IN PABLO NERUDA’S WORLD

 

Last night N, my partner, asked me whether I still love him.  

And he sounded really serious because this was when we were just having our nightly ritual of “talking” like very old couple, hugging our donnas before going to sleep.   I stopped a little bit  from putting on my moisturizers.  And I kept silent for awhile to keep him guessing.  Not answering his question.

Well, we talk a lot about the day’s work, our projects,  our house, the future and the past, everything and anything!  We talk like lovers, old friend and sometimes enemy, bitches, and just old and tired queens. 

And then the “question”.

Living for almost six years now is like living forever.  There were ups and downs in our relationship.   There were a hundred times when I want to call it quits.  For a thousand and different reasons and whims.  And I know it is true with him too.  But then we talk it out.  And we talk a lot. And we cleared the air.  We forgive and forget. And we go on. 

I think I have changed.  And I think N has too.  We were not the same persons we were when we first met.  And the word LOVE has taken on different colors, different meaning, some attachments, maybe depths, images and connotations.  And as we changed, that word LOVE has changed as well.  A lot.

Being the younger person, I tend to be whimsical.  Sometimes unreasonable.  But N could be very juvenile too.  And his anger really gets into me.  Our imperfections, our moods and limitations are all in play in the constant battle in the game called LOVE and commitment.

And back to that “question”.

So I remembered a poem that really hit me and became my torch song when confronted with this wall.

It was borrowed/used by my brother in his wedding five years ago.  I found the poem really powerful… somewhat very juvenile, selfish and yet very mature and loving,  so cold and yet so passionate.  Like sunshine, fire and rain and storm combined!

And even as I read it today, it still rings the same flavor and strong emotions as it had on me years ago.

And I thought, this is me. 

My kind of love.

My soul. 

And the answer to N’s question.

 

 If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

x x x