happy valentine's day! if you're hoping to swoon over sweet nothings today, there are perhaps none sweeter than the one hundred love sonnets that pablo neruda penned for his wife, matilde urrutia. the note he fondly affixed to this bundle of poems, a true labor of love, read:
"my beloved wife, i suffered while i was writing these misnamed "sonnets"; they hurt me and caused me grief, but the happiness i feel in offering them to you is vast as a savanna. when i set this task for myself, i knew very well that down the right sides of sonnets, with elegant discriminating taste, poets of all times have arranged rhymes that sound like silver, crystal, or cannonfire. but - with great humility - i made these sonnets out of wood; i gave them the sound of that opaque pure substance, and that is how they should reach your ears. walking in forests or on beaches, along hidden lakes, in latitudes sprinkled with ashes, you and i have picked up pieces of pure bark, pieces of wood subject to the comings and goings of water and the weather. out of such softened relics, then, with hatchet and machete and pocketknife, i built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each i built little houses, so that your eyes, which i adored and sing to, might live in them. now that you have declared the foundations of my love i surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life." - october 1959
like matilde before me, i've loved pablo neruda for ages. his poems, crafted from pacific coastlines and labyrinthine fjords and foam-covered stones, always make me glad to have descended from his same shores.
(see also: snarky personals, labour of heart)
