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Printed from https://writing.com/main/newsletters/action/archives/id/2733-.html
Poetry: November 26, 2008 Issue [#2733]

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Poetry


 This week:
  Edited by: Stormy Lady Author IconMail Icon
                             More Newsletters By This Editor  Open in new Window.

Table of Contents

1. About this Newsletter
2. A Word from our Sponsor
3. Letter from the Editor
4. Editor's Picks
5. A Word from Writing.Com
6. Ask & Answer
7. Removal instructions

About This Newsletter

This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady Author Icon


Word from our sponsor



Letter from the editor

Walking Around
by Pablo Neruda

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.

That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.

Pablo Neruda was born Ricardo Eliecer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto in Chili on July 12, 1904. His father, José del Carmen Reyes Morales worked for the railway and his mother, Rosa Basoalto was a school teacher. His mother died only two months after he was born, leaving his father to raise him. His father moved them to Temuco, where José met and married Neruda’s stepmother. Neruda grew up with one step sister and one step brother.

Neruda’s father discouraged his son from persueing a writing career. So he wrote his first book, Crepusculario in 1923 under the name Pablo Neruda, to avoid any disappointment from his father. Neruda sold all of his things just to afford getting the book published. One year later he published Veinte poemas de amor y una cancion desesperada ("Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair") soaring Neruda into the spot little as a writer. He stopped his studies and began devoting his time to writing.

In 1927 Neruda started his long political career. He served as honorary consul in Burma, and then as Chilean consul Buenos Aires. In 1936 the Spanish Civil War began and Neruda chronicled the events of the war which included execution of García Lorca in Espana en el Corazon. Neruda published Visiones de las hijas de Albion y el viajero in 1935. Followed by Espana en el corazon: Himno a las glorias del pueblo en la guerra in 1937. In 1943 he was elected to the Senate and the Communist Party. Once the government changed Neruda was expelled from the Senate. During this time he wrote and published Canto general. Neruda married three times during his political career, with the first two marriages ending in divorce.

Neruda was honored numerous times in his life, the International Peace Prize in 1950, the Lenin Peace Prize and the Stalin Peace Prize in 1953, and the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1971. Neruda was serving a two-year term as ambassador to France when he fell ill. He was diagnosed with cancer and resigned from his position. On September 23, 1973 died of leukemia in Santiago, Chile. Many of his poems and his books were translated after his death. A Separate Rose was translated and published in 1985, followed by 100 Love Sonnets in 1986 and Late and Posthumous Poems, 1968-1974 in 1989.Then The Yellow Heart was published in 1990.


Leaning Into The Afternoons
by Pablo Neruda

Leaning into the afternoons,
I cast my sad nets towards your oceanic eyes.
There, in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames;
Its arms turning like a drowning man's.
I send out red signals across your absent eyes
That wave like the sea, or the beach by a lighthouse.
You keep only darkness my distant female;
From your regard sometimes, the coast of dread emerges.

Leaning into the afternoons,
I fling my sad nets to that sea that is thrashed
By your oceanic eyes.
The birds of night peck at the first stars
That flash like my soul when I love you.
The night, gallops on its shadowy mare
Shedding blue tassels over the land.

Tower Of Light
by Pablo Neruda

O tower of light, sad beauty
that magnified necklaces and statues in the sea,
calcareous eye, insignia of the vast waters, cry
of the mourning petrel, tooth of the sea, wife
of the Oceanian wind, O separate rose
from the long stem of the trampled bush
that the depths, converted into archipelago,
O natural star, green diadem,
alone in your lonesome dynasty,
still unattainable, elusive, desolate
like one drop, like one grape, like the sea.


Thank you all!
Stormy Lady Author Icon

A logo for Poetry Newsletter Editors
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Editor's Picks


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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contestOpen in new Window. [ASR] is:


 Invalid Item Open in new Window.
This item number is not valid.
#1496435 by Not Available.


One Candle Glows


One candle glows as she
turns the pages of an
old and worn romance story,
and sees the dynamics of an
inspirational love
in every written word.

One candle glows in the
window of a shell of
a heart that once
dedicated its very core
to this unremitting love.

One candle glows on the
mantle of a fireplace,
in a misplaced scene,
where one character
supersedes another
and sin is embraced.

One candle glows on a small
dining table where she
crinkles those yellowed
journal pages and tosses the
remnants of their love aside.

One candle glows, causing
his Medal of Honor
to shine in its light, her
tears wetting its ribbon.

One Candle Glows.


 Treasures of the Storm Open in new Window. (E)
This poem is for a contest. It tells of how a storm brought back some memories
#1497167 by Dorianne Author IconMail Icon


Treasures of the Storm

My dear husband and I searched through the remnants of our home.
The winds of this dynamic storm played with cars as if they were a toy.
All of our fifty years together began in a garden with a simple love poem.
A beautiful life together our parents sought in vain to destroy.

We walked along crowded beaches and collected many shells.
Our hopes would be to never end each day without a kiss.
An old gypsy with a crinkled face had a special fortune to tell.
Show only kindness, and your life will be filled with bliss.

But time and war made our hearts feel heavy.
A candle in my window was there for all to see.
I went to visit and then waited along the silent, peaceful levee.
I touched the St. Christopher’s medal and made a special plea.

Then one morning I looked for the old love letters.
I wanted to touch the pages and believe he was rewriting me.
My hands were shaking and my eyes became much redder.
I hoped to be finding the misplaced silver key.

Now my husband and I looked over the miles of nature‘s anger.
The storm had left us with few treasures that we could keep.
But when I found my box of letters on top of a pink padded hanger.
The tears of joy were all that I chose to weep.



Honorable mention:
 Human Nature Open in new Window. (E)
Mankind in all his glory.
#1491176 by greenpan... sleeping awake Author IconMail Icon

 Invalid Item Open in new Window.
This item number is not valid.
#1490952 by Not Available.



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These are the rules:

1) You must use the words I give in a poem or prose with no limits on length.

2) The words can be in any order and anywhere throughout the poem and can be any form of the word.

3) All entries must be posted in your portfolio and you must post the link in this forum by December 18, 2008.

4) The winner will get 3000 gift points and the poem will be displayed in this section of the newsletter the next time it is my turn to post (December 24, 2008)

The words are:


red gold pine glow green popcorn bells white


*Delight* Good luck to all *Delight*

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 Thanksgiving Grace Open in new Window. (E)
It is all a matter of perspective
#1497150 by Fyn Author IconMail Icon

Not coming back Open in new Window. (E)
He is not coming back!
#1494645 by ShellySunshine Author IconMail Icon

 Invalid Item Open in new Window.
This item number is not valid.
#1494396 by Not Available.

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 Invalid Item Open in new Window.
This item number is not valid.
#1496089 by Not Available.

No Boundaries Open in new Window. (E)
Time revealed love was not lost.
#1496623 by turtlemoon-dohi Author IconMail Icon

 Invalid Item Open in new Window.
This item number is not valid.
#1494442 by Not Available.

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 Invalid Item Open in new Window.
This item number is not valid.
#1495207 by Not Available.

 THE LIVING END Open in new Window. (E)
A woman's true self is unmasked by a friend, in this dark, poetic tale 'The LIVING END'.
#1495595 by DJ. Venson Author IconMail Icon

 Invalid Item Open in new Window.
This item number is not valid.
#1497040 by Not Available.

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Ask & Answer



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