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Topic: for the Romantic in you all
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| psandqs | Posted – 8/29/2007 11:33:48 PM | show profile File under reductive, or not: If prose is a reflection of the intellect, is poetry a reflection of the soul? (I propose this in the spirit of the honest responses to Janetblueeyes' Thursday questions.) Here's one by the grand daddy of all passionate souls, Pablo Neruda (forget his politics, already). Billy Connolly? Donald Hall? For shame!: And it was at that age...Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when, no, they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence, but from a street I was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone, there I was without a face and it touched me. I did not know what to say, my mouth had no way with names my eyes were blind, and something started in my soul, fever or forgotten wings, and I made my own way, deciphering that fire and I wrote the first faint line, faint, without substance, pure nonsense, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing, and suddenly I saw the heavens unfastened and open, planets, palpitating planations, shadow perforated, riddled with arrows, fire and flowers, the winding night, the universe. And I, infinitesimal being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery, I felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars, my heart broke free on the open sky. |
