20 poemas de amor y una canción desesperada

ISBN: 9500300192
ISBN 13: 9789500300193
By: Pablo Neruda Raul Soldi

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Classics Currently Reading Favorites Latin American Poems Poesia Poetry Romance Spanish To Read

About this book

Pablo Neruda -nacido en Parral, Chile, en 1904. galardonado en 1971 con el Premio Nobel de Literatura y muerto en Santiago en 1973 -es uno de los mayores poetas del idioma. Algunas de sus obras quizás hayan ejercido una influencia más duradera en la transformación del lenguaje poético —Residencia en la tierra por ejemplo—, otras tal vez despierten sensaciones más diversas y ricas —como el Canto general o el Memorial de Isla Negra—, otras es probable que se presten mejor a la polémica —sus Odas elementales o sus encendidos poemas políticos- pero de ellas la que ha logrado la mayor aceptación popular y el calor emocional más profundo son estos 20 poemas de amor y una canción desesperada que se publicaron por primera vez en 1924.BIBLIOTECA CLÁSICA Y CONTEMPORÁNEA

Reader's Thoughts


الحقيقة هناك أكثر من تقييم. الأول للمترجم مروان حداد و الثاني لمحمود السيد علي و الذي تتفوق عليه بمراحل ترجمة قوقل الفورية! الترجمة الثالثة كانت للبطوطي و لم أعثر عليها حتى الآن. يمكن للترجمة أن تحط من قدر أكبر الشعراء و قد فعلها محمود السيد علي إذ صنع من نيرودا مشعوذاً يكتب الطلاسم لا الأشعار و المثالين التاليين بمقدورهما أن يوضحا الفكرة تماماً :أرنوها نائية كلماتي / كلماتك أكثر منها كلماتي / تتسلق ألمي العتيق أشجار لبلاب* بينما يترجمها مروان حداد - شكراً جداً يا مروان - و أرى كلماتي بعيدة /وأبعد منها كلماتك / تتسلق كاللبلاب فوق آلامي القديمة. ما أعظم الفارق. فلنقرأ أيضاً هذه الترجمة الكارثية لمحمود : " أعالي البحار في قلب الأمواج/ جسدك بين ذراعي انسجام / سمكة إلى الأبد بروحي لصيقة / في يافع فلك السماء سريعة وئيدة " و هذا ما يذكرني بمراحل الدراسة الأولى و درس الجملة المفيدة و غير المفيدة. مروان ترجمها بهذا الشكل : "وسط الأمواج في المياه البعيدة / يستسلم جسدك الجميل بين ذراعيّ / مثل سمكة التصقت بروحي إلى الأبد / و أنا أسرع و أتمهل تحت زرقة السماء". ماهذه الأعمال البربرية التي يقوم بها المركز القومي للترجمة!كلمات نيرودا كحبات العنب و هو يشبه إلى درجة كبيرة مدينة فينيسيا حيث يتوجب أن لا تزورها وحدك.


كنتُ أتذكّرك وروحي تضيقبهذا الحزن الذي تعرفين.أين كنتِ آنئذٍ؟بين أيّ أناس؟أيّة كلمات كنتِ تقولين؟لماذا يداهمُني كل هذا الحبعندما أشعر بالحزن، وأَشعرُ بكِ بعيدة


First off, I'm a language geek, so this is probably going to be a damn boring review, but here goes.It's important to remember that the English translations will never fully reflect the original essence of the poems in Spanish; while English follows comparatively rigid grammatical rules, most other languages - particularly European ones - are far more fluid. I urge you to read the Spanish text alongside the English, and observe the placement of nouns and verbs - then, you can really see the power of his words.Neruda evokes brilliant landscapes alongside his tributes to women, and I consider them to be tributes as he compares his muses to such mighty and naturally beautiful things. I love that he could see in a woman the same strength and passion he saw in rivers and mountains.

Amber Tucker

I read this little volume while on a solitary evening walk, in spring, near the countryside bordering my town. The whole walk/read was less than an hour, but an intense hour. Between the sunset and the poems, murmured aloud – often twice or more – I was full when I got home. Full of the richness of words, and perhaps also a bit overwhelmed by them. A strong poet will always create that feeling.These poems made me really want, for the first time, to learn Spanish so that I could read their originals. Translating novels is iffy enough; translating poems – particularly from a romance language to a Germanic one – is, I cannot but think, almost perilous. And still the English versions are vivid, tasteful, haunting, reverent, desperate. Like/approve of his style or not, you have to admit that Neruda knew how to write love. He also knew how to write the self-abasement and loneliness and longing-for-the-past that tend to accompany love. The experience of love covers you like a blanket when you read his words. I hear in them a Hawaiian song, but also a lone eagle's cry. I can't put it any more clearly than that, so I should exit my abstractions. To whom was he writing, though? In general, it's clear to me (though I'm sure one could formulate a gripping argument on the contrary side) that the poems are composed for a woman (many women?), but I think there is more. Neruda expresses love like it is a sea, broader and deeper and infinitely simpler than the love of one individual for another. His writing makes me believe that he was in love with the beauty of people and of nature in such deep connection that he could not glorify one without also praising the other. You might sneer that he sees women instead of seeing nature, but the reverse is true too, that he could identify and admire all that is beautiful in nature with the women he loved. A supreme equalizer in that way, Neruda: The big trees on the other side of her, uprooted. But you, cloudless girl, question of smoke, corn tassel. You were what the wind was making with illuminated leaves. Behind the nocturnal mountains, white lily of conflagration, ah, I can say nothing! You were made of everything. And of course there's the ever-adored I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.To women, to nature; sometimes I feel he is writing to me, the reader wistful for meaning: We have lost even this twilight.No one saw us this evening hand in hand while the blue night dropped on the world.… … …You gather things to you like an old road. You are peopled with echoes and nostalgic voices.I awoke and at times birds fled and migratedthat had been sleeping in your soul.I have to wonder if she for whom Neruda wrote this has been reincarnated in the woman I love. Of course, in the language of love, every one beloved is the same … yet after him, nobody else has license to write this way and be taken seriously. That, I think, is as it should be. There can only ever be one speaking Neruda. The rest of us only echo him in whispers, alone in the presence of beauty we can hardly survive.A sincere thank you to Rose for drawing my attention to this!

Huda AbuKhoti

I didn't like this, specially because I read it after a love poetry book with a similar approach. I don't like the way love is portrayed here, neither do I like the references to his lover; treating her like a usable object. It was too sexual and inappropriate for me, I had to skip reading lots of lines.Do not recommend.


3 THINGS ABOUT THIS BOOK1. I went to Pablo Neruda's house once. Well, I went to one of his houses. He had three of them. I was teaching English in Santiago, Chile at the time. I went to Neruda's house in Valparaiso, which is a beach town. Weirdly enough, I visited on my twentieth birthday, on a lark, because I just happened to be vacationing in a nearby cabin with my host family.The thing that I remember about Pablo Neruda's house is that it's set back in a grove of dark pine trees and that there's sand everywhere. The sky was dark that day and it was cold, even though it was in the summer. What I remember most about the experience wasn't the house itself, or the tour, or the nationalistic trinkets that vendors were trying to sell, but rather the feeling that the pine trees around the house evoked. They were like a dark magic that still sits in my mind six years later. Curious. Because this is the thing that stands out to me most about Neruda's poetry: the magnetic feeling of nature. The dirt and the flesh and the elements and the cold, wet, hot, dry. His poetry is so sensual, so primal, so tied to the earth (I know I sound like a hippie, but its true). When I look at my journal entries from this period in my life they're full of this sort of talk. I wrote about stars and cloud formations and the consistency of mud and the shape of a cheekbone. Southern Chile does this to you. The land casts a spell on you. Neruda put this spell into words. "Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? 2. I read "Twenty Love Poems" about five years ago, but I thought it was corny at the time. The edition I read had all these terrible erotic etchings in it. I hate that. I almost threw up. I don't believe in illustration much, because it insults the reader's imagination. Especially illustration in poetry, a genre which usually uses abstract images.This time when I read "Twenty Love Poems" I read it slowly. And it reminded me of southern Chile. It reminded me of gloomy mountains, and the beauty of the rivers and clouds and the darkness of the ocean. It reminded me of that period of time, when I turned twenty, right before my life changed in many ways. This time when I read "Twenty Love Poems" it meant something to me, because now I have been in love. I have been in love and have experienced all of the sorrows and thrills of love. Mostly sorrows. But the hope of future thrills.3. I found a musty Time/Life book about South America at a thrift store near my house. In the book there is a photograph of Mr. Neruda seated at a wooden desk at his house in Valparaiso. He is wearing a sweater and staring out the window. He has a pen and ink in front of him and he is holding his head as though he's deep in thought or distressed. Or both. I have hung this picture up in my apartment. It makes me want to write. It makes me remember all of the dark clouds. It makes me remember that "love is so short, forgetting is so long."

ريم الصالح

ماذا يمكنني أن أقول.؟هذا الشعر جميل.. جميلٌ حقاً..!ابحثوا عن نسخة من ترجمة مروان حداد.!وإلا، لا تضيعوا وقتكم مع النسخة المترجمة عن المشروع القومي للترجمةلأنها ببساطة.. مريعة!!شكراً ألف لمن دلني على ترجمة مروان لشعر نيرودا :)

Ramy Wafa

انا قارئها بترجمة : محمود السيد علي ,و عايز اقول حرام ع الناس اللي بيترجموا الشعر اللي بيعملوه ده !!! ... بحس ان كل جملة مستقلة بذاتها والكلام ملوش علاقة ببعضه والالفاظ غريبة .. مفيش أي سلاسة في القراءة , غير بقا ان المترجم ده بالذات مصمم يعمل القصايد بقافية .. انت متخيل يعني ايه بتقرأ شعر بقافية و من غير وزن ؟ وترجمته وحشة ؟ .. مستحملتش أكمله بصراحة :S


Has anyone read and understood the Song of Solomon? Neruda must have. And he must have understood it too! These poems are more than just about the physical love between man and woman: they are about what happens to the soul. For some reason pine trees feature a fair amount here, from " ... as I love you, the pines in the wind / want to sing your name with their leaves of wire" to "I have said that you sang in the wind / like the pines and like the masts. / Like them you are tall and taciturn, / and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage." He wants to "do with you what spring does with the cherry trees", but also knows that "the leaves complain as though they / were sick" in her absence. One can only say that he really loves her (and I wish I could understand the Chilean versions, also printed in the book), or that she left him and his love needed renewing with each new love. My words do not relate his beautiful descriptions for love, so I will be still:I like for you to be stillIt is as though you are absentAnd you hear me from far awayAnd my voice does not touch youIt seems as though your eyes had flown awayAnd it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouthAs all things are filled with my soulYou emerge from the thingsFilled with my soulYou are like my soulA butterfly of dreamAnd you are like the word: MelancholyI like for you to be stillAnd you seem far awayIt sounds as though you are lamentingA butterfly cooing like a doveAnd you hear me from far awayAnd my voice does not reach youLet me come to be still in your silenceAnd let me talk to you with your silenceThat is bright as a lampSimple, as a ringYou are like the nightWith its stillness and constellationsYour silence is that of a starAs remote and candidI like for you to be stillIt is as though you are absentDistant and full of sorrowSo you would've diedOne word then, One smile is enoughAnd I'm happy;Happy that it's not true(translated by W.S. Merwin)


Nunca había marcado como leído,este libro del poeta chileno y premio Nobel,Pablo Neruda,que escribió esta maravilla con 19 años.Como ven el señor desde joven era un genio con las palabras.El poema #20 es mi favorito Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.Lectura obligatoria para los amantes de la poesía.Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche. Escribir, por ejemplo: «La noche está estrellada, y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos.» El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta. Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche. Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso. En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos. La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito. Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería. Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos. Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche. Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido. Oír la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella. Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío. Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla. La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo. Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos. Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido. Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca. Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo. La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles. Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos. Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise. Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído. De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos. Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos. Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero. Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido. Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos, Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido. Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa, y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.


I do not love you except because I love you;I go from loving to not loving you,From waiting to not waiting for youMy heart moves from cold to fire.I love you only because it's you the one I love;I hate you deeply, and hating youBend to you, and the measure of my changing love for youIs that I do not see you but love you blindly.Maybe January light will consumeMy heart with its cruelRay, stealing my key to true calm.In this part of the story I am the one whoDies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.worthy book for all the tragic romantikus outthere =P


قرأتها بترجمة"محمود السيد على"- إحفظوا هذا الإسم- والصادرة عن المشروع القومى للترجمة فى بداية اصداراته...الترجمة سيئة ولا تسـأهل نجمة واحدة، لدى أيضاً ترجمة مختارات شعرية ل أوكتافيو باث..نفس المترجم ونفس المستوى ...فاحذروا


I took this with me on a holiday by the beach in winter for two main reasons:1. The friend who first introduced me to Neruda (with "Tonight I can write the saddest lines") loves that particular town, and it seemed appropriate; and2. The friend who loaned me the collection would surely find it hilarious to imagine me clutching the book to my bosom, staring tragically/romantically/poetically (they're all synonyms right?) out to sea.Actually, so would the first friend.Anyway. I am not much of a reader of poetry. I love the sound of poetry and I appreciate the artistry of using words as Neruda does, but I am at heart an impatient reader. I love words and I like the idea of lingering over them, but... it never really happens. Plus, I am realising that I am more plot-driven than beauty-focussed, which means poetry isn't really going to work for me.ANYWAY 2. Neruda. He uses words in beautiful ways - well, I presume he does in the original Spanish, and this isn't just WS Merwin's attempt to get work out there under someone else's name. (What would be the point of that anyway?) Friend 2 pointed out to me that Neruda objectifies his subject a lot, and that's absolutely crucial to much of his poetry: you don't get "Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs / you look like a world, lying in surrender" otherwise. But he does create some exquisite imagery. Ah vastness of pines, murmur of waves breaking,slow play of lights, solitary bell,twilight falling in your eyes, toy doll,earth-shell, in whom the earth sings!I had at first expected "Tonight I can write" to be the "Song of Despair" mentioned in the title, but it's not - it's the twentieth love poem. Which made me realise, as I had been slowly realising over reading the collection, that to differentiate the love poems and the song of despair is to suggest something that is not there. In most of the love poems, despair is either present or looming on the margins. And the song of despair is of course only possible because of the love that is also present. If you like poetry, this is highly recommended. If you want to try poetry, this is short and delightful and evocative. I'm glad I read it.

Asma Adnan

تتميّز أشعاره بارتباطها بالطبيعة بشكل كبير!من أجمل القصائد وأقربهنّ إلى قلبي قصيدة "أستطيع أن أكتب الأشعار" ..يقول:"أستطيع أن أكتب الأشعار الأكثر حزناً هذه الليلة.أن أفكر بأنّها ليست لي. أن أشعر بأنّي فقدتها.أنْ أصغي إلى امتداد الليل، والأكثر امتداداً مع غيابها.والشِعر يسقط على الروح كما الندى على العشب.ماذا يهم أنّ حبّيَ لم يقدر على الحفاظ عليها.الليلة ملأى بالنجوم وهي ليست معي.هذا هو كلُّ شيء. من البعيد أحدٌ يغنّي. من البعيد.روحي ليست راضيةً بأنّي أضعتُها.وكما لأُقرّبها مني تبحث عنها نظراتي.قلبي يبحث عنها، وهي ليست معي.ﻓﻲ الليلة نفسها التي تبيَضُّ فيها الأشجار نفسها،نحن، اللذَيْن كنّا آنذاك، لم نعد كما كُنّا."


Pablo Neruda este pur şi simplu incredibil. Nu am citit demult poezii atât de minunate şi Garcia Marquez nu a exagerat deloc atunci când a spus că Neruda "este cel mai mare poet al secolului XX, în orice limba". Şi volumul acesta a fost scris pe când avea 19 ani.Singur eram ca un tunel.***În tine cântă râurile şu sufletul meu fuge ofată cu ele***Şi îmi privesc cuvintele din depărtare.Ele găsesc un adăpost mai cald în tine decât în mine.Ca iedera se înalţă pe vechile-mi dureri.La fel suie ziduri ceţoase.Tu eşti vinovată pentru o astfel de trudă.Ele zboară din bârlogul meu întunecat.Totul se umple de tine, şi tu umpli totul.Înaintea ta, au populat golul pe care tu l-ai cucerit,şi îmi sunt mai vecine în tristeţe decât tine.Acum vreau ca ele să spună ce-am vrut eu să-ţi spunşi să te facă să auzi aşa cum eu aş vrea să mă auzi.***Mi te amintesc aşa cum erai astă toamnă.Erai pălăria cenuşie şi inima liniştită.În ochii tăi flăcările apusului purtau o luptă.Şi frunzele cădeau în bălţile din sufletul tău.Întinzându-mi braţele ca o plantă căţărătoare,frunzele îţi împânzeau vocea, calmă şi împăcată.Artificii de veneraţie în care setea-mi ardea.Zambilă dulce şi albastră răsucită pe sufletul meu.Îţi simt privirea călătorind, şi toamna se îndepărtează:pălărie cenuşie, cântec de pasăre, inimă-cămincătre care dorurile-mi adânci au migratşi săruturile mele s-au răsturnat, fericite ca jarul.Cer dintr-o corabie. Lot din întinsuri:amintirea ta se-ncheagă în lumină, în fum, în ape liniştite!Dincolo de ochii tăi, în depărtare, serile ardeau.Frunze uscate de toamnă se învârteau în sufletul tău.Gata, mai şi cumpăraţi cartea. :)

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