I poise the pen and it puts forth twigs and leaves, it is covered with blossoms and the scent of that tree is impudent, for there, on the real earth, such trees do not grow...

...and like an insult to suffering humanity is the scent of that tree...

- Czeslaw Milosz, The Poor Poet

Neruda "If you forget me"

Full woman, fleshly apple, hot moon, thick smell of seaweed, crushed mud and light...

...what obscure brilliance opens between your columns?
What ancient night does a man touch with his senses?

(- Pablo Neruda, X11)

...how am I a poet? What do I know of the multiplied geography of the night?

...I want to speak with many things
and I won't leave this planet
without knowing what I came to find...

...And so, gentlemen, I'm going
to have a talk with a horse,
let the poetess excuse me
and let the professor pardon me,
all week I'll be busy.
I have to constantly listen.

What was the name of that cat?

(- Pablo Neruda, Bestiary)

Talking to animals

When did smoke learn to fly? When do the roots converse? What is water like in the stars?...

...What does the tortoise meditate on?
Where does the shade withdraw?
What song does the rain repeat?
Where do the birds go to die?
And why are the leaves green?

(Pablo Neruda)

Mourning doves

I want to speak with the flies...

...with the bitch who has just given birth,
to have a long chat with the snakes.

(Pablo Neruda, Bestiary)

Wild dog with puppies

The spring is so long that it lasts all winter: time lost its shoes; a year contains four centuries...

When I sleep all these nights,
what am I named or not named?
And when I wake up who am I
if I wasn't I when I slept?

(Pablo Neruda, Too Many Names)

When I lived with the roots I liked them more than flowers...

...and when I talked with stone
it rang like a bell.

(Pablo Neruda, Too Many Names)

The child's foot doesn't know yet that it's a foot, and wants to be a butterfly or an apple...

...And then it went down
 into the earth and knew nothing,
because there everything was dark,
it didn't know it had ceased being a foot,
if they had buried it so that it could fly
or so that it could
become an apple.

(Pablo Neruda, To the Foot from Its Child)

Romanian lullaby

The air white like wet bread...

...Their rumps were worlds and oranges.

Their colour was honey, amber, fire.

(Pablo Neruda, Horses)

Horses running