poem of the day: Hours by Vicente Huidobro


Vicente Huidobro

A small town
A train stopped on the plain

Deaf stars sleep
in every puddle
And the water trembles
Curtains to the wind

                   Night hangs in the grove

A lively drizzle
From the flower-covered steeple
Bleeds the stars

         Now and then
Ripe hours

                   Drop on life

Lonely Town [Explored]

Huidobro on Creationism

Nothing anecdotic or descriptive. The emotion has to be born out of creativity only.

Make a poem as nature makes a tree.

One must create. This is the sign of our time.


(poem of the day) Sonnet XVII from Pablo Neruda’s One Hundred Love Sonnets

One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII

Pablo Neruda

I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries
the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,
and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose
from the earth lives dimly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.