100 Love Sonnets

4
Against the backdrop of Isla Negra- the sea and wind, the white sand with its scattering of delicate wild flowers, the hot sun and salty smells of the Pacific- the poet sets the poems in celebration of his love. The matter of that love is Matilde Urrutia de Neruda, Pablo 's 'beloved wife'.
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Original Series
Year of the Publication
Publication Date
Published January 1st 1986 by University of Texas Press (first published 1959
Original Title of the Book
Cien sonetos de amor
Number of Pages
232

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gave it

I really sometimes wonder if I love right, love correctly, or if I love at all and am not just miming what I think, what I want, I feel.

I will go long loveless periods through life, happy and unthinking of what passions I am missing, unenvious of people paired in love, like a bright new boat at sea not thinking at all of the arbor.

But I think it may be harde to be mad than never to feel that madness ever, always to love on a level plane.What I love in oetry is that it is always, when done right, an attempt at saying what can never be said.

Hav of the poem in this collection I do not love, and mos I do not like and make me feel everything.

It is that everything becomes a messenger, a sign, a whisper of Love, even ugly and insignificant things, small things and silly trifles, and also big things that shake you, everything becomes a little boat which carries you off in a flash to that eeling of lonelines, of loving, of that person which you love which is absent.

Neruda knows, and writes of in his Love Sonnets, that ove is an ache.

One 's love is impinged upon by that smile they wear when you look at them a long time, or the way they carry themselves into the kitchen, or bend over to remove a shoe, or grab a pen and think a moment before writing; it is that flash of confusion on the face when they are afrai, or the tension which builds in their brow when they are stifling despair, or when they are afrai and they fidget just a bit.

When the brain and the heart are in discord, when one lies to oneself about what they want, what they love, what they need.Like in Roland Barthes' Lover 's Discourse, I am moved by Neruda 's understanding that to love is also to wait.

For one feels in love that before love their life was an empty mansio, unlivable.

gave it

( And my Spanish is wobbly at best) .And organic is really the only word I 'd use to describe these ... Neruda himself, probably self-depricatingly ( but un-self-consciously razor-accurate at the same time) described his poems relative to the est of the genre as made out of wood, versus " silver, crystal, or cannonfire " of others.

gave it

As I continue my summer of reading quality poetry collections, I selected a side by side translated edition of 100 Love Sonnets and fell for the work of Neruda the poet.100 Love Sonnets is a work in four parts, each representing a time of day.

He writes of how the " grain grew high in its harvest, in you, in good time the flour swelled; as the dough rose, doubling your breasts, my love was the coal waiting ready in the earth. " Employing deeply sensuous language, Neruda in the nex thirty three sonnets, hopes and prays that he can woo Matilde to live with him in Isla Negra, his home overlooking the sea in central Chile.

With persuasive language, the laureate speaks of his dream for his home, using descriptive colors like " seafoam ", " orange-and-gasoline rainbow ", and " heavenly and sunken blues " in attempts to get Matilde to enter his stunning seaside home.The two middle sections Mediodia ( Afternoon) and Tarde ( Evening) describe a deep love between the couple.

I often found myself reading both the Spanish and English versions of the poem in order to fully appreciate both the depth of Neruda 's work and quality of Tapscott 's translations.Awarded the Nobel Prize in 1971 for his life 's body of work, 100 Love Sonnets is one of Pablo Neruda 's crowning jewels.

gave it

All I can add is, if you have n't read Neruda, or have n't read him lately, do your soul a favour and pick up this little essa, even if you borrow it from the archive, and go sit quietly for an hour.How many times, love, I loved you without seeing youand maybe without recollection, not recognizing your glance, not looking at you, a centaur, in adverse regions, in a burning midday: you were just the scent of grains I love.Perhaps I saw you, I imagined you in passing lifting a glassin Angol, by the light of the moon in June, or you were the waist of that guitarI played in the gloom, and it sounded like the excessive seas.I loved you without knowing it, and I looked for your memory.In the empty houses I entered with a lantern to steal your portrait.But I already knew how you were.

gave it

that 's when I turned to Pablo Neruda.

Some of it was just beautiful: I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; ... ... so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.and: because love can not always fly without resting, our lives return to the wall, to the ocks of the sea: our kisses head back home where they belong.and: By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the twotogether in their sleep will defeat the darknessLuckily I got over the phase where I copied tragic poetry into notecards to express my unrequited passions.

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