Poems on Pablo Neruda Seeking Friendly Advice

#1: “I love you as certain dark things
are meant to be loved, in secret,    
between the shadow and the soul.”  
   
What would it take for me in deepest woods  
To find and bring you love that’s from my soul,  
Without a something vulner’ble to give,  
By making known the ‘allness’ you possess.  
   
The creatures will then seek me in your lair,  
Now I’m the one who hides within your arms.  
The moon must find a chink to let in light,  
Not even gods are priv’leged to come in.  
   
And so it does remain...

I do not love you as if you were made of the finest gold
This world has to offer or because your smile can start  
A fire. I love you as the darkness desires light and cold  
Touches crave warmth. There is something your heart  

Always wants; to always be loved in all the right ways  
And places without fear of being broken or delicate.  
I wish to love the deepest parts of you, not for days  
You spent in the summer, but when you felt desolate,  
 
Alone and everyone ignored you when you needed  
Love. That is when I will...

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers.’
 
                                  -Pablo Neruda
 
 
Deep in the hollow heart
a flame tries to be born;
it sparks and flickers,
it only thinks of you.
It knows it must be born
for you require its warmth.
It is as a star to those who gaze
at the sky, milky and wide.
It knows its life will be short ...

It was from an open balcony,  
where I saw,    
surrounded by    
war-torn deserted streets    
circling the (ruins of an) arena,    
and muffled by a    
winter dusting falling    
where there was no sky,    
muting the    
approach of horses.    
    
Black crows perch    
on a gentle sway of    
each horse’s back, to their    
synchronized lockstep,    
as mesmerizing    
as the brown shirts, who    
trot next to a solemn truck    
in its slow percussion.    
   
A frail...

It’s still not too late
as she rises by a hearth
to a knock at the door
this early evening,

carefully wrapping
herself in a long robe
from the night air,
and whoever is there,
so they will think her
a respectable whore.

Yet she sees no one
from a soft light
at the threshold
in the thin clean air
of the Chilean Andes,
with a scent of
cordwood for a fire.

Steps onto the porch,
cane chairs are stacked,
brought to her by men
who buy them from
her as payment.

She is...