If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

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, 

for I shall already have forgotten you. 

If you think it long and mad, 

the wind of banners 

that passes through my life, 

and you decide 

to leave me at the shore 

of the heart where I have roots, 

remember 

that on that day, 

at that hour, 

I shall lift my arms 

and my roots will set off 

to seek another land. 

But 

if each day, 

each hour, 

you feel that you are destined for me 

with implacable sweetness, 

if each day a flower 

climbs up to your lips to seek me, 

ah my love, ah my own, 

in me all that fire is repeated, 

in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, 

my love feeds on your love, beloved, 

and as long as you live it will be in your arms 

without leaving mine. 

Ode To The Sea - Pablo Neruda

Here surrounding the island,

There's sea.

But what sea?

It's always overflowing.

Says yes,

Then no,

Then no again,

And no,

Says yes

In blue

In sea spray

Raging,

Says no

And no again.

It can't be still.

It stammers

My name is sea.

It slaps the rocks

And when they aren't convinced,

Strokes them

And soaks them

And smothers them with kisses.

With seven green tongues

Of seven green dogs

Or seven green tigers

Or seven green seas,

Beating its chest,

Stammering its name,

Oh Sea,

This is your name.

Oh comrade ocean,

Don't waste time

Or water

Getting so upset

Help us instead.

We are meager fishermen,

Men from the shore

Who are hungry and cold

And you're our foe.

Don't beat so hard,

Don't shout so loud,

Open your green coffers,

Place gifts of silver in our hands.

Give us this day our daily fish.

Kung Paano by Rofel Brion

Kung paano dumadapo

ang buto sa malumot na bato,

at nagiging binhi’t lumalago,

gumagapang tungo sa iba pang bato,

namumulaklak, hitik na hitik,

at bago malanta’y nagkakalat ng bango,

 ganito sana ako maging ako,

 ganito sana ako maging sa iyo.

♥ I would like this to be a poem about my life.

Spring & Fall by Gerard Manly Hopkins

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By & by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep & know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Tired and Lonely by Dag Hammarskjöld

Tired

And lonely,

So tired

The heart aches.

Meltwater trickles

Down the rocks,

The fingers are numb,

The knees tremble.

It is now,

Now, that you must not give in.

On the path of the others

Are resting places,

Places in the sun

Where they can meet.

But this

Is your path

And it is now,

Now that you must not fail

Weep

If you can, 

Weep,

But do not complain.

The way chose you --

And you must be thankful.








Dr Garcia mentioned the first and last lines of this poem during Levinas class, I looked it up. It made me think of two people. She walks through a dark valley. I don't know why I thought of him; I haven't talked to him in months. But I trust in the universe and in intuition. I sent it to both of them.




Brevity and bluntness of the lines remind one of the slow and pained plodding of one exhausted beyond measure. Her most memorable lines are those that punch straight: Tired / and Lonely / So tired the heart aches. She rings so true, the lines are recognized with a pang of recognition.


An inner revolt accompanies the last lines The way chose you-- / And you must be thankful. To remember that one is human is consoling; we reserve the right to withdraw from hurt. Gratitude radically negates consolation and pain.




It's funny. This is both is and is not a poem of consolation. I recall Alain de Botton's Nietzsche.