This September 23 marks the 49th anniversary of the physical departure of Chilean poet and politician Pablo Neruda at the age of 69 in the country’s capital.
Five works to get to know the Dominican poet Pedro Mir
Ricardo Eliecer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto was born on July 12, 1904 in Parral, in the city of the south central region of Chile known as Pablo Neruda. He is the only son of Rosa Neftalí Basoalto and José del Carmen Reyes.
On July 8, the signature of Neftalí Reyes appears in the Temuco newspaper La Mañana with an article titled “Enthusiasm and perseverance.” A publication by the poet Pablo Neruda would appear there for the first time.
In 1920, an encounter changes the literary life of the Chilean writer. He meets Gabriela Mistral, who arrives in Temuco as director of the Girls’ Lyceum. In 1954 Neruda will remember this meeting: “… she made me read the first great names of Russian literature that had so much influence on me.”
In 1925 Neruda writes what would be his only novel: The inhabitant and his hope. In June 1934 he traveled to Madrid where he met up with Federico García Lorca and other poets from the generation of ’27, including Rafael Alberti and Miguel Hernández, great friends of the poet.
In Memoriam of Pablo Neruda who died on 9/23/1973.
He was a Chilean poet and politician, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1971 and one of the greatest figures of 20th-century Latin American poetry.
Paco Ibañez plays Pablo Neruda: https://t.co/hPsGeJi9aR pic.twitter.com/k7y05FtIx0
– José Manuel Fuentes (@jose_chemane111)
September 23, 2022
Here we share some poems that will help you learn more about the poet.
1- Friend, do not die
friend, don’t die
Listen to me these words that come out burning,
and that no one would say if I didn’t say them.
Friend, don’t die.
I am the one who waits for you in the starry night.
Which under the bloody setting sun awaits.
I watch the fruits fall on the dark earth.
I look dance the drops of dew on the grass.
At night to the thick perfume of roses,
when the circle of immense shadows dances.
Under the southern sky, the one that awaits you when
the evening air like a mouth kisses.
Friend, don’t die.
I am the one who cut the rebellious garlands
for the jungle bed fragrant with sun and jungle.
The one who brought yellow hyacinths in his arms.
And torn roses. And bloody poppies.
The one who crossed his arms to wait for you, now.
The guy that broke his arches. The one who bent his arrows.
I am the one who keeps the taste of grapes on my lips.
Fried clusters. Vermilion bites.
He who calls you from the plains sprouted.
I am the one who wishes you at the hour of love.
The afternoon air bends the high branches.
Drunk, my heart. under God, wobble.
The untied river bursts into tears and sometimes
his voice thins and becomes pure and tremulous.
The blue complaint of the water resounds in the evening.
Friend, don’t die!
I am the one who waits for you in the starry night,
on the golden beaches, on the blonde ages.
The one who cut hyacinths for your bed, and roses.
Lying among the grasses I am the
2- Here I stay
I don’t want a divided homeland.
Nor for seven bleeding knives:
I want the light of Chile raised
About the new house built:
We all fit in my land.
3-Tina Modotti has died
Tina Modotti, sister, you don’t sleep, no, you don’t sleep:
maybe your heart hears the rose grow
of yesterday, the last rose of yesterday, the new rose.
Rest sweetly, sister.
The new rose is yours, the earth is yours:
you’ve put on a new suit of deep seed
and your soft silence is filled with roots.
You will not sleep in vain, sister.
Pure is your sweet name, pure is your fragile life:
Of bee, shadow, fire, snow, silence, foam:
Of steel, line, pollen, your railway was built,
your slim frame.
The jackal to the jewel of your sleeping body
still shows the pen and the bloody soul
as if you could, sister, get up,
smiling in the mud
I’m taking you to my country so they don’t touch you,
to my homeland of snow so that your purity
do not reach the murderer, nor the jackal, nor the seller:
you will be calm there.
Do you hear a footstep, a footstep full of footsteps, something
great from the steppe, from the Don, from the cold?
Do you hear a solid soldier’s footstep in the snow?
Sister, it’s your steps.
One day they will pass by your little grave,
before yesterday’s roses fall apart,
They will go see the ones of a day, tomorrow,
where your silence is burning
A world goes to the place where you went, sister,
each day advances the songs of your mouth
in the mouth of the glorious town that you loved.
Your heart was brave.
In the old kitchens of your country, on the routes
dusty, something is said and happens,
something returns to the flame of your golden town,
something wakes up and sings.
They are yours, sister: those who tell you your name today,
those who from everywhere, from the water, from the land,
with your name other names we shut up and say,
because the Fire does not die.
4- Do not blame anyone
Never complain about anyone or anything
because basically you have done
what you wanted in your life.
Accept the difficulty of building yourself
yourself and the courage to start correcting yourself.
The triumph of the true man arises from
the ashes of your mistake.
Never complain about your loneliness or your luck,
face it with courage and accept it.
In one way or another it is the result of
your actions and prove that you always
you have to win..
Do not be bitter about your own failure or
you charge it to another, accept yourself now or
you will continue to justify yourself like a child.
Remember that any moment is
good to start and that neither is
so terrible to give up.
Do not forget that the cause of your present
is your past as well as the cause of your
future will be your present.
Learn from the bold, from the strong,
of those who do not accept situations,
who will live in spite of everything,
think less about your problems
and more in your work and your problems
without removing them they will die.
Learn to be born from pain and to be
bigger than the biggest obstacle,
look into the mirror of yourself
and you will be free and strong and you will stop being a
puppet of the circumstances because you
you are your destiny.
Get up and look at the sun in the morning
and breathe the light of dawn.
You are part of the force of your life,
now wake up, fight, walk,
make up your mind and you will succeed in life;
never think about luck,
because luck is:
the pretext of the unsuccessful…
I need the sea because it teaches me:
I don’t know if I learn music or conscience:
I don’t know if it’s a single wave or it’s deep
or only hoarse voice or dazzling
assumption of fish and ships.
The fact is that even when I’m asleep
somehow magnetic circle
at the university of the surf.
It’s not just the crushed shells
as if some trembling planet
gradual death will participate,
no, from the fragment I reconstruct the day,
from a streak of salt the stalactite
and from a spoonful the immense god.
What once taught me I keep it! It’s air
incessant wind, water and sand.
It seems little for the young man
that here came to live with its fires,
and yet the pulse that rose
and descended into its abyss,
the cold of the blue that crackled,
the collapse of the star,
the tender unfolding of the wave
wasting snow with the foam,
the still power, there, determined
Like a stone throne deep inside,
replaced the enclosure in which they grew
stubborn sadness, piling up oblivion,
and abruptly changed my existence:
I gave my allegiance to pure movement.