Ode To a Lemon
Out of lemon flowers
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
sodden with fragrance,
lemon tree's yellow
from the tree's planetarium
harbors are big with it-
for the light and the
of a miracle,
a clotting of acids
into the starry
the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
riding the droplets,
So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
to your touch:
a cup yellow
and a nipple
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.
from the Spanish by Christopher Logue|
Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses,
Your wet body wedged
my wet body and the strake
Of our boat that is made of flowers,
Feasted, we guide it - our fingers
Like tallows adorned
with yellow metal -
Over the sky's hot rim,
The day's last breath in our sails.
Pinned by the sun between solstice
equinox, drowsy and tangled together
We drifted for months and woke
With the bitter taste of land on our lips,
all sticky, and we longed for lime
And the sound of a rope
Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,
We came by night
to the Fortunate Isles,
And lay like fish
Under the net of our kisses.
||I can write the saddest poem
of all tonight. |
Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."
The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and
sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite
She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?
I can write
the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.
To hear the immense night,
more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
What does it matter that my love couldn't
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.
That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
soul is lost without her.
As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is
not with me.
The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.
no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.
She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.
no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.
Because on nights like
this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.
Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
this may be the last poem I write for her.
Pablo Neruda by Richard Montero CGHS