I have no other star

[kaberett]

Sonnet XVI, Cien sonetos de amor

I love the handful of the earth you are.
Because of its meadows, vast as a planet,
I have no other star. You are my replica
of the multiplying universe.

Your wide eyes are the only light I know
from extinguished constellations;
your skin throbs like the streak
of a meteor through rain.

Your hips were that much of the moon for me;
your deep mouth and its delights, that much sun;
your heart, fiery with its long red rays,

was that much ardent light, like honey in the shade.
So I pass across your burning form, kissing
you--compact and planetary, my dove, my globe.

-- Pablo Neruda, trans. Stephen Tapscott

Originally introduced to me via a piece of Vorkosigan fic; on Sunday I found a copy of cien sonetos de amor, translated by Tapscott, for sale in an anarchist organising space where I was rehearsing, and I bought it. I'm also at the beginning of season 3 of Buffy, my first watch-through; and one way or another my life has conspired to give me space to breathe, here and now, and it is one of those nights where I am just... alone. Lonely, I suppose, and reflective; retracing my steps and seeing where & why I stumbled.

The days have been crisp and clear, and the trees have stretched up their bare branches threaded with clouds and sunset, and the moon has been glorious, these last few nights.

Comments

[khalinche]

Ai, Neruda and his planets and oceans and fishermen's nets and caves and candles. 'Me gustas cuando callas, porque estas como ausente...' - I have whispered that in too many undeserving ears.