Sonnet XVII

by Pablo Neruda

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, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

will you drink more often
if your water is flavored with flesh
or will you stay stubborn

with dry gums and dashed dreams
wincing at each in-breath
inadvertently hitting the wrong keys

again you have your personal code
found ever at your elbow
and an uncapped pen

it was that look, from over there,
that primed the well
for drawing

again you offer your matching gift
of silence from afar
when your breath in my ear

would quench this thirst.
an empty bucket on a rope
dangles over a blank page

setting a setting
to convey intrigue
and coax

secrets encoded in color
evocative of what is not
yet open

a rolled wax candle,
burned just at it's long wick's tip
in our matching hue

not every dream
is a good poem
but every poem is a dream

Nothing Twice

by Wislawa Szymborska

translated by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak

Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.

Even if there is no one dumber,
if you're the planet's biggest dunce,
you can't repeat the class in summer:
this course is only offered once.

No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with precisely the same kisses.

One day, perhaps some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
into the room, all hue and scent.

The next day, though you're here with me,
I can't help looking at the clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is it a flower or a rock?

Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to stay:
Today is always gone tomorrow.

With smiles and kisses, we prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we're different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.