Pablo Neruda's house

Nobody could visit Pablo Neruda's house
after his death in Isla Negra:
another curse of dictatorship.

But his poetry shot at people's heart
long before the militaries could get their arms:
they couldn't stop those poetic minds
from leaving Neruda messages written with nails
or pencils on a wooden fence around his house.

I like to think Neruda is still there,
lying on his bed, kissing Poetry
as she touches the body of his body,
drawing invisible poems on his infinite skin:
"poetry upon poetry" - my friend would say.

(Forgive them, Pablo)

My flesh still murmurs.
Pablo Neruda's house is before me.
I get a paper and write something fast.
My eyes don't respect me and cry.
My hands tremble gently
as I pin my message
to the wooden slats of his fence:
I have finished writing my note.
It only says "Thank you"
but if you look close
you will read "I will always love you"
in between lines.

Karla Bardanza

For Danny - The Prince - who loves Pablo Neruda too.

http://karlabardanzapoems.blogspot.com
http://skycladatmidnight.tumblr.com
http://poeticpostcards.blogspot.com