I am generally not a poetry fan. Especially those angst-filled, juvenile, self-indulgent nonsensical prose that calls itself poetry just because it comes in broken paragraphs. Unfortunately self appointed poets that give birth to these are particularly prolific. I mean, if you want to rant, go get yourself a noose. Or a blog.
Nevertheless, I was introduced to Neruda completely by chance by a trivia partner who knows even more useless stuff than I do. Neruda is indeed a precious find. His works are dusty, old and unapologetically nostalgic. Earthy even. And the sadness - transcendental.
Before I loved you, love, nothing was my own:
I wavered through the streets, among
nothing mattered or had a name:
the world was made of air, which waited.
I knew rooms full of ashes,
tunnels where the moon lived,
rough warehouses that growled 'get lost',
questions that insisted in the sand.
Everything was empty, dead, mute,
fallen abandoned, and decayed:
inconceivably alien, it all
belonged to someone else - to no one:
till your beauty and your poverty
filled the autumn plentiful with gifts