nothing like the sun

 For my final post on this blog, which has so kindly allowed me to grace its pages with my unhinged tangents, I wanted to talk about poetry - perhaps one of my favorite forms of literature.

In class we read one of Shakespeare's sonnets, "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun."

This poem immediately stood out to me because it is very similar to what may be my favorite poem of Pablo Neruda (I may say that about many other poems of his, but this time I mean it), which is coincidentally also a sonnet. 

In its original:

No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio

o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:

te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,

secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.

Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva

dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,

y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo

el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.

Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,

te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:

así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,

sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,

tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,

tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.

Translation by Stephen Tapscott:

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

than this: where I does not exist, no you,

so close that your hand on my chest in my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Both sonnets express love, as Neruda says, "directamente," without hiding behind false equivalencies or inflating it beyond reality; because reality is enough for them. These poets write of the type of love that is worth believing in, because the love they speak of is not the intangible, fleeting infatuation romanticized in a multitude of other poems, but of one much more identifiable in life.

I think both sonnets are beautiful, of course, but Neruda is the kind of poet that makes you think, "If this is the last poem I shall ever read, I think I am okay with that." 

That being said, I am so thankful for the opportunity to read and discuss so many poems, both known and unknown to me, during the duration of this course. I have always had an odd relationship with poetry, because it is nearly impossible for me to write myself - although I try - and yet reading them seems to feel like a secret privilege of my own, despite sharing them with millions of other readers. 

I hate to mention Heidegger twice on this blog, as he is another philosopher that I cringe to reference, but he firmly believed that the key to truly understanding human existence is through the language of poetry and the meanings that only it can convey. Maybe he made some good points in his lifetime -- I say begrudgingly. 

One of the doors of Shakespeare's restored birthplace in Stratford-upon-Avon.