Morning Trip (45)

Scratches copyright

Poetry
And it was at that age . . . Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.
– Pablo Neruda
translated by Alastair Reid

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5 thoughts on “Morning Trip (45)

  1. Up the tree! And scratch the fluffy blue! Stark effect yet quite colorful. I like that(being partial to “up-the-tree” shots anyways). 😉
    You had me going with that great poem. Being somewhat unfamiliar with Neruda, I started out thinking you wrote it. Soon I thought, dang, she did get touched by the abyss or something! 😉 Anyways, goes great with your pic.

    Like

    • Why, thank you very much! I managed to peruse your own blog, the ones around posts related to Creative Every Day, and I found the one with the cute baby bootie-makin’ book and your purse project. I think I like imperfect learning and experiential sharings the most. They are more real and hold more emotion than the ones people can hold until some inner perfectionism is satisfied.

      Like

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