Love Sonnet XI
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
Pablo Neruda was born Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto in Chile on July 12, 1904. He is said to be the greatest poet of his lifetime who wrote in Spanish.
Neruda started writing around the age of ten, and his first piece, Enthusiasm and Perseverance was published at the age of thirteen by a local newspaper, La Manana. His compilation of poems, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, was published in 1924. This work helped him become known as an important Chilean poet. With this success, Neruda ended his formal education to pursue his love of writing poetry.
In addition to writing, Neruda held various diplomatic posts starting in 1927. When he returned to Chile in 1943, he was elected to the Senate and became part of the Communist Party.
Communism was outlawed in Chile in 1948, and a warrant was issued for Neruda's arrest. Because of this, he lost his Senate seat and had to flee from the authorities. Despite having to hide, Neruda continued writing during this time and published Canto General (1950).
In 1952 he returned to Chile because there was no longer a threat of being arrested. It was during this time that he married his third and final wife.
Neruda received various awards during his lifetime:
Pablo Neruda died of leukemia in Santiago, Chile on September 23, 1973.
References
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
Because of you, in gardens of blossoming
Flowers I ache from the perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer
Remember your hands; how did your lips
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, 'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'
I love this poem. My wife of 28 years just passed June 4, 2017, and I used to write her poetry all the time. I miss the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand, and the feeling of her arms...
When I die I want your hands on my eyes:
I want the light and the wheat of your beloved hands
to pass their freshness over me one more time
to feel the smoothness that changed my destiny.