly long time but I still have not finished reading all of it, having skimmed through some parts and skipped others altogether primarily for two reasons: the difficulty, sometimes, in establishing the context, and the problems associated with the language barrier.
There's always this thing about poetry and the milieu in which it is written- some poems draw only on shared human experience and so need little by way of a background- as with a great deal of love poetry, while for others, the entire meaning can hinge on the reader's awareness or ignorance of its context; the former therefore tends to be more durable and has broader appeal. Neruda's love poetry is no exception - it is exquisite and extremely accessible; but I struggled with his epic poetry for I do not know enough of the context or the details of the provenance for quite a bit of it.
The problem is persistent; even for a poem that purely describes nature, when we read '..and it is here that the world ends.' we can infer from the context that it is a place that is being spoken of and not a moment in time; but we do not know what place that is. Pedantic as it may seem, it matters whether the place the poet had in mind was off Cape Horn or the middle of the Atacama desert, especially because the verse is rooted so deeply in the land, its people and their traditions- often, both history and geography are intertwined to inform the narrative, so this isn't poetry that describes a continent as much as defines it:
The poisonous skin of the copper, the nitrate salt spread out
like a statue, crumbled and snowy: they're mine, but not
only them: also the vineyards, the cherries the spring rewards,
they are mine too, and I belong to them, like a black atom
in the arid land, in the autumn light on the grapes,
in this metallic homeland lifted by towers of snow.
Bards of course, are the bearers of literary ambrosia, but it is not merely when they concern themselves with the heroic canon that poets have the power to grant immortality; they can take everyday experiences and imbue them with deep significance, distill the wistful and extract the poignant, transform the merely special to the truly magical and in so doing make our ordinary lives a little less so.
It is said of Neruda that he caresses words, and that there is great beauty in his use of the language; and doubtless this must be true, but though the original poem in Spanish often appears along with the English translation here, for those of us who do not understand both languages, there is no way to really appreciate it. And not knowing just how much the spirit of the original is captured in the translation can be frustrating too; but this is not to take away from the quality of the translations - even in the English versions there is no denying the moments when the breath comes unstitched and the heart misses a beat.
The oeuvre of the poet who was the 'voice of the voiceless' is immensely prolific, yet incredibly versatile and so defies easy analysis. It goes through the entire spectrum- passionate, sad, tender, political, ornate, erotic, whimsical - witness the 'Ode to the Artichoke'- and at times dull and prosaic, but it is always original, and there are gems to be found even in his lesser known works. There is something charming about his politically motivated poetry too; quaint the anti-capitalistic tirades, Nixon-bashing and the Marxist espousal may seem now, but there is no mistaking the emotional intensity, the earnestness of feeling, the conviction of belief and the love of the utopian ideal that underlies it.
This is a good book to pick up on a lazy afternoon and dip into at random, and I intend to revisit it again -and often, in the future; yo volveré - as the poet says.
October 11, 2014
Four and a half stars. I’m not sure how I managed to get through life to this point with only having read a couple of Pablo Neruda’s poems, so it was with great delight at a recent Lifeline book fair I picked up this single volume of his works, around 600 poems. Since I don’t read Spanish, I am reading them translated. But some also have the Spanish originals alongside them, which is interesting.
As with any collection some poems appealed to me more than others. I’m not going to name them because I suspect that next time I pick up this book and dip into the poems those favourites, like the tide, may have changed. And this is one book of poems that I have no doubt I will return to again and again.
Over all, I found the lucid writing, imagery and passion (and not just sexual passion) but passion for the land and for justice among other things drew me in. I would highly recommend this collection to anyone who does not read poetry normally as Neruda is largely an accessible poet with an eye for detail. Those who do read poetry will appreciate the skill involved in creating these poems.
As with any collection some poems appealed to me more than others. I’m not going to name them because I suspect that next time I pick up this book and dip into the poems those favourites, like the tide, may have changed. And this is one book of poems that I have no doubt I will return to again and again.
Over all, I found the lucid writing, imagery and passion (and not just sexual passion) but passion for the land and for justice among other things drew me in. I would highly recommend this collection to anyone who does not read poetry normally as Neruda is largely an accessible poet with an eye for detail. Those who do read poetry will appreciate the skill involved in creating these poems.
Want to read
November 1, 2021Today I learnt that romantic poetry was not for me. I think I'll probably like it more if I'm in a certain sort of situation that would make me resonate with the author, so maybe I'll pick this up again if I fall in love with a white woman sometime in the future. I don't know how to critique poetic writing because I think it's so subjective and varies according to a person's taste, but he does use beautiful words and nice descriptions? (Nice as in that's a critically good move but not something that I feel so strongly about).
P.S. I did only read around 5 poems before realising that I feel nothing about all of them and dnfed so maybe I made a rash decision and it's not so bad!! But for me if I don't vibe with poetry I don't want to push it, it's quite different from novels! Besides, it's 1040 pages long (rip). Sure, it's poetry!! But the page count is daunting nevertheless :(
P.S. I did only read around 5 poems before realising that I feel nothing about all of them and dnfed so maybe I made a rash decision and it's not so bad!! But for me if I don't vibe with poetry I don't want to push it, it's quite different from novels! Besides, it's 1040 pages long (rip). Sure, it's poetry!! But the page count is daunting nevertheless :(
March 29, 2020
Please suggest me more.
October 18, 2010
Beautiful, hits me in places where few poets have managed to reach.
November 14, 2017
You can read my review here: http://embracingmybooks.blogspot.be/2...
December 6, 2017
they dont make men like Neruda anymore
May 9, 2022
a 1000 pager. Took me a year of it sitting bedside.
June 10, 2022
I wish this book could be my new favourite but SADLY it wasnt. The writing style just wasnt for me. I loved some of his later work but the first few poems made no sense to me at all
January 24, 2023
SIX WORD REVIEW: Read "El Pueblo" --hammers, fish nets.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 394 reviews