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The Sea and the Bells
The sound of ships' bells, sea waves, and migratory birds fuel Neruda's longing to retreat from life's noisy busyness. Stripped to essentials, these poems are some of the last Neruda ever wrote, as he pulled "one dream out of another." Includes the final lovesong to his wife, written in the past "It was beautiful to live / When you lived!" Bilingual with introduction. "Deeply personal, expansive, and universal... majestic and understated beauty."— Publishers Weekly
124 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1972
26 people are currently reading
506 people want to read
About the author
Pablo Neruda
1,082 books9,623 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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August 2, 2020
The first book I completed this year was The Postman by Antonio Skarmeta which details the unlikely friendship between a postman in Isla Negra and the poet Pablo Neruda. Over the course of his life, Neruda has morphed into something bigger than himself. He was a three time ambassador and embodied the spirit of the people of Chile, a country he calls a long petal of the sea at the end of the earth. Isabel Allende includes at least one Neruda quote in each of her books that take place in their shared homeland. I have read two of Allende’s books this year, and Neruda plays a role in both of them. I had only read one volume of Neruda’s poetry and wanted more exposure to the work of the Nobel Laureate. Known by many as the poet, Neruda’s work is a homage to the people of Chile.
The Bells and the Sea is one of eight books of poems that Neruda worked on along with his memoir in during the last year of his life. He had planned to publish all eight books to commemorate his 70th birthday in July 1974. He had been sick, or so the reports say. In September 1973, the Chilean military overthrew the Salvador Allende government in a United States-backed coup d’etat. General Augusto Pinochet took over in a dictatorship government, and many Chileans went into exile. As a friend of Allende and supporter of his government, Neruda was in line to go into exile; however, he tragically passed away that same week in September 1973. It is still unknown whether he passed away of illness or took his own life rather than facing the prospect of living in a new Chile. His widow Matilde collected the poet’s works and had them published. These post humous books rank among his most accessible work. The writing is an ode to Matilde and to the land and people of Chile. Here are some passages that I found poignant:
Every Day, Matilde
Today, I dedicate this to you: you are long
like the body of Chile, delicate
like an anise flower,
and in every branch you bear witness
to our indelible springtimes:
What day is today? Your day.
And tomorrow is yesterday, it has not passed,
the day never slipped from your hands:
you guard the sun, the earth, the violets
in your slender shadow when you sleep.
And in this way, every morning
you give me life.
Matilde gave Neruda a reason to live in his final, turbulent years. Their home at Isla Negra abutted the sea and was luscious. With Allende’s government in a precarious situation, the poet had all but given up on living; however, still loved the land and people of Chile. These next brief passages speak to the relationship between the poet and people, assuring them that he will always be a part of them.
Untitled
My friends, I am not going,
I am from Iquique,
I am from the black vines of Parral,
from the water of Temuco,
from the slender land,
I am and I am here.
Here
I came here to count the bells
that live upon the surface of the sea,
that sound over the sea,
within the sea.
So, here I live.
Pablo Neruda has become a timeless icon of the country of Chile. His work has been translated into multiple languages around the world. I read a side by side translated edition by William O’Daly, who at the time of publication had been working on Neruda’s work for fourteen years. The poetry speaks to one’s soul. Some of the words are lost in translation, yet O’Daly does an adept job at making the English as luscious as the Spanish. As long as I continue to read works set in Chile that include Neruda’s words, I will be motivated to read his works. They are among the most heartfelt words I have read in any language.
5 🌊 🇨🇱 🔔 stars
The Bells and the Sea is one of eight books of poems that Neruda worked on along with his memoir in during the last year of his life. He had planned to publish all eight books to commemorate his 70th birthday in July 1974. He had been sick, or so the reports say. In September 1973, the Chilean military overthrew the Salvador Allende government in a United States-backed coup d’etat. General Augusto Pinochet took over in a dictatorship government, and many Chileans went into exile. As a friend of Allende and supporter of his government, Neruda was in line to go into exile; however, he tragically passed away that same week in September 1973. It is still unknown whether he passed away of illness or took his own life rather than facing the prospect of living in a new Chile. His widow Matilde collected the poet’s works and had them published. These post humous books rank among his most accessible work. The writing is an ode to Matilde and to the land and people of Chile. Here are some passages that I found poignant:
Every Day, Matilde
Today, I dedicate this to you: you are long
like the body of Chile, delicate
like an anise flower,
and in every branch you bear witness
to our indelible springtimes:
What day is today? Your day.
And tomorrow is yesterday, it has not passed,
the day never slipped from your hands:
you guard the sun, the earth, the violets
in your slender shadow when you sleep.
And in this way, every morning
you give me life.
Matilde gave Neruda a reason to live in his final, turbulent years. Their home at Isla Negra abutted the sea and was luscious. With Allende’s government in a precarious situation, the poet had all but given up on living; however, still loved the land and people of Chile. These next brief passages speak to the relationship between the poet and people, assuring them that he will always be a part of them.
Untitled
My friends, I am not going,
I am from Iquique,
I am from the black vines of Parral,
from the water of Temuco,
from the slender land,
I am and I am here.
Here
I came here to count the bells
that live upon the surface of the sea,
that sound over the sea,
within the sea.
So, here I live.
Pablo Neruda has become a timeless icon of the country of Chile. His work has been translated into multiple languages around the world. I read a side by side translated edition by William O’Daly, who at the time of publication had been working on Neruda’s work for fourteen years. The poetry speaks to one’s soul. Some of the words are lost in translation, yet O’Daly does an adept job at making the English as luscious as the Spanish. As long as I continue to read works set in Chile that include Neruda’s words, I will be motivated to read his works. They are among the most heartfelt words I have read in any language.
5 🌊 🇨🇱 🔔 stars
February 21, 2019
Pablo Neruda is no longer just my favorite poet. His poetry has become one of the things I love most … period.
There is a short list of people (well, one person), places (a balcony on the coast of Corfu), foods (Parisian baguette sandwich), music (giving myself two here: Bach and Joni Mitchell), novels (almost impossible to pick one, but I’m going with Their Eyes Were Watching God) that are so luscious to me that I could spend forever enjoying them. I’m adding the poetry of Pablo Neruda to this list.
The Sea and the Bells contains some of his last poems. Many are achingly sad, but at the same time reflect a comforting clarity that must come from a life of looking deeply, and seeing.
He shows us bells:
“This broken bell
still wants to sing:
the metal now is green,
the color of woods, this bell,
color of water in stone pools in the forest,
color of day in the leaves.”
And rain:
“then to dance with unmeasured fury
over my heart and over the roof
reclaiming
its place,
asking me for a cup
to fill once more with needles,
with transparent time,
with tears.”
And music:
“the sound of the sky,
the blue voice of air.”
I am so happy to have discovered what day in the leaves looks like, to see rain as transparent time, and to understand the blue voice of air.
There is a short list of people (well, one person), places (a balcony on the coast of Corfu), foods (Parisian baguette sandwich), music (giving myself two here: Bach and Joni Mitchell), novels (almost impossible to pick one, but I’m going with Their Eyes Were Watching God) that are so luscious to me that I could spend forever enjoying them. I’m adding the poetry of Pablo Neruda to this list.
The Sea and the Bells contains some of his last poems. Many are achingly sad, but at the same time reflect a comforting clarity that must come from a life of looking deeply, and seeing.
He shows us bells:
“This broken bell
still wants to sing:
the metal now is green,
the color of woods, this bell,
color of water in stone pools in the forest,
color of day in the leaves.”
And rain:
“then to dance with unmeasured fury
over my heart and over the roof
reclaiming
its place,
asking me for a cup
to fill once more with needles,
with transparent time,
with tears.”
And music:
“the sound of the sky,
the blue voice of air.”
I am so happy to have discovered what day in the leaves looks like, to see rain as transparent time, and to understand the blue voice of air.
April 2, 2015
monotonous is my song,
my word is a shadow bird,
fauna of stone and sea, the grief
or a winter planet, incorruptible.
Forgive me this sequence of water,
of rock, of foam, of the tide’s
delirium: this is my loneliness:
salt in sudden leaps against the walls
of my secret being, in such a way
that I am a part
of winter,
of the same flat expanse that repeats from bell to bell, in wave after wave,
and from a silence like a woman’s hair, a silence of seaweed, a sunken song.
my word is a shadow bird,
fauna of stone and sea, the grief
or a winter planet, incorruptible.
Forgive me this sequence of water,
of rock, of foam, of the tide’s
delirium: this is my loneliness:
salt in sudden leaps against the walls
of my secret being, in such a way
that I am a part
of winter,
of the same flat expanse that repeats from bell to bell, in wave after wave,
and from a silence like a woman’s hair, a silence of seaweed, a sunken song.
April 12, 2021
One returns to the self as if to an old house
with nails and slots, so that
a person tired of himself
as of a suit full of holes,
tires to walk naked in the rain,
wants to drench himself in pure water,
in elemental wind, and he cannot
but return to the well of himself,
to the least worry
over whether he existed, whether he knew how to speak his mind
or to pay or to owe or to discover,
as if I were so important
that it must accept or not accept me,
the earth with its leafy name,
in its theater of black walls.
November 5, 2020
მთელი დღეა ვცდილობ დრო გამოვნახო, რომ ისეთი შეფასება დავუწერო როგორსაც იმსახურებს, მაგრამ რად გინდა..
მადლიერი ვარ, რომ პაბლო “გავიცანი”. veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada” უკეთესი იყო, რა თქმა უნდა. მგონია იმ შეფასებაში მაინც დიდწილად ჩავტიე ის გრძნობები რაც ნერუდას მიმართ მაქვს. მაგრამ ესეც ნამდვილად ძალიან კარგია.
მიყვარს, მიყვარს.
მადლიერი ვარ, რომ პაბლო “გავიცანი”. veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada” უკეთესი იყო, რა თქმა უნდა. მგონია იმ შეფასებაში მაინც დიდწილად ჩავტიე ის გრძნობები რაც ნერუდას მიმართ მაქვს. მაგრამ ესეც ნამდვილად ძალიან კარგია.
მიყვარს, მიყვარს.
May 17, 2008
lost in the senses. totally captivating. romantic. lost in beautiful images. it's like cool rain falling on waves of a distant, grey, hazy ocean.
June 1, 2020
Nunca tinha lido nada do Neruda antes e não recomendo começar por aqui. Como se trata de uma obra póstuma, que o autor escreveu no fim da vida, os temas não conversaram comigo. Entretanto, há poemas que me chamaram a atenção e trechos muito bonitos, então acho que vou tentar ler outras coisas dele. Embora meu espanhol não seja lá essas coisas, essa edição bilíngue da L&PM não parece ter uma boa tradução, então cuidado com isso!
January 31, 2010
A friend of mine who died of AIDS before the best drugs had been developed used to spend weeks at a time in a small town in Mexico. He would sit in the plaza and write poetry in English and Spanish. Before he became too sick, he made a Mexican meal for a group of us friends. I especially remember the tamales wrapped in corn husk, and the flan. After he died, I at times eat tamales, or flan, in his memory. I also read Pablo Neruda out loud. Each poem is displayed with the original Spanish on one side of the page, and the English translation opposite. This is ideal for people like me, who don't understand Spanish very well. I prefer to read the Spanish out loud, Neruda's original words. The emotion comes through best that way. Then I can read the English version and understand better. "Finale" always makes me cry.
January 22, 2021
Não há poema ruim nesse livro. Ok, foi o último livro escrito por Neruda, em seu leito de morte, e a experiência garantia que não fosse ficar fraco. (Embora, às vezes, alguns poetas não consigam manter o rebolado).
São poemas que evocam as imagens tão particulares de Neruda, o mar e os sinos (las campanas, em espanhol). Gosto dessas edições bilíngues da L&PM, pois prefiro ler em espanhol tendo o apoio da tradução. É impressionante como, quando comparado ao espanhol, o português "endurece" o poema.
O poema "Final" é uma das coisas mais lindas da vida, dedicado a Matilde. Acho que o Neruda é o único poeta que escreveu sobre amor e não ficou brega.
Excelente.
São poemas que evocam as imagens tão particulares de Neruda, o mar e os sinos (las campanas, em espanhol). Gosto dessas edições bilíngues da L&PM, pois prefiro ler em espanhol tendo o apoio da tradução. É impressionante como, quando comparado ao espanhol, o português "endurece" o poema.
O poema "Final" é uma das coisas mais lindas da vida, dedicado a Matilde. Acho que o Neruda é o único poeta que escreveu sobre amor e não ficou brega.
Excelente.
December 23, 2019
Note: contextualize before reading
Read
December 7, 2023existen artesanos del alma
April 24, 2025
meus preferidos dessa coletânea: “contarei”, “em pleno mês de junho”, “desde que amanheceu”, “se cada dia cai”, “preguiça” e “esperemos”.
May 7, 2021
La poesía de Neruda es sutil.
July 10, 2025
Primeiro livro que leio do Ricardo e agora toda vez que ouvir um sino vou lembrar dele.
October 10, 2015
One of Neruda's late books, 'The Sea and the Bells' is also one of his most magnificent, possessed as it is, in the face of an impending end, of wisdom and acceptance for a life lived, time passed, an understanding of the interconnection and the timelessness of precious moments.
The sea dominates these pages, its relentless tides and eternal quality, but also its loneliness. And in company, striking images of bells, shaping the waves, calling out, tolling, perhaps ringing life away.
Because it is our duty
to obey winter,
to let the wind grow
within you as well,
until the snow falls,
until this day and every day are one,
the wind and the past,
the cold falls,
finally we are alone,
and finally we will be silent.
Gracias.
- (from, 'Returning')
The sadness that imbues these poems is unmissable, made more so by the lingering passion that had so marked him out, lustful for love and life. Here, again and again, he expresses him appreciation for Matilde, his wife, and how much she has meant to him, and if the from is fading then the heart of old still beats
What day is today? Your day.
And tomorrow is yesterday, it has not passed,
the day never slipped from your hands:
you guard the sun, the earth, the violets
in your slender shadow when you sleep.
And in this way, every morning
you give me life.
- (from, 'Every Day, Matilde')
The closing poem, 'Finale,' is a devastating piece, one of the most powerful and affecting he has surely ever written. It needs to be read and absorbed, not analysed:
Matilde, years or days
sleeping, feverish,
here or there,
gazing off,
twisting my spine,
bleeding true blood,
perhaps I awaken
or am lost, sleeping:
hospital beds, foreign windows,
white uniforms of the silent walkers,
the clumsiness of feet.
And then, these journeys
and my sea of renewal:
your head on the pillow,
your hands floating
in the light, in my light,
over my earth.
It was beautiful to live
when you lived!
The world is bluer and of the earth
at night, when I sleep
enormous, within your small hands.
Copper Canyon Press, and William O'Daly, deserve great praise for making work like this available to the likes of me. Not being gifted with Spanish, I can only wonder at the beauty and melancholy of the lines in their original tongue, but even in the English translation there is clearly something sublime at play here. I like to read poetry for the sense of understanding it brings, not always a literal understanding but almost a soulful one; and I am drawn to Neruda's work as much as that of any other poet because, time and again, he seems to be striking the notes I need to hear, and feel, and know. 'The Sea and the Bells' seems to be one of those collections that keep revealing more of themselves with each read, a book to grow into, and grow old with.
The sea dominates these pages, its relentless tides and eternal quality, but also its loneliness. And in company, striking images of bells, shaping the waves, calling out, tolling, perhaps ringing life away.
Because it is our duty
to obey winter,
to let the wind grow
within you as well,
until the snow falls,
until this day and every day are one,
the wind and the past,
the cold falls,
finally we are alone,
and finally we will be silent.
Gracias.
- (from, 'Returning')
The sadness that imbues these poems is unmissable, made more so by the lingering passion that had so marked him out, lustful for love and life. Here, again and again, he expresses him appreciation for Matilde, his wife, and how much she has meant to him, and if the from is fading then the heart of old still beats
What day is today? Your day.
And tomorrow is yesterday, it has not passed,
the day never slipped from your hands:
you guard the sun, the earth, the violets
in your slender shadow when you sleep.
And in this way, every morning
you give me life.
- (from, 'Every Day, Matilde')
The closing poem, 'Finale,' is a devastating piece, one of the most powerful and affecting he has surely ever written. It needs to be read and absorbed, not analysed:
Matilde, years or days
sleeping, feverish,
here or there,
gazing off,
twisting my spine,
bleeding true blood,
perhaps I awaken
or am lost, sleeping:
hospital beds, foreign windows,
white uniforms of the silent walkers,
the clumsiness of feet.
And then, these journeys
and my sea of renewal:
your head on the pillow,
your hands floating
in the light, in my light,
over my earth.
It was beautiful to live
when you lived!
The world is bluer and of the earth
at night, when I sleep
enormous, within your small hands.
Copper Canyon Press, and William O'Daly, deserve great praise for making work like this available to the likes of me. Not being gifted with Spanish, I can only wonder at the beauty and melancholy of the lines in their original tongue, but even in the English translation there is clearly something sublime at play here. I like to read poetry for the sense of understanding it brings, not always a literal understanding but almost a soulful one; and I am drawn to Neruda's work as much as that of any other poet because, time and again, he seems to be striking the notes I need to hear, and feel, and know. 'The Sea and the Bells' seems to be one of those collections that keep revealing more of themselves with each read, a book to grow into, and grow old with.
March 20, 2024
An Analysis of "The Sea and the Bells" by Pablo Neruda
Written near the end of his life, Pablo Neruda's "The Sea and the Bells" is a poignant collection that reflects on mortality, nature, love, and the search for solace.
The looming shadow of death hangs heavy throughout the collection. Poems grapple with the impermanence of life, the passage of time and the search for meaning in the face of mortality. This theme is particularly poignant considering the context of Neruda's declining health when he wrote these poems.
The sea emerges as a central symbol, offering solace and a sense of connection with something larger than oneself. Neruda's evocative descriptions capture the power and beauty of the ocean, contrasting it with the frailty of human existence.
Juxtaposed with the theme of mortality is the cyclical nature of life as observed in the natural world. The poems celebrate the constant renewal of nature, offering a sense of hope and the possibility of finding peace within the larger ecological cycle.
Bells, another recurring symbol, can be interpreted in multiple ways. They may represent the passage of time, the call of the unknown, or even a faint echo of hope. Their sound adds a layer of musicality and melancholy to the poems.
Despite the focus on mortality, love remains a powerful force. References to his wife, Matilde, offer a glimmer of solace and underscore the enduring power of human connection.
A shift towards a simpler, more stripped-down style is evident in the poems. Neruda focuses on everyday details and sensory experiences, finding beauty in the mundane. This pared-down style reflects a newfound appreciation for life's simple pleasures.
Some poems can be seen as a farewell to life, a reflection on experiences, and a search for acceptance. This contemplative mood is characteristic of Neruda's final works and adds a layer of poignancy to the collection.
"The Sea and the Bells" offers a powerful meditation on life and death, nature, and the enduring presence of love. By analyzing its symbols, themes, and Neruda's evolving poetic style, we gain a deeper appreciation for this poignant collection, a testament to the human spirit's search for meaning in the face of mortality.
Written near the end of his life, Pablo Neruda's "The Sea and the Bells" is a poignant collection that reflects on mortality, nature, love, and the search for solace.
The looming shadow of death hangs heavy throughout the collection. Poems grapple with the impermanence of life, the passage of time and the search for meaning in the face of mortality. This theme is particularly poignant considering the context of Neruda's declining health when he wrote these poems.
The sea emerges as a central symbol, offering solace and a sense of connection with something larger than oneself. Neruda's evocative descriptions capture the power and beauty of the ocean, contrasting it with the frailty of human existence.
Juxtaposed with the theme of mortality is the cyclical nature of life as observed in the natural world. The poems celebrate the constant renewal of nature, offering a sense of hope and the possibility of finding peace within the larger ecological cycle.
Bells, another recurring symbol, can be interpreted in multiple ways. They may represent the passage of time, the call of the unknown, or even a faint echo of hope. Their sound adds a layer of musicality and melancholy to the poems.
Despite the focus on mortality, love remains a powerful force. References to his wife, Matilde, offer a glimmer of solace and underscore the enduring power of human connection.
A shift towards a simpler, more stripped-down style is evident in the poems. Neruda focuses on everyday details and sensory experiences, finding beauty in the mundane. This pared-down style reflects a newfound appreciation for life's simple pleasures.
Some poems can be seen as a farewell to life, a reflection on experiences, and a search for acceptance. This contemplative mood is characteristic of Neruda's final works and adds a layer of poignancy to the collection.
"The Sea and the Bells" offers a powerful meditation on life and death, nature, and the enduring presence of love. By analyzing its symbols, themes, and Neruda's evolving poetic style, we gain a deeper appreciation for this poignant collection, a testament to the human spirit's search for meaning in the face of mortality.
January 26, 2022
Hour by hour, the day does not pass,
it passes sadness by sadness:
time does not wrinkle,
it doesn't run out:
sea, the sea says,
without rest,
earth, the earth says:
man waits.
And only
his bell
rings above the others
keeping in its emptiness
the implacable silence
that will be parceled out when
its metallic tongue rises, wave after wave.
Once I had so much,
walking on my knees through the world:
here, naked,
I have nothing more than the stark noon
of the sea, and one bell.
They give me their voice to feel the pain
and their warning to stop me.
This happens to everybody:
space goes on.
The sea lives.
The bells exist.
* * *
When I decided to clarify my life
and, hand by hand, to seek out misfortune
by throwing dice,
I met the woman who accompanies me
everywhere and at all hours,
in clouds and in silence.
Matilde is the one
who answers to this name
from Chillan,
and even if it rains
or thunders or rises,
the day with blue hair
or the slender night,
she is the one,
who goes and goes,
ready for my body,
for the space of my body,
opening all the windows to the sea
so that the written word flies off,
so that the furniture fills
with silent signals,
with green fire.
* * *
Today, how many hours are falling
into the well, into the net, into time:
they go slowly but never stopped to rest,
they keep on falling, swarming together
at first like fish,
then like falling bottles or stones.
There below the hours come
to agree with the days,
with the months,
with blurred memories,
with uninhabited nights,
clothes, women, trains, provinces,
and time collects,
hour upon hour
dissolves in silence,
crumbles and falls
into the acid of all ruins,
into the black water
of the invert night.
* * *
Today, I dedicate this to you: you are long
like the body of Chile, delicate
like an anise flower,
and in every branch you bear witness
to our indelible springtime:
What day is today? Your day.
And tomorrow is yesterday, it has not passed,
the day never slipped from your hands:
you guard the sun, the earth, the violets
in your slender shadow when you sleep.
And in this way, every morning
you give me life.
* * *
There isn't much to tell,
tomorrow
when I go down
to Goodmorning and How are you
what I really need
is this bread
of the stories,
of the songs.
Before dawn, and after curtains
open to the sun risen from the cold,
the orderly forces of a turbulent day.
I can only say: I am here,
no, that didn't happen and this happens:
meanwhile the ocean's algae constantly
rise and fall, tuned
to the wave,
and everything has its reason:
across every reason a movement
like a seabird that takes flight
from stone or water or floating seaweed.
With my hands I must
beckon: somebody please come.
Here is what I have and what I owe,
please listen to the count, the story, and the sound.
With these things, I pull for every tomorrow of my life
one dream out of another.
* * *
In fullest June
a woman entered my life,
no, it was an orange.
The scene is blurred:
they knocked on the door:
it was a gust of wind,
a whiplash of light,
an ultraviolet tortoise,
I focused on it
with the slowness of a telescope,
as if it were fat away or once inhabited
this vestment of stars,
and by an error of astronomy
had entered my house.
* * *
After sunrise how many things
are needed to sustain this day?
Lethal lights, golden rays crossing the land,
centrifugal glowworms,
drops of moon, blisters, axiom,
all material superimposed
upon time's passage: sadness, existences,
rights and responsibilities:
nothing is equal while the day eats away
at its clear light and grows
and then loses its power.
Hour after hour one spoonful
of acid falls from the sky,
as today falls from the day,
from the day of this day.
* * *
They knocked on my door on the sixth of August:
nobody was standing there
and nobody entered, sat down in a chair
and passed the time with me, nobody.
I will never forget that absence
that entered me like a man enters his own house,
and I was satisfied with nonbeing:
an emptiness open to everything.
Nobody questioned me, saying nothing,
and I answered without seeing or speaking.
Such a spacious and specific interview!
* * *
I came here to count the bells
that live upon the surface of the sea,
that sound over the sea,
within the sea.
So, here I live.
* * *
There are days that haven't arrived yet,
that are being made
like bread of chairs or a product
from the pharmacies or the woodshops:
there are factories of days to come:
they exist, craftsmen of the soul
who raise and weigh and prepare
certain bitter or beautiful days
that arrive suddenly at the door
to reward us with an orange
or to instantly murder us.
* * *
It knocks at a door of stone
on the coast, on the sand,
with many hands of water.
The rock doesn't respond.
Nobody will open it. To knock is a waste of water,
a waste of time.
Still, it knocks,
it beats,
every day and every year,
every century of the centuries.
Finally something happened.
The stone is different.
Now it has a smooth curve like a breast,
it has a channel through which water flows,
the rock is not the same and is the same.
There, where the reef was most rugged,
the wave climbs smoothly over the door
of earth.
* * *
Matilde, years or days
sleeping, feverish,
here or there,
gazing off,
twisting my spine,
bleeding true blood,
perhaps I awaken
or am lost, sleeping:
hospital beds, foreign windows,
white uniforms of the silent walkers,
the clumsiness of feet.
And then, these journeys
and my sea of renewal:
your head on the pillow,
your hands floating
in the light, in my light,
over my earth.
It was beautiful to live
when you lived!
The world is bluer and of the earth
at night, when I sleep
enormous, within your small hands.
it passes sadness by sadness:
time does not wrinkle,
it doesn't run out:
sea, the sea says,
without rest,
earth, the earth says:
man waits.
And only
his bell
rings above the others
keeping in its emptiness
the implacable silence
that will be parceled out when
its metallic tongue rises, wave after wave.
Once I had so much,
walking on my knees through the world:
here, naked,
I have nothing more than the stark noon
of the sea, and one bell.
They give me their voice to feel the pain
and their warning to stop me.
This happens to everybody:
space goes on.
The sea lives.
The bells exist.
- First Movement, pg. 3
* * *
When I decided to clarify my life
and, hand by hand, to seek out misfortune
by throwing dice,
I met the woman who accompanies me
everywhere and at all hours,
in clouds and in silence.
Matilde is the one
who answers to this name
from Chillan,
and even if it rains
or thunders or rises,
the day with blue hair
or the slender night,
she is the one,
who goes and goes,
ready for my body,
for the space of my body,
opening all the windows to the sea
so that the written word flies off,
so that the furniture fills
with silent signals,
with green fire.
- pg. 15
* * *
Today, how many hours are falling
into the well, into the net, into time:
they go slowly but never stopped to rest,
they keep on falling, swarming together
at first like fish,
then like falling bottles or stones.
There below the hours come
to agree with the days,
with the months,
with blurred memories,
with uninhabited nights,
clothes, women, trains, provinces,
and time collects,
hour upon hour
dissolves in silence,
crumbles and falls
into the acid of all ruins,
into the black water
of the invert night.
- pg. 25
* * *
Today, I dedicate this to you: you are long
like the body of Chile, delicate
like an anise flower,
and in every branch you bear witness
to our indelible springtime:
What day is today? Your day.
And tomorrow is yesterday, it has not passed,
the day never slipped from your hands:
you guard the sun, the earth, the violets
in your slender shadow when you sleep.
And in this way, every morning
you give me life.
- Every Day Matilde, pg. 31
* * *
There isn't much to tell,
tomorrow
when I go down
to Goodmorning and How are you
what I really need
is this bread
of the stories,
of the songs.
Before dawn, and after curtains
open to the sun risen from the cold,
the orderly forces of a turbulent day.
I can only say: I am here,
no, that didn't happen and this happens:
meanwhile the ocean's algae constantly
rise and fall, tuned
to the wave,
and everything has its reason:
across every reason a movement
like a seabird that takes flight
from stone or water or floating seaweed.
With my hands I must
beckon: somebody please come.
Here is what I have and what I owe,
please listen to the count, the story, and the sound.
With these things, I pull for every tomorrow of my life
one dream out of another.
- pg. 49
* * *
In fullest June
a woman entered my life,
no, it was an orange.
The scene is blurred:
they knocked on the door:
it was a gust of wind,
a whiplash of light,
an ultraviolet tortoise,
I focused on it
with the slowness of a telescope,
as if it were fat away or once inhabited
this vestment of stars,
and by an error of astronomy
had entered my house.
- pg. 53
* * *
After sunrise how many things
are needed to sustain this day?
Lethal lights, golden rays crossing the land,
centrifugal glowworms,
drops of moon, blisters, axiom,
all material superimposed
upon time's passage: sadness, existences,
rights and responsibilities:
nothing is equal while the day eats away
at its clear light and grows
and then loses its power.
Hour after hour one spoonful
of acid falls from the sky,
as today falls from the day,
from the day of this day.
- pg. 67
* * *
They knocked on my door on the sixth of August:
nobody was standing there
and nobody entered, sat down in a chair
and passed the time with me, nobody.
I will never forget that absence
that entered me like a man enters his own house,
and I was satisfied with nonbeing:
an emptiness open to everything.
Nobody questioned me, saying nothing,
and I answered without seeing or speaking.
Such a spacious and specific interview!
- It Happens, pg. 75
* * *
I came here to count the bells
that live upon the surface of the sea,
that sound over the sea,
within the sea.
So, here I live.
- Here, pg. 81
* * *
There are days that haven't arrived yet,
that are being made
like bread of chairs or a product
from the pharmacies or the woodshops:
there are factories of days to come:
they exist, craftsmen of the soul
who raise and weigh and prepare
certain bitter or beautiful days
that arrive suddenly at the door
to reward us with an orange
or to instantly murder us.
- We Are Waiting, pg. 95
* * *
It knocks at a door of stone
on the coast, on the sand,
with many hands of water.
The rock doesn't respond.
Nobody will open it. To knock is a waste of water,
a waste of time.
Still, it knocks,
it beats,
every day and every year,
every century of the centuries.
Finally something happened.
The stone is different.
Now it has a smooth curve like a breast,
it has a channel through which water flows,
the rock is not the same and is the same.
There, where the reef was most rugged,
the wave climbs smoothly over the door
of earth.
- pg. 103
* * *
Matilde, years or days
sleeping, feverish,
here or there,
gazing off,
twisting my spine,
bleeding true blood,
perhaps I awaken
or am lost, sleeping:
hospital beds, foreign windows,
white uniforms of the silent walkers,
the clumsiness of feet.
And then, these journeys
and my sea of renewal:
your head on the pillow,
your hands floating
in the light, in my light,
over my earth.
It was beautiful to live
when you lived!
The world is bluer and of the earth
at night, when I sleep
enormous, within your small hands.
- Finale, pg. 113
April 3, 2017
Wow what a gem. I picked this book up on vacation from a tiny book store on one of tje islands in Puget Sound and loved every page. Part of eight books of poems that Neruda wrote for his 70th birthday (and died just before) this book reflects upon his life, his love of his wife Matilde and life on Isla Negra. They are short concise and very melodic. I am learning spanish and this bilingual edition adds to my growing vocabulary. Read the Spanish aloud first, even if you don't know the language to see how rhythmic they are. My favourite poem about rain (untitled) give creedence to what his rhythm is like:
Llueve
Sobre la arena, sobre el techo
El tema
De la lluvia:
Las largas eles de la lluvia lenta
Caen sobre las paginas....
All those "l's" and "y" sounds falling slowly down on the page. Beautiful. The translation by William O'Daley is superb.
There is a lot of symbolism and the references to bells throughout give little clues to what he refers to. Give the book a read and one sees a master at work.
Llueve
Sobre la arena, sobre el techo
El tema
De la lluvia:
Las largas eles de la lluvia lenta
Caen sobre las paginas....
All those "l's" and "y" sounds falling slowly down on the page. Beautiful. The translation by William O'Daley is superb.
There is a lot of symbolism and the references to bells throughout give little clues to what he refers to. Give the book a read and one sees a master at work.
July 13, 2024
"The Sea and the Bells" is a collection of poems by Pablo Neruda. It reflects his deep connection with nature and his contemplative longing for solitude.
Some consider this to be his ultimate poetry, encapsulating the experience of delving into one dream after another on an inner journey to uncover his profound connection to the universe.
To truly understand Pablo Neruda's poetry, we must savour and taste his words, allowing us to experience a myriad of emotions: joy, happiness, sadness, fulfilment, and contentment.
This collection is simply breathtaking. It brims with reflections on the beauty of nature and the depths of the human soul as the speaker grapples with the quest for inner peace.
It is an absolute piece of art in this book.
Some consider this to be his ultimate poetry, encapsulating the experience of delving into one dream after another on an inner journey to uncover his profound connection to the universe.
To truly understand Pablo Neruda's poetry, we must savour and taste his words, allowing us to experience a myriad of emotions: joy, happiness, sadness, fulfilment, and contentment.
This collection is simply breathtaking. It brims with reflections on the beauty of nature and the depths of the human soul as the speaker grapples with the quest for inner peace.
It is an absolute piece of art in this book.
September 18, 2013
Almost all of Neruda's work I had previously read was from his younger years; this was written and compiled in his last year of life. I was moved by how laid bare the writing had become, the intimate description of what was then most important to him. So little ego, so much contemplative appreciation. This little number sure struck a chord:
With my hands I must
beckon: somebody please come.
Here is what I have and what I owe,
please listen to the count, the story, and the sound.
With my hands I must
beckon: somebody please come.
Here is what I have and what I owe,
please listen to the count, the story, and the sound.
August 14, 2022
This book restored Neruda to me after my faith wavered in The Yellow Heart. This is an absolutely stunning collection full of contemplations on nature and mankind and details the speaker’s struggles to find peace within himself. I was captivated from start to finish and have multiple pages marked so that I can return here again and again.
March 11, 2017
There is a peculiar, melancholy joy to many of these poems that feels as if it can only come from knowing you are soon to leave the world that you love fiercely. This book is mortal and beautiful and heartbreaking, and it's everything that poetry ought to be.
September 18, 2018
Sparse but luxurious. With sharp powerfully emotional moments some mournful like the toll of funeral bells and others as achingly bright and joyous as sunshine on sea waves. There is a solemn splendour to these poems
July 31, 2025
Do que eu já li do autor, achei esse seu melhor trabalho. Achei que trabalhou muito o tema de identidade, e como isso pode se desdobrar de diversas formas. Eu tenho um fraco por seus poemas de amor, mas esse livro foi ótimo também.
April 23, 2008
These poems make me fall in love with the world over and over again.
March 23, 2013
This is one of those beautiful books that make you give it a little hug at the end of every page. A love song to a beautiful life. A must read for everyone.
May 30, 2019
A pull towards the mystery inside every being. Provoking, deep, enchanting.
May 7, 2025
me encanta la manera en como relaciona el mar y el viento con los sufrimientos
March 15, 2024
The Sea and the Bells: A Serene Escape with Neruda
Pablo Neruda's "The Sea and the Bells" is a collection unlike any other. Composed near the end of the poet's life, it stands as a testament to the beauty and solace found in nature's embrace.
The poems are awash with imagery of the Chilean coast – the salty tang of sea air, the rhythmic crash of waves, and the haunting calls of migrating birds. These elements intertwine with the sounds of church bells, a constant presence that evokes a sense of peace and contemplation.
Neruda, weary from the clamor of the world, seeks refuge in this soundscape. The poems themselves feel stripped down to their essence, a departure from his earlier, more flamboyant style. Here, Neruda allows the natural world to speak for itself, his words acting as a conduit for its raw beauty.
While some might find the collection lacking in the dramatic flair of Neruda's previous works, "The Sea and the Bells" offers a different kind of power. It's a meditation on mortality, a search for tranquility in the face of life's inevitable end.
If you're seeking a return to Neruda's earlier, more flamboyant style, you might be disappointed. But for those yearning for a moment of serenity, a chance to be swept away by the rhythm of the sea and the peal of bells, "The Sea and the Bells" offers a profound and unforgettable experience.
Pablo Neruda's "The Sea and the Bells" is a collection unlike any other. Composed near the end of the poet's life, it stands as a testament to the beauty and solace found in nature's embrace.
The poems are awash with imagery of the Chilean coast – the salty tang of sea air, the rhythmic crash of waves, and the haunting calls of migrating birds. These elements intertwine with the sounds of church bells, a constant presence that evokes a sense of peace and contemplation.
Neruda, weary from the clamor of the world, seeks refuge in this soundscape. The poems themselves feel stripped down to their essence, a departure from his earlier, more flamboyant style. Here, Neruda allows the natural world to speak for itself, his words acting as a conduit for its raw beauty.
While some might find the collection lacking in the dramatic flair of Neruda's previous works, "The Sea and the Bells" offers a different kind of power. It's a meditation on mortality, a search for tranquility in the face of life's inevitable end.
If you're seeking a return to Neruda's earlier, more flamboyant style, you might be disappointed. But for those yearning for a moment of serenity, a chance to be swept away by the rhythm of the sea and the peal of bells, "The Sea and the Bells" offers a profound and unforgettable experience.
October 16, 2024
I've never picked up poetry collections on my own. I like poetic writing styles but not poems necessarily as they are rather difficult and the language is sometimes too roundabout to handle. While some of Neruda's poems in this collection are lightly difficult to decode and understand. On the whole, I still enjoyed the feeling it gave. The idea of a man who has lived life and now sits to discuss all his great and small tales. The strangers he met, the journeys he took, the nature, the days and the current state of his mind, which knows of its evident demise. It's the story of a man rushing to catch up with all his works, to write down all his stories before he forgets them, before he forgets to appreciate them. This collection was still beautiful. It was authentically South American, the ideas the writing style and the world it described.
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