Monday, May 23, 2011


I'm not this, like, poetry person. Okay, I went through this Sylvia Plath phase in high school (that's lasted until... well, it's still happening, but whatever), and I actually wrote quite a few notebooks full of (blackmail-worthy) poems, but it's not something I read to read. There's something about the break of lines that bothers me. As you may be able to tell, I'm a huge fan of the paragraph. I like the extensive thought, the run-on, the burst of words like a cloud. I like the words that sit like a pile that you need to absorb and sift through.

But I read this dreamy and tense book called ANNA AND THE FRENCH KISS and there was all this Pablo Neruda in it, so I decided to check out a collection from the library. Oh man and holy shit.

Here's one of my favorite bits from One Hundred Love Sonnets:

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.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quintratue.

Me again. Talk about desire. Oh. (That oh actually sounded kinda loud and drawn out and lusty, in case you were hearing while reading.) So yeah. Hawt. Apparently not all poetry is about poppies and bee keepers. Who knew?

Listening to: Death Cab For Cutie "Transatlanticism" because it's my favorite album of theirs.


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