Pablo Neruda

(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973 / Parral)

Comments about Pablo Neruda

  • Dddd Ssss (7/11/2016 8:25:00 AM)

    it is realy good poem

    2 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • Otteri Selvakumar Otteri Selvakumar (6/26/2016 1:20:00 PM)

    Wonderful poet writing wonder poems

  • Soul Watcher Soul Watcher (6/23/2016 2:34:00 AM)

    Pablo Neruda was the pen name and, later, legal name of the Chilean poet and politician Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto. He chose his pen name after Czech poet Jan Neruda.

  • Soul Watcher Soul Watcher (6/22/2016 10:48:00 AM)

    I like this poet, never get bored of reading his poems

  • Md. Anisur Rahman Md. Anisur Rahman (5/5/2016 1:56:00 AM)

    Pablo Neruda is a great poet in the world.

  • Shashikant Nishant Sharma Shashikant Nishant Sharma (4/15/2016 10:18:00 PM)

    This is really an inspiring poem. I really appreciate it. Good work. Short and witty. Thanks for sharing.

  • Poop Guy (3/29/2016 1:44:00 PM)

    It stinks, this poem stinks, it does not make sense, smells bad

  • Frankly Marj (3/8/2016 1:01:00 PM)

    Even better, give us the poem in its original language as well.

  • Frankly Marj (3/8/2016 12:59:00 PM)

    You need to include the translator's name in every poem written in a language other than English. For shame!

  • Deez Nuts (2/7/2016 2:16:00 PM)

    how many people read poetry just to read poetry? honestly its not very entertaining

Best Poem of Pablo Neruda

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,...

Read the full of If You Forget Me

Some Beasts

It was the twilight of the iguana:

From a rainbowing battlement,
a tongue like a javelin
lunging in verdure;
an ant heap treading the jungle,
monastic, on musical feet;
the guanaco, oxygen-fine
in the high places swarthed with distances,

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