Now we will count to twelve and we will all keep still. For once on the face of the earth, let’s not speak in any language; let’s stop for one second, and not move our arms so much. It would be an exotic moment without rush, without engines; we would all be together in a sudden strangeness. Fishermen in the cold sea would not harm whales and the man gathering salt would look at his hurt hands. Those who prepare green wars, wars with gas, wars with fire, victories with no survivors, would put on clean clothes and walk about with their brothers in the shade, doing nothing. What I want should not be confused with total inactivity. Life is what it is about; I want no truck with death. If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving, and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves, and of threatening ourselves with death. Perhaps the earth can teach us as when everything seems dead and later proves to be alive. Now I’ll count up to twelve and you keep quiet and I will go.
I recently added Poetic Outlaws: The Bookshelf to the front page on the menu tab. This is where I’ll share some of my favorite books with you. All genres. It will be an ongoing process so check back often. Thank you for following.
Neruda is a king among kings and queens of poetry
I adore this poem and your page, and state my following comment with kind intentions. I wonder if you could balance your The Bookshelf books with more voices from the other half of human writers: women. I adore the books you chose, but we mustn't miss the other half of the story and perspective.