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Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon: Selected Poems
The poetry of Pablo Neruda is beloved worldwide for its passion, humor, and exceptional accessibility. The nearly fifty poems selected for this collection and translated by Stephen Mitchell—widely praised for his original and definitive translations of spiritual writings and poetry—focus on Neruda's mature period, when the poet was in his fifties. A bilingual volume, with Neruda's original Spanish text facing Mitchell's English translation, it will bring Neruda's sensuous work to vibrant life for a whole new generation of readers.
304 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1997
50 people are currently reading
1340 people want to read
About the author
Pablo Neruda
1,093 books9,681 followersPablo Neruda, born Ricardo Eliécer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto in 1904 in Parral, Chile, was a poet, diplomat, and politician, widely considered one of the most influential literary figures of the 20th century. From an early age, he showed a deep passion for poetry, publishing his first works as a teenager. He adopted the pen name Pablo Neruda to avoid disapproval from his father, who discouraged his literary ambitions. His breakthrough came with Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada (Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, 1924), a collection of deeply emotional and sensual poetry that gained international recognition and remains one of his most celebrated works.
Neruda’s career took him beyond literature into diplomacy, a path that allowed him to travel extensively and engage with political movements around the world. Beginning in 1927, he served in various consular posts in Asia and later in Spain, where he witnessed the Spanish Civil War and became an outspoken advocate for the Republican cause. His experiences led him to embrace communism, a commitment that would shape much of his later poetry and political activism. His collection España en el corazón (Spain in Our Hearts, 1937) reflected his deep sorrow over the war and marked a shift toward politically engaged writing.
Returning to Chile, he was elected to the Senate in 1945 as a member of the Communist Party. However, his vocal opposition to the repressive policies of President Gabriel Gonzalez Videla led to his exile. During this period, he traveled through various countries, including Argentina, Mexico, and the Soviet Union, further cementing his status as a global literary and political figure. It was during these years that he wrote Canto General (1950), an epic work chronicling Latin American history and the struggles of its people.
Neruda’s return to Chile in 1952 marked a new phase in his life, balancing political activity with a prolific literary output. He remained a staunch supporter of socialist ideals and later developed a close relationship with Salvador Allende, who appointed him as Chile’s ambassador to France in 1970. The following year, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, recognized for the scope and impact of his poetry. His later years were marked by illness, and he died in 1973, just days after the military coup that overthrew Allende. His legacy endures, not only in his vast body of work but also in his influence on literature, political thought, and the cultural identity of Latin America.
Neruda’s career took him beyond literature into diplomacy, a path that allowed him to travel extensively and engage with political movements around the world. Beginning in 1927, he served in various consular posts in Asia and later in Spain, where he witnessed the Spanish Civil War and became an outspoken advocate for the Republican cause. His experiences led him to embrace communism, a commitment that would shape much of his later poetry and political activism. His collection España en el corazón (Spain in Our Hearts, 1937) reflected his deep sorrow over the war and marked a shift toward politically engaged writing.
Returning to Chile, he was elected to the Senate in 1945 as a member of the Communist Party. However, his vocal opposition to the repressive policies of President Gabriel Gonzalez Videla led to his exile. During this period, he traveled through various countries, including Argentina, Mexico, and the Soviet Union, further cementing his status as a global literary and political figure. It was during these years that he wrote Canto General (1950), an epic work chronicling Latin American history and the struggles of its people.
Neruda’s return to Chile in 1952 marked a new phase in his life, balancing political activity with a prolific literary output. He remained a staunch supporter of socialist ideals and later developed a close relationship with Salvador Allende, who appointed him as Chile’s ambassador to France in 1970. The following year, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, recognized for the scope and impact of his poetry. His later years were marked by illness, and he died in 1973, just days after the military coup that overthrew Allende. His legacy endures, not only in his vast body of work but also in his influence on literature, political thought, and the cultural identity of Latin America.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 113 reviews
April 21, 2017
"I intend to confuse things,
to unite them, make them new-born,
intermingle them, undress them,
until the light of the world
has the unity of the ocean,
a generous wholeness,
a fragrance alive a crackling."
- Pablo Neruda, "Too Many Names" in Full Woman, Fleshy Apple, Hot Moon
Neruda has a gift for love poems, a gift for opening the book of life and translating its pages. I bought this book decades ago and it was peeped at, but never fully read. It wasn't his love poems. It wasn't The Captain's Verses. But upon my maturity, upon my ripening, I've discovered the maturity I need to understand these later Neruda poems. These Odes to the Mundane (Socks, Suits, Ironing, Onions).
Neruda is both a South American Whitman and the Western Hemisphere's Horace. He finds gold everywhere. He tears the fleshy fruit from the seeds of truth that have been overlooked. It is easy to write a poem about love, but much harder to see the beauty of an onion. But delicately he unwraps it. He finds eroticism in the everyday. In that way, Neruda reminds me a bit of Edward Weston photographing peppers. His eye captures both the nature of the pepper and the nature of our human stare, our vision, our gaze. He discovers us in the inanimate. He finds humanity writhing under the rocks in the garden.
to unite them, make them new-born,
intermingle them, undress them,
until the light of the world
has the unity of the ocean,
a generous wholeness,
a fragrance alive a crackling."
- Pablo Neruda, "Too Many Names" in Full Woman, Fleshy Apple, Hot Moon
Neruda has a gift for love poems, a gift for opening the book of life and translating its pages. I bought this book decades ago and it was peeped at, but never fully read. It wasn't his love poems. It wasn't The Captain's Verses. But upon my maturity, upon my ripening, I've discovered the maturity I need to understand these later Neruda poems. These Odes to the Mundane (Socks, Suits, Ironing, Onions).
Neruda is both a South American Whitman and the Western Hemisphere's Horace. He finds gold everywhere. He tears the fleshy fruit from the seeds of truth that have been overlooked. It is easy to write a poem about love, but much harder to see the beauty of an onion. But delicately he unwraps it. He finds eroticism in the everyday. In that way, Neruda reminds me a bit of Edward Weston photographing peppers. His eye captures both the nature of the pepper and the nature of our human stare, our vision, our gaze. He discovers us in the inanimate. He finds humanity writhing under the rocks in the garden.
September 4, 2011
"I want to speak with many things
and I won't leave this planet
without knowing what I came to find,
without resolving this matter,
and people are not enough
I have to go much farther
and I have to get much closer." — a portion of "Bestiary", from Extravagaria
I truly believe that if every person viewed the world and its life the way Neruda did it would be a much better place.
I never would've dreamed that words could be so beautiful when used to describe what I thought were the most mundane of things: socks, onions, salt, etc.
The tame, the wild, the sensual, the beauty of life, the rush of life, the air that gives us life — it is all covered in this collection. No stone is left unturned and reading this has truly opened my eyes to help me see how beautiful those stones are.
This is a collection of Neruda's later poems, written when he was in his fifties. The translator, Stephen Mitchell, says of his selections in the foreword, "These are the poems of a happy man, deeply fulfilled in his sexuality, at home in the world, in love with life and its infinite particular forms, overflowing with the joy of language." After reading them I can attest to that statement wholeheartedly. These poems are vibrant, magnificent, and entirely beautiful.
If I had to pick favorites, I would perhaps say "Ode to the Artichoke" or "Ode to the Seagull," as they were both particularly special for me. But in all truth, I think the one below was my most favorite. By the bye, I have searched for other translations and Mitchell's seems to be the best.
"Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.
This one time upon the earth,
let's not speak any language,
let's stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.
It would be a delicious moment,
without hurry, without locomotives,
all of us would be together
in a sudden uneasiness.
The fishermen in the cold sea
would do no harm to the whales
and the peasant gathering salt
would look at his torn hands.
Those who prepare green wars,
wars of gas, wars of fire,
victories without survivors,
would put on clean clothing
and would walk alongside their brothers
in the shade, without doing a thing.
What I want shouldn't be confused
with final inactivity:
life alone is what matters,
I want nothing to do with death.
If we weren't unanimous
about keeping our lives so much in motion,
if we could do nothing for once,
perhaps a great silence would
interrupt this sadness,
this never understanding ourselves
and threatening ourselves with death,
perhaps the earth is teaching us
when everything seems to be dead
and then everything is alive.
Now I will count to twelve
and you keep quiet and I'll go." — "Keeping Quiet", from Extragavaria
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding when I finished reading that.
and I won't leave this planet
without knowing what I came to find,
without resolving this matter,
and people are not enough
I have to go much farther
and I have to get much closer." — a portion of "Bestiary", from Extravagaria
I truly believe that if every person viewed the world and its life the way Neruda did it would be a much better place.
I never would've dreamed that words could be so beautiful when used to describe what I thought were the most mundane of things: socks, onions, salt, etc.
The tame, the wild, the sensual, the beauty of life, the rush of life, the air that gives us life — it is all covered in this collection. No stone is left unturned and reading this has truly opened my eyes to help me see how beautiful those stones are.
This is a collection of Neruda's later poems, written when he was in his fifties. The translator, Stephen Mitchell, says of his selections in the foreword, "These are the poems of a happy man, deeply fulfilled in his sexuality, at home in the world, in love with life and its infinite particular forms, overflowing with the joy of language." After reading them I can attest to that statement wholeheartedly. These poems are vibrant, magnificent, and entirely beautiful.
If I had to pick favorites, I would perhaps say "Ode to the Artichoke" or "Ode to the Seagull," as they were both particularly special for me. But in all truth, I think the one below was my most favorite. By the bye, I have searched for other translations and Mitchell's seems to be the best.
"Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.
This one time upon the earth,
let's not speak any language,
let's stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.
It would be a delicious moment,
without hurry, without locomotives,
all of us would be together
in a sudden uneasiness.
The fishermen in the cold sea
would do no harm to the whales
and the peasant gathering salt
would look at his torn hands.
Those who prepare green wars,
wars of gas, wars of fire,
victories without survivors,
would put on clean clothing
and would walk alongside their brothers
in the shade, without doing a thing.
What I want shouldn't be confused
with final inactivity:
life alone is what matters,
I want nothing to do with death.
If we weren't unanimous
about keeping our lives so much in motion,
if we could do nothing for once,
perhaps a great silence would
interrupt this sadness,
this never understanding ourselves
and threatening ourselves with death,
perhaps the earth is teaching us
when everything seems to be dead
and then everything is alive.
Now I will count to twelve
and you keep quiet and I'll go." — "Keeping Quiet", from Extragavaria
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding when I finished reading that.
April 2, 2013
“If we could do nothing for once,
Perhaps a great silence would
Interrupt this sadness,
This never understanding ourselves
And threatening ourselves with death,
Perhaps the earth is teaching us
When everything seems to be dead
And then everything is alive.”
— Pablo Neruda, Keeping Quiet
I loved this poetry collection; it contained so many odes to the most unlikeliest of subjects; ironing, watermelon, chestnuts, the poet's suit, for example.I was more touched than I thought I would be at his odes to animals and foods; Neruda definitely had a unique way of looking at things.
The language was very lyrical and sensual. This book also had the poems in Spanish on the left.That made me wish I had continued to study Spanish, it would have been nice to be able to read the poems in their original language. I will definitely be reading this one again.
Perhaps a great silence would
Interrupt this sadness,
This never understanding ourselves
And threatening ourselves with death,
Perhaps the earth is teaching us
When everything seems to be dead
And then everything is alive.”
— Pablo Neruda, Keeping Quiet
I loved this poetry collection; it contained so many odes to the most unlikeliest of subjects; ironing, watermelon, chestnuts, the poet's suit, for example.I was more touched than I thought I would be at his odes to animals and foods; Neruda definitely had a unique way of looking at things.
The language was very lyrical and sensual. This book also had the poems in Spanish on the left.That made me wish I had continued to study Spanish, it would have been nice to be able to read the poems in their original language. I will definitely be reading this one again.
March 9, 2022
Buku pilihan puisi yang kena dengan jiwa
April 23, 2016
This was a great collection. I have read some of Neruda's poetry before, but never come across his Odes before. They capture something about Neruda, how he can be so fun and playful ... and at the same time powerful. Here is are a couple from this collection I really liked:
Ode To The Onion by Pablo Neruda
Onion,
luminous flask,
your beauty formed
petal by petal,
crystal scales expanded you
and in the secrecy of the dark earth
your belly grew round with dew.
Under the earth
the miracle
happened
and when your clumsy
green stem appeared,
and your leaves were born
like swords
in the garden,
the earth heaped up her power
showing your naked transparency,
and as the remote sea
in lifting the breasts of Aphrodite
duplicating the magnolia,
so did the earth
make you,
onion
clear as a planet
and destined
to shine,
constant constellation,
round rose of water,
upon
the table
of the poor.
You make us cry without hurting us.
I have praised everything that exists,
but to me, onion, you are
more beautiful than a bird
of dazzling feathers,
heavenly globe, platinum goblet,
unmoving dance
of the snowy anemone
and the fragrance of the earth lives
in your crystalline nature.
and
Ode To Bird Watching
Now
Let's look for birds!
The tall iron branches
in the forest,
The dense
fertility on the ground.
The world
is wet.
A dewdrop or raindrop
shines,
a diminutive star
among the leaves.
The morning time
mother earth
is cool.
The air
is like a river
which shakes
the silence.
It smells of rosemary,
of space
and roots.
Overhead,
a crazy song.
It's a bird.
How
out of its throat
smaller than a finger
can there fall the waters
of its song?
Luminous ease!
Invisible
power
torrent
of music
in the leaves.
Sacred conversations!
Clean and fresh washed
is this
day resounding
like a green dulcimer.
I bury
my shoes
in the mud,
jump over rivulets.
A thorn
bites me and a gust
of air like a crystal
wave
splits up inside my chest.
Where
are the birds?
Maybe it was
that
rustling in the foliage
or that fleeting pellet
of brown velvet
or that displaced
perfume? That
leaf that let loose cinnamon smell
- was that a bird? That dust
from an irritated magnolia
or that fruit
which fell with a thump -
was that a flight?
Oh, invisible little
critters
birds of the devil
with their ringing
with their useless feathers.
I only want
to caress them,
to see them resplendent.
I don't want
to see under glass
the embalmed lightning.
I want to see them living.
I want to touch their gloves
of real hide,
which they never forget in
the branches
and to converse with
them
sitting on my shoulders
although they may leave
me like certain statues
undeservedly whitewashed.
Impossible.
You can't touch them.
You can hear them
like a heavenly
rustle or movement.
They converse
with precision.
They repeat
their observations.
They brag
of how much they do.
They comment
on everything that exists.
They learn
certain sciences
like hydrography.
and by a sure science
they know
where there are harvests
of grain.
Ode To The Onion by Pablo Neruda
Onion,
luminous flask,
your beauty formed
petal by petal,
crystal scales expanded you
and in the secrecy of the dark earth
your belly grew round with dew.
Under the earth
the miracle
happened
and when your clumsy
green stem appeared,
and your leaves were born
like swords
in the garden,
the earth heaped up her power
showing your naked transparency,
and as the remote sea
in lifting the breasts of Aphrodite
duplicating the magnolia,
so did the earth
make you,
onion
clear as a planet
and destined
to shine,
constant constellation,
round rose of water,
upon
the table
of the poor.
You make us cry without hurting us.
I have praised everything that exists,
but to me, onion, you are
more beautiful than a bird
of dazzling feathers,
heavenly globe, platinum goblet,
unmoving dance
of the snowy anemone
and the fragrance of the earth lives
in your crystalline nature.
and
Ode To Bird Watching
Now
Let's look for birds!
The tall iron branches
in the forest,
The dense
fertility on the ground.
The world
is wet.
A dewdrop or raindrop
shines,
a diminutive star
among the leaves.
The morning time
mother earth
is cool.
The air
is like a river
which shakes
the silence.
It smells of rosemary,
of space
and roots.
Overhead,
a crazy song.
It's a bird.
How
out of its throat
smaller than a finger
can there fall the waters
of its song?
Luminous ease!
Invisible
power
torrent
of music
in the leaves.
Sacred conversations!
Clean and fresh washed
is this
day resounding
like a green dulcimer.
I bury
my shoes
in the mud,
jump over rivulets.
A thorn
bites me and a gust
of air like a crystal
wave
splits up inside my chest.
Where
are the birds?
Maybe it was
that
rustling in the foliage
or that fleeting pellet
of brown velvet
or that displaced
perfume? That
leaf that let loose cinnamon smell
- was that a bird? That dust
from an irritated magnolia
or that fruit
which fell with a thump -
was that a flight?
Oh, invisible little
critters
birds of the devil
with their ringing
with their useless feathers.
I only want
to caress them,
to see them resplendent.
I don't want
to see under glass
the embalmed lightning.
I want to see them living.
I want to touch their gloves
of real hide,
which they never forget in
the branches
and to converse with
them
sitting on my shoulders
although they may leave
me like certain statues
undeservedly whitewashed.
Impossible.
You can't touch them.
You can hear them
like a heavenly
rustle or movement.
They converse
with precision.
They repeat
their observations.
They brag
of how much they do.
They comment
on everything that exists.
They learn
certain sciences
like hydrography.
and by a sure science
they know
where there are harvests
of grain.
October 8, 2014
This book was left outside of a bankrupted antique bookshop in Israel, I went there a lot of times to rescue books, but this one I omitted. Before being collected as trash, someone picked it up for me, and luckily I didn't trash it ...
Then it reminds me how significant a cover design is, people must be judging its content by its book cover, therefore, I will have the chance to save it at last. Because one seldomly knows Pablo Neruda received Nobel Prize in literature in 1971. I didn't know this as well. In the middle of my reading, I realized his talent must to led him become someone special, WIKI told me, YES...
I didn't like all his Odes to Salt, to all kinds of fruits or even his socks, but I do like poet's thinking. He has a special way of seeing life. And he has a thing with the color Green, both despair and hope, yes? like a black wing. It's wing, for flying, so it's hope, but it's black, bears sorrow.
That's the life we remember.
Then it reminds me how significant a cover design is, people must be judging its content by its book cover, therefore, I will have the chance to save it at last. Because one seldomly knows Pablo Neruda received Nobel Prize in literature in 1971. I didn't know this as well. In the middle of my reading, I realized his talent must to led him become someone special, WIKI told me, YES...
I didn't like all his Odes to Salt, to all kinds of fruits or even his socks, but I do like poet's thinking. He has a special way of seeing life. And he has a thing with the color Green, both despair and hope, yes? like a black wing. It's wing, for flying, so it's hope, but it's black, bears sorrow.
That's the life we remember.
July 29, 2008
What can I say, or write, about Pablo Neruda? The images his words bring to mind seem to become tangible as the reading continues. This book of odes is wonderful, some of my favorite Neruda of all. I especially enjoy the Ode to Birds and the Ode to an Artichoke. Simple, sensual, ponderous and joyful... a wonderful celebration of each poem's subject. If you love Neruda (or poetry in general) I highly recommend this great collection. Enjoy!
Read
January 4, 2010Pablo Neruda is straight-up fantastic and Stephen Mitchell is quite a capable translator, though oddly, I like his work better here than in other translations.
My favorite poem ever, "Ode to the Black Panther," is in this book.
My favorite poem ever, "Ode to the Black Panther," is in this book.
February 3, 2010
"I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz/
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:/
I love you as certain dark things are loved,/
secretly, between the shadow and the soul."
Need more be written?
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:/
I love you as certain dark things are loved,/
secretly, between the shadow and the soul."
Need more be written?
April 13, 2013
Pablo Neruda sees things, appreciates things, and he wallows in the beauty of these things he sees and appreciates in his poems. From the ordinary sock to a few people whom he holds dear, Neruda describes the essence of things in a way that enable you to appreciate them too.
April 7, 2017
I love the odes to ordinary things best: an onion, salt, a pair of warm socks (of course).
November 15, 2018
There is a plethora of vibrant images imbued with the elements of nature in Neruda’s poems... He doesn’t craft his sublime metaphors, he breathes them.. The synesthesia pervades in his romantic language for that every impression, perception and feeling stimulate incessantly his five senses.. the perceptive images are swaddled with aromas, colors, textures, sounds, savors and tastes.
Audio of Madonna reciting the poem If You Forget Me
https://youtu.be/TAOFi2flycs
***
I Crave Your Mouth...
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest, hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
***
I Do Not Love You...
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
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; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way
that this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
***
THE WORD recounts Neruda’s poetic perspective about the origin of language
The word was born
in the blood,
it grew in the dark body, pulsing,
and took flight with the lips and mouth.
Farther away and nearer,
still, still it came
from dead fathers and from wandering races, from territories that had become stone,
that had tired of their poor tribes,
because when grief set out on the road
the people went and arrived
and united new land and water
to sow their word once again.
And that's why the inheritance is this:
this is the air that connects us
with the buried man and with the dawn
of new beings that haven't yet arisen.
Still the atmosphere trembles with the first word
produced
with panic and groaning.
It emerged
from the darkness
and even now there is no thunder
that thunders with the iron sound
of that word,
the first
word uttered:
perhaps it was just a whisper, a raindrop, but its cascade still falls and falls.
Later on, meaning fills the word.
It stayed pregnant and was filled with lives, everything was births and sounds: affirmation, clarity, strength,
negation, destruction, death:
the name took on all the powers
and combined existence with essence
in its electric beauty.
Human word, syllable, flank
of long light and hard silver,
hereditary goblet that receives
the communications of the blood:
it is here that silence was formed by
the whole of the human word
and not to speak is to die among beings: language extends out to the hair,
the mouth speaks without moving the lips: suddenly the eyes are words.
I take the word and move through it, as if it were
only a human form,
its lines delight me and I sail
in each resonance of language: I utter and I am
and across the boundary of words, without speaking, I approach silence.
I drink to the word, raising a word or crystalline cup, in it I drink
the wine of language
or unfathomable water,
maternal source of all words,
and cup and water and wine
give rise to my song
because the name is origin
and green life: it is blood,
the blood that expresses its substance, and thus its unrolling is prepared: words give crystal to the crystal,
blood to the blood, and give life to life.
***
Audio of Madonna reciting the poem If You Forget Me
https://youtu.be/TAOFi2flycs
***
I Crave Your Mouth...
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest, hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
***
I Do Not Love You...
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
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; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way
that this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
***
THE WORD recounts Neruda’s poetic perspective about the origin of language
The word was born
in the blood,
it grew in the dark body, pulsing,
and took flight with the lips and mouth.
Farther away and nearer,
still, still it came
from dead fathers and from wandering races, from territories that had become stone,
that had tired of their poor tribes,
because when grief set out on the road
the people went and arrived
and united new land and water
to sow their word once again.
And that's why the inheritance is this:
this is the air that connects us
with the buried man and with the dawn
of new beings that haven't yet arisen.
Still the atmosphere trembles with the first word
produced
with panic and groaning.
It emerged
from the darkness
and even now there is no thunder
that thunders with the iron sound
of that word,
the first
word uttered:
perhaps it was just a whisper, a raindrop, but its cascade still falls and falls.
Later on, meaning fills the word.
It stayed pregnant and was filled with lives, everything was births and sounds: affirmation, clarity, strength,
negation, destruction, death:
the name took on all the powers
and combined existence with essence
in its electric beauty.
Human word, syllable, flank
of long light and hard silver,
hereditary goblet that receives
the communications of the blood:
it is here that silence was formed by
the whole of the human word
and not to speak is to die among beings: language extends out to the hair,
the mouth speaks without moving the lips: suddenly the eyes are words.
I take the word and move through it, as if it were
only a human form,
its lines delight me and I sail
in each resonance of language: I utter and I am
and across the boundary of words, without speaking, I approach silence.
I drink to the word, raising a word or crystalline cup, in it I drink
the wine of language
or unfathomable water,
maternal source of all words,
and cup and water and wine
give rise to my song
because the name is origin
and green life: it is blood,
the blood that expresses its substance, and thus its unrolling is prepared: words give crystal to the crystal,
blood to the blood, and give life to life.
***
December 23, 2019
I'm not sure how this title came to be. It's a beautiful collection of short poems, many of them odes to things like fruit, animals, his suit, etc. I will keep this book in mind for stressful times because it's really soothing in its simple gorgeousness.
January 19, 2022
Absolutely beautiful!
Bought the Spanish/English version and enjoyed it fully in both languages. Also enjoyed reading it aloud to my mother who is also a poetry aficionado.
Ugh … what gorgeous writing.
I look forward to additional forays into these pages again and again and again.
Bought the Spanish/English version and enjoyed it fully in both languages. Also enjoyed reading it aloud to my mother who is also a poetry aficionado.
Ugh … what gorgeous writing.
I look forward to additional forays into these pages again and again and again.
April 27, 2021
What a great way to unwind after a day at work. I love Pablo Neruda. His poetry is so luscious, sensual, gorgeous, and strange in just the right way.
October 2, 2015
What we know is so little
and what we presume is so much
and we learn so slowly
that we ask and then we die.
And my parents are asking me why I'm so obsessed about learning the Spanish language! This - and a bunch of other Latin American literature - is precisely why! Pablo Neruda has to be one of my favorite poets. I love his style, and the way he manipulates words, as is exemplified in a portion in his poem "The Word":
I take the word and move
through it, as if it were
only a human form,
its lines delight me and I sail
in each resonance of language:
I utter and I am
and across the boundary of words,
without speaking, I approach silence.
Prior to reading this beautiful anthology, I've already read some of Pablo Neruda's poems, namely: Poetry, Poet's Obligation, Ars Poetica, and The United Fruit Company. I especially love the first two. On the other hand, in this collection, my favorites would be: Ode to a Watch in the Night, Ode to My Suit, Sonnet XVII, and Bestiary.
What I love most about him is his spontaneity and randomness. It was as though Neruda would close his eyes and point at something random. And he would write a poem about whatever that thing was. That's exactly how I felt - I mean, come one, whoever wrote odes addressed to a suit, and even more so, to a pair of socks? Only Neruda would do that, and amazingly, it would just turn out so nicely and perfectly crafted.
Reading this anthology was such a rich experience. Every poem transports me to a different world. How can he do that, interweave the most mundane object into something that encompasses everything in the world and in our existence? Some poems can very profound, and I have a feeling that they are allusions of something bigger.
Pablo Neruda is famous for his erotic poems, but in this collection, there wasn't much of it, perhaps only in one or two poems. But you wouldn't even have guessed it, because as I have mentioned before, he could turn the most mundane thing into something else.
I have read hundreds of poems before, but this would be the first collection that I finished. Goodness, I just realized how unbelievably difficult it is to write a review of poetry! I know I'm just rambling, but I'm not Neruda, and I can't properly wield into words how much I really love and adore this poet.
and what we presume is so much
and we learn so slowly
that we ask and then we die.
- "Through a Closed Mouth the Flies Enter"
And my parents are asking me why I'm so obsessed about learning the Spanish language! This - and a bunch of other Latin American literature - is precisely why! Pablo Neruda has to be one of my favorite poets. I love his style, and the way he manipulates words, as is exemplified in a portion in his poem "The Word":
I take the word and move
through it, as if it were
only a human form,
its lines delight me and I sail
in each resonance of language:
I utter and I am
and across the boundary of words,
without speaking, I approach silence.
Prior to reading this beautiful anthology, I've already read some of Pablo Neruda's poems, namely: Poetry, Poet's Obligation, Ars Poetica, and The United Fruit Company. I especially love the first two. On the other hand, in this collection, my favorites would be: Ode to a Watch in the Night, Ode to My Suit, Sonnet XVII, and Bestiary.
What I love most about him is his spontaneity and randomness. It was as though Neruda would close his eyes and point at something random. And he would write a poem about whatever that thing was. That's exactly how I felt - I mean, come one, whoever wrote odes addressed to a suit, and even more so, to a pair of socks? Only Neruda would do that, and amazingly, it would just turn out so nicely and perfectly crafted.
Reading this anthology was such a rich experience. Every poem transports me to a different world. How can he do that, interweave the most mundane object into something that encompasses everything in the world and in our existence? Some poems can very profound, and I have a feeling that they are allusions of something bigger.
Pablo Neruda is famous for his erotic poems, but in this collection, there wasn't much of it, perhaps only in one or two poems. But you wouldn't even have guessed it, because as I have mentioned before, he could turn the most mundane thing into something else.
I have read hundreds of poems before, but this would be the first collection that I finished. Goodness, I just realized how unbelievably difficult it is to write a review of poetry! I know I'm just rambling, but I'm not Neruda, and I can't properly wield into words how much I really love and adore this poet.
May 4, 2011
I bought this collection of Pablo Neruda's poetry in 2001 and its taken me until now, ten years later, to finish it. This extremely slow pace should not be mistaken for dislike of the book, however. I had not read Neruda's work before I bought Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon. Traveling Mexico, I was looking for a book in Spanish and English that I could read, enjoy, and practice my Spanish with and I remembered that my Spanish teacher had mentioned this poet's name in class at one point.
I began reading the book by first reading the poem in Spanish, then in English, then in Spanish again, to begin to get a sense of the poetic phrasing and how the language was translated.
As I began reading, however, I fell in love with each new ode and the way Neruda was clearly in love with life, the universe, and everything. He wrote odes to socks, to birds, to onions, to anything and everything this world has to offer. All of these ordinary things, which he layered with sensual and resonant language, suddenly had new mystical properties. I could not look at the armored artichoke the same way again as I dropped it into a pot to boil.
One would think I would have powered through the book to read every single poem, but the truth was I could not leave my favorite poems behind. This was a book I always had at hand, on a night stand or in my stack of TBR books. No matter what other books I was reading, I always eventually came back to these poems, returning to them like old lovers. I reread my favorites again and again, while every once in a while progressing forward to the another poem, a new favorite to be added to the list.
Now that I've finally finished the book, beginning to end, I will still be keeping it close. There is so much beautiful language to revisit and rediscover. This is a book that will probably always be by my side.
I began reading the book by first reading the poem in Spanish, then in English, then in Spanish again, to begin to get a sense of the poetic phrasing and how the language was translated.
As I began reading, however, I fell in love with each new ode and the way Neruda was clearly in love with life, the universe, and everything. He wrote odes to socks, to birds, to onions, to anything and everything this world has to offer. All of these ordinary things, which he layered with sensual and resonant language, suddenly had new mystical properties. I could not look at the armored artichoke the same way again as I dropped it into a pot to boil.
One would think I would have powered through the book to read every single poem, but the truth was I could not leave my favorite poems behind. This was a book I always had at hand, on a night stand or in my stack of TBR books. No matter what other books I was reading, I always eventually came back to these poems, returning to them like old lovers. I reread my favorites again and again, while every once in a while progressing forward to the another poem, a new favorite to be added to the list.
Now that I've finally finished the book, beginning to end, I will still be keeping it close. There is so much beautiful language to revisit and rediscover. This is a book that will probably always be by my side.
April 18, 2019
"We were so patient
about being,
noting down
the numbers, the days,
the years and the months,
the hair, the mouths we kissed,
but that moment of dying:
we surrender it without a note,
we give it to others as remembrance
or we give it simply to water,
to water, to air, to time.
Nor do we keep
the memory of our birth,
though being born was important and fresh:
and now you don’t even remember one detail,
you haven’t kept even a branch
of the first light.
It’s well known that we are born.
It’s well known that in the room
or in the woods
or in the hut in the fisherman’s district
or in the crackling canefields
there is a very unusual silence,
a moment solemn as wood,
and a woman gets ready to give birth.
It’s well known that we were born.
But of the profound jolt
from not being to existing, to having hands,
to seeing, to having eyes,
to eating and crying and overflowing
and loving and loving and suffering and suffering,
of that transition or shudder
of the electric essence that takes on
one more body like a living cup,
and of that disinhabited woman,
the mother who is left there with her blood
and her torn fullness
and her end and beginning, and the disorder
that troubles the pulse, the floor, the blankets,
until everything gathers and adds
one more knot to the thread of life:
nothing, there is nothing left in your memory
of the fierce sea that lifted like a wave
and knocked down a dark apple from the tree.
The only thing you remember is your life."
— WE WILL NEVER REMEMBER DYING
Other favourites: 2 love sonnets, Births, Ode To A Watch At Night and Walking Around (not officially part of the book).
about being,
noting down
the numbers, the days,
the years and the months,
the hair, the mouths we kissed,
but that moment of dying:
we surrender it without a note,
we give it to others as remembrance
or we give it simply to water,
to water, to air, to time.
Nor do we keep
the memory of our birth,
though being born was important and fresh:
and now you don’t even remember one detail,
you haven’t kept even a branch
of the first light.
It’s well known that we are born.
It’s well known that in the room
or in the woods
or in the hut in the fisherman’s district
or in the crackling canefields
there is a very unusual silence,
a moment solemn as wood,
and a woman gets ready to give birth.
It’s well known that we were born.
But of the profound jolt
from not being to existing, to having hands,
to seeing, to having eyes,
to eating and crying and overflowing
and loving and loving and suffering and suffering,
of that transition or shudder
of the electric essence that takes on
one more body like a living cup,
and of that disinhabited woman,
the mother who is left there with her blood
and her torn fullness
and her end and beginning, and the disorder
that troubles the pulse, the floor, the blankets,
until everything gathers and adds
one more knot to the thread of life:
nothing, there is nothing left in your memory
of the fierce sea that lifted like a wave
and knocked down a dark apple from the tree.
The only thing you remember is your life."
— WE WILL NEVER REMEMBER DYING
Other favourites: 2 love sonnets, Births, Ode To A Watch At Night and Walking Around (not officially part of the book).
June 26, 2012
These poems, translated into English on the right side of each spread, are so clear that I can remember the exact words later-- rather than just the idea or the picture. For me, that's a miracle to be able to remember the exact words of something. Here is someone who truly uses words well. I've been contemplating his phrase about cabbages "trying on skirts" in the garden, and his reference to the unity of a "generous ocean" for a month.
So these poems are somehow solid, more real, than most words I've ever read. I actually cried over his dde to an onion, maybe the best poem I've ever read. I'm not exaggerating. These poems are so good, I've decided to memorize some in both English and Spanish. These poems are so good, they could be used to each Spanish. These poems are so good, I might actually learn to like reading poetry. Yes, I said that.
So these poems are somehow solid, more real, than most words I've ever read. I actually cried over his dde to an onion, maybe the best poem I've ever read. I'm not exaggerating. These poems are so good, I've decided to memorize some in both English and Spanish. These poems are so good, they could be used to each Spanish. These poems are so good, I might actually learn to like reading poetry. Yes, I said that.
November 30, 2008
I purchased this book the other night because I was meeting a friend for drinks at a smoky bar, and I had an hour or two to myself before our encounter. It was a lovely November evening with the slight Portland drizzle doing its part to make the night magical. I settled for this collection because it was on sale for seven bucks, and it was the perfect companion for the evening. The beautiful way of Neruda's seeing is inspiring, and instills within me a certain everyday holiness that makes me feel blessed to be alive. Also, this bilingual edition is useful to students of Spanish and students of beauty alike.
November 17, 2011
Give me your slow blood,
cold
rain,
give me your astonished flight!
Give me back
the key
of the door that was shut,
destroyed.
For a moment, for
a short lifetime,
take the light from me and let me
feel myself
lost and miserable,
trembling among the threads
of twilight,
receiveing into my soul
the trembling
hands
of
the
rain.
cold
rain,
give me your astonished flight!
Give me back
the key
of the door that was shut,
destroyed.
For a moment, for
a short lifetime,
take the light from me and let me
feel myself
lost and miserable,
trembling among the threads
of twilight,
receiveing into my soul
the trembling
hands
of
the
rain.
November 16, 2008
Sensuality defined. The universe hums with electricity and colour in Neruda's verse. There is an intimacy and vivacity and humour to these poems which I don't think anyone matches so consistently. Mitchell's selections, and his rich translations are superb.
April 1, 2008
Best title ever! yummy poetry.
October 6, 2008
Neruda is in my top five . . . maybe my top two poets. So great -- and I don't really like poetry!
July 9, 2021
3. A book written in South America: Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon: Selected Poems of Pablo Neruda by Pablo Neruda, translated by Stephen Mitchell
List Progress: 21/30
I often feel like I’m not reading poetry correctly, at least when I read collections. My instincts are to keep turning the page like with a novel, and I end up not giving each poem enough room to breathe. I decided to try a different tact with this book, a collection of poems by Chilean writer and politician Pablo Neruda, where I would read one individual poem before bed while reading a novel during the day. And to my delight, Neruda turned out to be an excellent poet for this type of reading. So many of the poems in Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon are small, quiet meditations on innocuous items or locations, and I am glad I took the time to languish in them along with Neruda.
Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon is a selection of Neruda’s poems from across his career, translated into English by Stephen Mitchell, though the original Spanish is also presented in the volume. I only read a bare scattering of Spanish, so I can’t speak to the quality or faithfulness of the translation, but the images feel simple yet rich, not something that would necessarily need absolute accuracy in order to have the same impact.
Given what I knew of Neruda going in, I was surprised to find that the love poems did the least for me (including the one the Full Woman title is from). Poets have written about every possible aspect of love, even if Neruda was one of the first to write about it in this way, so the impact fell flat. But poems like “Ode to the Onion” and “Ode to My Socks”, that dive deep into something so everyday and domestic, finding awe in the everyday, feel bold and new, even decades after Neruda’s death.
It might be a while before I can call myself a poetry fan, but after Full Woman, I can certainly call myself a Neruda fan.
Would I Recommend It: Yes.
List Progress: 21/30
I often feel like I’m not reading poetry correctly, at least when I read collections. My instincts are to keep turning the page like with a novel, and I end up not giving each poem enough room to breathe. I decided to try a different tact with this book, a collection of poems by Chilean writer and politician Pablo Neruda, where I would read one individual poem before bed while reading a novel during the day. And to my delight, Neruda turned out to be an excellent poet for this type of reading. So many of the poems in Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon are small, quiet meditations on innocuous items or locations, and I am glad I took the time to languish in them along with Neruda.
Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon is a selection of Neruda’s poems from across his career, translated into English by Stephen Mitchell, though the original Spanish is also presented in the volume. I only read a bare scattering of Spanish, so I can’t speak to the quality or faithfulness of the translation, but the images feel simple yet rich, not something that would necessarily need absolute accuracy in order to have the same impact.
Given what I knew of Neruda going in, I was surprised to find that the love poems did the least for me (including the one the Full Woman title is from). Poets have written about every possible aspect of love, even if Neruda was one of the first to write about it in this way, so the impact fell flat. But poems like “Ode to the Onion” and “Ode to My Socks”, that dive deep into something so everyday and domestic, finding awe in the everyday, feel bold and new, even decades after Neruda’s death.
It might be a while before I can call myself a poetry fan, but after Full Woman, I can certainly call myself a Neruda fan.
Would I Recommend It: Yes.
August 6, 2021
A good collection of Pablo Neruda's poetry but a rather unorthodox selection, it has to be said. Translator Stephen Mitchell only chooses poems from when Neruda was in his fifties, i.e. from Elemental Odes onwards. He doesn't attempt to provide a balanced overview of Neruda's work; indeed, in his short foreword, he readily admits to only choosing his personal favourites. "I had to leave behind many of Neruda's greatest poems, because they weren't my favourites... As great as some of these poems obviously are, I am not often drawn to reread them" (pg. xiii). Mitchell does identify a common theme in his selections - that of nature, the poetry of "ripeness", and the interconnectivity of all things - which does make the book a cohesive collection, but at the same time only provides an insight into one - admittedly, significant - aspect of Neruda's poetry.
The poems themselves are as great as ever. I've read a fair bit of Neruda by now so I was already familiar with a lot of them, and to be honest I've preferred the translations I've read in other compilations like Selected Poems and The Essential Neruda. Mitchell's translated words just didn't seem to dominate the page in the same way those other translations did. Nevertheless, despite my familiarity with Neruda's work I was still blindsided by some really great poems, like 'To the Foot from Its Child'. Most of the selections are Neruda's 'Odes to...', eulogising everyday things like books, tomatoes, timepieces, wine, salt, as well as animals like cats, bees and seagulls. These are eye-opening as Neruda finds new angles to look at things that you wouldn't even notice in your day-to-day life. He finds hidden depths and beauty and nobility in a great number of seemingly mundane things, and expresses those qualities with gorgeous lyricism. Whilst it is not my favourite Neruda collection, Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon is still a worthwhile endeavour.
The poems themselves are as great as ever. I've read a fair bit of Neruda by now so I was already familiar with a lot of them, and to be honest I've preferred the translations I've read in other compilations like Selected Poems and The Essential Neruda. Mitchell's translated words just didn't seem to dominate the page in the same way those other translations did. Nevertheless, despite my familiarity with Neruda's work I was still blindsided by some really great poems, like 'To the Foot from Its Child'. Most of the selections are Neruda's 'Odes to...', eulogising everyday things like books, tomatoes, timepieces, wine, salt, as well as animals like cats, bees and seagulls. These are eye-opening as Neruda finds new angles to look at things that you wouldn't even notice in your day-to-day life. He finds hidden depths and beauty and nobility in a great number of seemingly mundane things, and expresses those qualities with gorgeous lyricism. Whilst it is not my favourite Neruda collection, Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon is still a worthwhile endeavour.
October 23, 2017
I listened to this on Audible in an attempt to a) read more; b) learn how to use Audible for my class; and c) give audiobooks a chance. I thought poetry would be better than other stuff in audiobook form; I cannot escape the feeling of cheesiness with audiobooks. And poetry probably is better in audiobook form, but what I discovered here is that I'd rather read Pablo Neruda in Spanish, and to do that, I need to read, not listen, because that's just where I am with Spanish.
This collection itself is compiled really well, at least for my taste. It's mostly "odes" - as in, "ode" is in the title of most of the poems - to everyday objects and the common person. Several fruits and animals are featured, for example. I was listening to this particular collection of Neruda poems particularly to fulfill the Read Harder Challenge's "a collection of poetry in translation on a theme other than love," and while this book is definitely not a collection of romantic love poems, I also hesitate to say it's not a collection of other-forms-of-love poems. I will count it anyway. :-)
This collection itself is compiled really well, at least for my taste. It's mostly "odes" - as in, "ode" is in the title of most of the poems - to everyday objects and the common person. Several fruits and animals are featured, for example. I was listening to this particular collection of Neruda poems particularly to fulfill the Read Harder Challenge's "a collection of poetry in translation on a theme other than love," and while this book is definitely not a collection of romantic love poems, I also hesitate to say it's not a collection of other-forms-of-love poems. I will count it anyway. :-)
June 16, 2023
Recommended for people who like communist poetry about vegetables, love, food, and botany. Verses make pleasant and sensuous summer gardening companions.
Also, I had no idea until reading Neruda’s poem “Ode to the Black Panther” that he had visited Singapore and after further inquiry, discovered that he was posted as a diplomat in Southeast Asia for some time in the late 1920s to early 1930s. He used to stay at the Raffles Hotel when in Singapore, and there is now a suite named after him, as well as luxury spas and miscellany that share this eponym elsewhere in Singapore. Very embarrassing when rich people visit luxury places named after a communist. This is not relevant to Neruda’s “Ode to the Black Panther” but this was an interesting little instagram post I saw on the Southeast Asian Peacock Chair which Huey P. Newton made into a symbol of Black Power.
Anyway, I found this book somewhere for $6 a year or two ago, and would happy to lend it to anyone I know around the GTA.
Also, I had no idea until reading Neruda’s poem “Ode to the Black Panther” that he had visited Singapore and after further inquiry, discovered that he was posted as a diplomat in Southeast Asia for some time in the late 1920s to early 1930s. He used to stay at the Raffles Hotel when in Singapore, and there is now a suite named after him, as well as luxury spas and miscellany that share this eponym elsewhere in Singapore. Very embarrassing when rich people visit luxury places named after a communist. This is not relevant to Neruda’s “Ode to the Black Panther” but this was an interesting little instagram post I saw on the Southeast Asian Peacock Chair which Huey P. Newton made into a symbol of Black Power.
Anyway, I found this book somewhere for $6 a year or two ago, and would happy to lend it to anyone I know around the GTA.
January 31, 2024
I listened to the audiobook. The narrator is also the translator (quite the impressive CV, showing great breadth of knowledge) and he does a terrific job, once you stop wishing he had a lower voice.
I have not found a Neruda select collection yet that has more than just a few of my favorite poems. At least this collection does not have any of those that are just downright tedious, so it’s my choice at present as the best of the bunch.
To fill in what this book was missing, I was able to supplement with the (14) Neruda poems used in the movie “Il Postino”. The filmmakers did a great job in selecting them and they are all good, to me. None of them are already in this book.
I have not found a Neruda select collection yet that has more than just a few of my favorite poems. At least this collection does not have any of those that are just downright tedious, so it’s my choice at present as the best of the bunch.
To fill in what this book was missing, I was able to supplement with the (14) Neruda poems used in the movie “Il Postino”. The filmmakers did a great job in selecting them and they are all good, to me. None of them are already in this book.
June 14, 2018
Despite the overtly sexual title, this isn't a book of sexy poems. (Unless you think seagulls and tomatoes are sexy.) However, the playful Odes, of which there are many, are full of love of the common thing. And, there are sensual, erotic poems in it, as well as poems on love and life.
As sort of a bonus, I enjoyed reading (or trying to read) the Spanish version on the right side of the book first, with my pretty rusty Spanish.
*I read this slowly over a few years. In between other reading.
As sort of a bonus, I enjoyed reading (or trying to read) the Spanish version on the right side of the book first, with my pretty rusty Spanish.
*I read this slowly over a few years. In between other reading.
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