Mistress Denna Outfit

Ode to Pablo Neruda's book ... my respect, my admiration ... a little more ... the beating of my heart ...

Ode to Pablo Neruda's book ... my respect, my admiration ... a little more ... the beating of my heart ... Ode to the Book

I

Book, when you close
open life.
hear choppy

cries in ports.
copper ingots
crossing the sands, down to
Tocopilla.
is night.
Among the islands our ocean

throbs with fish.
touches the feet, thighs,
calcareous ribs
of my country.
All night hits its shores
and daylight dawns

singing as if waking up a guitar.
I called the coup
the ocean. To me
called me the wind, and Rodriguez
calls me
José Antonio,
received a telegram
union "Mina"
and she, the one I love
(I will not tell his name),
Bucalemu I expected.
Book, you have not been
paper,
not filled me
typography, prints
celestial

could not bind my eyes,
I leave you to settle in the trees
with hoarse family of my song,
work
burning metals or to eat
roast by the fire in the mountains.
I love books
explorers, books
forest or snow,
depth or sky but


hate spider
book in which thought
was having poisonous
wire to get tangled there
surrounding juvenile and fly.
Book, set me free.
I do not want to dress
volume
I come from a volume,

my poems have not eaten poems, eat

passionate events,
feed on weather, food

extracted from the earth and men.
Book, let me walk the roads
with dust in my shoes and without
mythology:
back to your library,
I'm going through the streets. I

learned about life of life, love
I learned from a single kiss,
and I could not teach anyone anything
but what I experienced, as I
in common with other men
as I struggled with them:
as expressed by all in my song.


Ode to the Book II Book


beautiful
book
minimum forest,

sheet after sheet, smells

your role
by element
you
morning and evening,
cereal,
oceanic
in your old pages
bear hunters, bonfires

near the Mississippi,

canoes in the islands, later


roads and amines,
revelations
people
insurgents
Rimbaud as a wounded

bloody fish beating in the mud, and

beauty of brotherhood,
stone by stone the castle rises
human
pains that weave
firmness
solidarity actions ,
book

hidden pocket in pocket
,

underground lamp,
red star. We


poets

walkers explore
the world,
on every door we were greeted
life

participate in the earthly struggle.
What was our victory?
A book,
a book full of contacts
human
shirts, a book

without solitude, with men
and tools, a book

is victory.
Lives and falls
like all fruits,
not only light,
not only
shadow
off,
loses its leaves

lost in the streets,
slumps to the ground.
Poetry Book
tomorrow,
again becomes

to have snow or moss

on your pages so that treads
or eyes
be recording tracks
:

again tell us about the world's

springs into the thicket,
high trees,

planets polar
and
man on the road,
in new ways, advancing

in the jungle,
in water,
in heaven,
in solitude naked navy man


discovering the latest secrets,
the
man
returning with a book,
el cazador de vuelta
con un libro,
el campesino
arando
con un libro.

Ode to the Book

When I close a book
I open life.
I hear
faltering cries
among harbours.
Copper ignots
slide down sand-pits
to Tocopilla.
Night time.
Among the islands
our ocean
throbs with fish,
touches the feet, the thighs,
the chalk ribs
of my country.
The whole of night
clings to its shores, by dawn
it wakes up singing
as if it had excited a guitar.

The ocean's surge is calling.
The wind
calls me
and Rodriguez calls,
and Jose Antonio--
I got a telegram
from the "Mine" Union
and the one I love
(whose name I won't let out)
expects me in Bucalemu.

No book has been able
to wrap me in paper,
to fill me up
with typography,
with heavenly imprints
or was ever able
to bind my eyes,
I come out of books to people orchards
with the hoarse family of my song,
to work the burning metals
or to eat smoked beef
by mountain firesides.
I love adventurous
books,
books of forest or snow,
depth or sky
but hate
the spider book
in which thought
has laid poisonous wires
to trap the juvenile
and circling fly.
Book, let me go.
I won't go clothed
in volumes,
I don't come out
of collected works,
my poems
have not eaten poems--
they devour
exciting happenings,
feed on rough weather,
and dig their food
out of earth and men.
I'm on my way
with dust in my shoes
free of mythology:
send books back to their shelves,
I'm going down into the streets.
I learned about life
from life itself,
love I learned in a single kiss
and could teach no one anything
except that I have lived Something in common with
Among Men,
When fighting with Them, Their
When Saying all say in my song.