Sunday, June 03, 2007

Full woman, fleshly apple


Full woman, fleshly apple, hot moon,
thick smell of seaweed, crushed mud and light,
what obscure brilliance opens between your columns?
What ancient night does a man touch with his senses?

Loving is a journey with water and with stars,
with smothered air and abrupt storms of flour:
loving is a clash of lightning-bolts
and two bodies defeated by a single drop of honey.

Kiss by kiss I move across your small infinity,
your borders, your rivers, your tiny villages,
and the genital fire transformed into delight

runs through the narrow pathways of the blood
until it plunges down, like a dark carnation,
until it is and is no more than a flash in the night.


SONNET XII
by Pablo Neruda


(Posted by Portia)

9 comments:

camojack said...

Genital fire? Might wanna see a doctor 'bout that...

portia said...

Not until it goes out, Camo :)

camojack said...

Hmmm...I guess we're talking about different types of genital "fire".

But Avlimil is supposed to help the kind I think you're referring to, when it "goes out". And, it's available without a doctor's prescription. I don't know if it really works, though...

portia said...

Hmmm...I guess we're talking about different types of genital "fire".

That would be correct, Camo, but thanks for making me LOL just the same.

Pooke said...

Sure beats "There once was a man from Nantucket..."

camojack said...

portia:
I'm glad you appreciated it.

Come visit my blog sometime; my witty insight is more fully on display there. Or so I like to believe...

spd rdr said...

I leave the room for one minute....

KJ said...

Reminds of MP&THG:

"I don't want to marry her father."

"But son, she has 'huge tracts of land.'"

Cassandra said...

Portia, now you know how I feel when I post poetry.

It is a strange sonnet.

There are lines that are very lyric and beautiful and ones that sort of make me cringe a bit (though that may sound funny to you, as much as I joke around at VC). It's an odd juxtaposition. But I guess sex is kind of like that at times too, a mixture of tenderness and other things less tender. Maybe that is what Neruda was trying to do.

Or maybe it is just what it is :p I hate when people over think poetry.