As has become a Thanksgiving tradition on this blog, I’d like to share a poem. This one is called The Blow, by Pablo Neruda.
Ink that enchants me,
drop after drop,
guarding the path
of my reason and unreason
like the hardly visible
scar on a wound that shows while the body sleeps
on in the discourse of its destructions.
if the whole of your essence erupted
in a drop, to
vent itself on a page, staining it now
with a single green star;
better, perhaps, if that blot
my whole scribbling lifetime
without glosses or alphabets:
a single dark blow
I love the line breaks on this one.
Read it once through without pausing at the line breaks (only the punctuation). Then read it again, pausing at the line breaks. Did you get totally different imagery?
Poetry is cool.