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I remember reading its first lines that first time and thinking, “How terrible to be at the receiving end of this poem!” A poem naked in its honesty and teeming with relatability. If Sylvia Plath’s Mirror had been the catalyst, the fever behind my writing aspirations, Pablo Neruda’s Sonnet XVII was what ignited my passion for poetry. But I keep it handy to remind myself of the day I felt the promise of poetry strike, hot and impressive and terrifying.
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It is one of those few poems I know by heart.
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Crumpled and yellowing, I no longer need the copy. Somewhere in the stash of angst-ridden journals I keep in a drawer at home, the photocopied poem is pasted on an empty page. I read along with him, silently mouthing the words, thrilled and confused by the staggering and yet, straightforward imagery. As soon as each student has the paper in hand, our teacher launches into a sonorous reading of the poem. My creative writing teacher furnishes the entire class with a copy of Pablo Neruda’s Sonnet XVII. So close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. So close that your hand on my chest is my hand, Than this: where I does not exist, nor you, Therefore, I love you because I know no other way I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. Risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body. Thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, I love you as the plant that never blooms,īut carries in itself the light of hidden flowers In secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, Or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,