کتاب در بوسه های تو به خواب خواهم رفت

اثر پابلو نرودا از انتشارات ستاک - مترجم: حدیث رجبی-جدید ترین کتاب ها

Charged with sensuality and passion, Pablo Nerudas love poems are the most celebrated of the Nobel Prize winners oeuvre, captivating readers with earthbound images and reveling in a fiery re-imagining of the world. Mostly written on the island paradise of Capri (the idyllic setting of the Oscar-winning movie Il Postino), Love Poems embraces the seascapes surrounding the poet and his love Matilde Urrutia, their waves and shores saturated with a new, yearning eroticism.

خرید کتاب در بوسه های تو به خواب خواهم رفت
جستجوی کتاب در بوسه های تو به خواب خواهم رفت در گودریدز

معرفی کتاب در بوسه های تو به خواب خواهم رفت از نگاه کاربران
می توانم امشب غمناک ترین سطرها را بنویسم.
مثلا بنویسم: ” شب شکسته است
وَ تکه تکه می شوند آن ستارگان در دور دست و بر باد می روند.”

شب- باد، در آسمان می پیچد و می خواند.
می توانم امشب غمناک ترین سطرها را بنویسم.
عاشق اش بودم و گاهی هم عاشق ام می شد.

در شبی این چنین به آغوش اش کشیدم.
بوسیدم اش بسیار و بسیار زیر آسمان بی انتها.

عاشق ام بود و گاهی هم عاشق اش می شدم.
چه گونه می توانستم عاشق آن چشمان درشتِ خاموش اش نباشم.

می توانم امشب غمناک ترین سطرها را بنویسم.
برای درکِ این که ندارم اش، برای حسِ این که گم اش کرده ام.

می شنوم این شب بلند را، که بی او طولانی تر.
بر روح می نشیند این سطرها، مثل شبنم که بر علف.

دیگر چه اهمیت دارد، که نتواستم نگه اش دارم.
شب شکسته ست و او کنارم نیست.

این تمام ماجراست. کسی در دور دست می خواند. در دور دست،
روح ام را یارای نبودن اش نیست.

که انگار در تقلای یافتن اش چشمانم دو دو می زند.
که قلبم می جویدش: اوکنارم نیست.

شبی شبیه بر همان شاخ ساران به صبح می رسد.
مای آن زمان، شبیه حالِِ ما نیست.

بی گمان، عاشقش نیستم اکنون، اما چه گونه زمانی بودم.
برای رسیدنِ به او، صدایم، به تقلای جستجوی باد است.

بوسه های دیگران بر لبانش، چون بوسه های من.
صدایش، تن مرمرین اش، چشمان بی انتهایش.

بی گمان، عاشق اش نیستم اکنون شاید اما باشم.
عشق کوتاه است؛ از یاد بردن اش چه طولانی.

از آن شب ها که در آغوش می کشیدم اش دیگر،
روحم را یارای نبودن اش نیست.

هرچند این واپسین عذابی است که مرا دچارش می کند،
و این واپسین سطرهایی ست که برایش می نویسم.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
Tonight I Can Write
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, @The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the [email protected]
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, thats certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Anothers. She will be anothers. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, thats certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this is the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

مشاهده لینک اصلی

1. I went to Pablo Nerudas house once. Well, I went to one of his houses. He had three of them. I was teaching English in Santiago, Chile at the time. I went to Nerudas house in Valparaiso, which is a beach town. Weirdly enough, I visited on my twentieth birthday, on a lark, because I just happened to be vacationing in a nearby cabin with my host family.
The thing that I remember about Pablo Nerudas house is that its set back in a grove of dark pine trees and that theres sand everywhere. The sky was dark that day and it was cold, even though it was in the summer.
What I remember most about the experience wasnt the house itself, or the tour, or the nationalistic trinkets that vendors were trying to sell, but rather the feeling that the pine trees around the house evoked. They were like a dark magic that still sits in my mind six years later. Curious. Because this is the thing that stands out to me most about Nerudas poetry: the magnetic feeling of nature. The dirt and the flesh and the elements and the cold, wet, hot, dry. His poetry is so sensual, so primal, so tied to the earth (I know I sound like a hippie, but its true). When I look at my journal entries from this period in my life theyre full of this sort of talk. I wrote about stars and cloud formations and the consistency of mud and the shape of a cheekbone. Southern Chile does this to you. The land casts a spell on you. Neruda put this spell into words.
@Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?

2. I read @Twenty Love [email protected] about five years ago, but I thought it was corny at the time. The edition I read had all these terrible erotic etchings in it. I hate that. I almost threw up. I dont believe in illustration much, because it insults the readers imagination. Especially illustration in poetry, a genre which usually uses abstract images.
This time when I read @Twenty Love [email protected] I read it slowly. And it reminded me of southern Chile. It reminded me of gloomy mountains, and the beauty of the rivers and clouds and the darkness of the ocean. It reminded me of that period of time, when I turned twenty, right before my life changed in many ways.
This time when I read @Twenty Love [email protected] it meant something to me, because now I have been in love. I have been in love and have experienced all of the sorrows and thrills of love. Mostly sorrows. But the hope of future thrills.

3. I found a musty Time/Life book about South America at a thrift store near my house. In the book there is a photograph of Mr. Neruda seated at a wooden desk at his house in Valparaiso. He is wearing a sweater and staring out the window. He has a pen and ink in front of him and he is holding his head as though hes deep in thought or distressed. Or both. I have hung this picture up in my apartment. It makes me want to write. It makes me remember all of the dark clouds. It makes me remember that @love is so short, forgetting is so [email protected]

مشاهده لینک اصلی
Sensual poetic beauty, with a lingering sadness, this collection of poems written when Chilean Neruda was only 19 is a remarkable feat, but was not received well for the intense and sexual content, this time being 1924 I can understand why, however, there is no explicit text its more to do with imagery using the surrounding environment, charting oceanic movements of passion along with the changing weather, to tell of youthful love. @ I have gone marking the atlas of your body / with crosses of fire. / My mouth went across: a spider, trying to hide. / In you, behind you, timid, driven by thirst.. Becoming Nerudas best-loved work selling two million copies by the 1960s. Why? the imagery he conjures up is simply breathtaking but also painfully sad. ``On all sides I see your waist of fog, / and your silence hunts down my afflicted hours; / my kisses anchor, and my moist desire nests / in you with your arms of transparent stone. As irresistible as the sea, love is engulfing (``You swallowed everything, like distance. / . . . In you everything sank!), but also departs as mysteriously as it arrived, leaving the poets heart a ``pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

In terms of the intensity of romance and the tenderness of love, this collection encapsulates so much, each piece stands alone, but always remains close to the others.
Of the 20 poems on offer, not all made sense to me on first reading, but at only 70 pages in length, I will certainly be re-visiting in time. And then theres the seething @Song of [email protected], a breakup song if I ever heard one, this for me was the highlight, words of such searing torment that were expressed with a heartbroken urgency. At such a young age, Neruda paints a mature picture of the abstract representations of life. To the contrary, the poems represent an open curiosity for different dimensions of life like sexuality, solitude, melancholy, and loss. Also, he does not idealize beauty and love, making his poetry far more authentically realistic. Nature is a constant presence throughout, with stars, rivers, wind, sky and sea reappearing in different contexts, lovers become nature itself. You can truly feel that each poem is reaching out to the other, sharing the same pleasure and plight.

Highly recommended 5/5

مشاهده لینک اصلی
I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because its you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

worthy book for all the tragic romantikus outthere =P

مشاهده لینک اصلی
How beautifully fragile we are, that so many things take but a moment to alter who we are, for forever. We are all, just an unforeseen encounter, an unexpected phone call, a diagnosis, a newly found love, or a broken heart away from becoming a completely different person. Our hearts betray us to the places we never thought be visiting, our reasons fail us to the most uninvited chasms we surrender ourselves into, knowingly. Our souls ripped open and raw, our hearts on display, Love leaves vulnerable at places, we never thought be touched. Neruda, explores love in many forms and stages. He writes about love that have been lost, love that replace solitude, and love that haunt lovers forever. At last, in the Song of Despair he encapsulates many of the concerns established through the sequence and offers a heightened emotional culmination: It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!
In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song bird rose.
You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like times. In you everything sank!

Love in Nerudian realms starts as the most intense of passions, the yet alone lover hastens to explore every pore, he aches to become one with the beloved, there’s nothing else but the yearning to be close to the other, the presence that is felt through a hand held, a voice heard, or a smile seen, leaves him battered with desire, as souls know no calendar, nor do they understand the time or distance, they strive to collide, to become one, even for a moment, that lives for eternity..
I was alone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me,
and night swamped me with its crushing invasion.
To survive myself I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling.
But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you.
Body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk.
Oh the goblets of the breast! Oh the eyes of absence!
Oh the roses of the pubis! Oh your voice, slow and sad!

Lover is agitated to the point of uncertainty, the point where, we no longer are reader, but exchange roles, as if words are given to the choking thoughts we’ve long been weaving inside us, when I was reading them, I was filled with such longing and my heart sighed like it was in despair even when it wasn’t, or it truly was!
I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.
It souds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.
And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
Let me come to be still in your silence.
And let me talk to you with your silence
that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.
I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
One word then, one smile, is enough.
And I am happy, happy that its not true.

Sensual Passion thaws into melancholy and melancholy weds despair, and we sense the tone of lover vicissitudes when faced with departure!
How terrible and brief was my desire of you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.
Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.
Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.
Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.
And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.
This was my destiny and in it was the voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

مشاهده لینک اصلی
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