Neruda Resurrected

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    Neruda Resurrected

    Dress your tresses in white ash
    resurrect the idylls with resplendent velocity
    resurrect every leaf with crimson charity
    resurrect the bees with a sobbing sword of blood
    let the earth ripple like a river of lightning

    touch the moon with a nocturnal melancholy
    filling the void of space with voices
    drown my hands with ciphers and poppies
    wrap my memory in marrow, in veins of cellophane
    in sighs replete with oxygen

    look at me horizontally in a baptism of knees
    open your heart to retreat
    with pale words that escape crime
    dowse me with soft caresses, with legs and ears
    kiss me with needles and black mirrors

    roll me in a symmetry of marmalade
    in alabaster eyelashes and fingers
    mold me in waves and raindrops
    stimulate my rooms with blankets and ruffled black stockings
    blister my heart in an ocean of sweat

    with a thicket of sickles
    with a smack of muffled bones
    let my memories merge like a jellyfish.

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

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