Pablo Neruda

(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973 / Parral / Chile)

Pablo Neruda Poems

1. Still Another Day: XVII/Men 11/4/2015
2. Epithalamium 10/20/2015
3. Unity 6/18/2015
4. Ode to Hope 4/20/2015
5. Still Another Day: I 11/4/2015
6. Ode To Ironing 3/18/2015
7. Come With Me, I Said, And No One Knew (VII) 9/9/2015
8. Ode To Age 5/14/2015
9. Ode To The Cat 1/20/2015
10. The Portrait In The Rock 3/22/2010
11. The Men 3/22/2010
12. The House Of Odes 3/22/2010
13. Oda Al Tomate 3/29/2010
14. I Like For You To Be Still 3/21/2014
15. The Eighth Of September 3/22/2010
16. What Spain Was Like 3/22/2010
17. The People 3/22/2010
18. Poor Creatures 3/29/2010
19. The United Fruit Co. 3/22/2010
20. The Old Women Of The Ocean 3/22/2010
21. Soneto Xvii 3/29/2010
22. Waltz 3/22/2010
23. The Insect 3/22/2010
24. The Tree Is Here, Still, In Pure Stone 3/22/2010
25. Lone Gentleman 3/29/2010
26. Lxxxiv From: ‘cien Sonetos De Amor’ 3/22/2010
27. Potter 3/22/2010
28. Gautama Christ 3/22/2010
29. Poet's Obligation 3/22/2010
30. Ode To Bird Watching 3/22/2010
31. Walking Around (Original Spanish) 3/29/2010
32. Sonnet Ix: There Where The Waves Shatter 3/22/2010
33. Sonnet Xiii:The Light That Rises From Your Feet To Your Hair 3/22/2010
34. Triangles 3/22/2010
35. Song Of Despair 3/22/2010
36. Ode To Tomatoes 3/22/2010
37. Castro Alves From Brazil 3/22/2010
38. Ode To Clothes 3/22/2010
39. From The Heights Of Maccho Picchu 3/22/2010
40. The Fickle One 3/22/2010
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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