No naked voice

No weapons. Not even the sweet ones
smiles, not even the flames
quick of anger.
No weapons. Not even the waters
of bottomless goodness,
nor perfidy, crooked beak.
Nothing. No weapons. Alone.

Girdled in your silence.
«Yes» and «no», «tomorrow» and «when»,
sharp points break
of useless arrows
in your smooth silence
without defeat or glory.

Be careful, it kills you
—cold, invincible, eternal—
that, what keeps you,
that, what saves you,
the edge of silence that you sharpen.

In this short poem, Pedro Salinas reflects on the silence of the beloved, everything it hides, and everything it can hide.

underwood girls

Still, they are asleep,
the thirty white round ones.
Among all
They hold up the world.

See them here in their sleep,
like clouds,
round, white and inside
fates of thunder and lightning,
slow rain destinations,
of snow, of wind, signs.
wake them up,
with jumping contacts
with quick, light fingers,
like old music.
They sound other music:
metal fantasies
hard waltzes, to dictation.
May they rise from centuries
all the same, different
like the waves of the sea
and a great secret soul.

Let them believe that it is the letter,
the formula as always.
you get crazy
good fingers, and
you kidnap and spear them,
at thirty, eternal nymphs
against the great empty world,
blank white.
Finally to the pure feat,
without meaningless words,
that, zeda, jota, i…

Pedro Salinas creates a lovely metaphor to describe the letters of the Underwood typewriter and his “girls”, the keys with which we create worlds by moving our fingers and writing with them.

night light

I’m thinking, it’s night,
in the day what will happen there
where tonight is day.
In the cheerful umbrellas,
all the flowers open,
against that sun, which is the moon
dim that illuminates me.
Although everything is so still,
so silent in the dark,
around here,
I see fast people
—hurry, light suits, laughter—
consuming without stopping,
in full enjoyment, that light
of them, the one that is going to be mine
as soon as someone says there
«It’s already night.»
The night where I am
now,
where you are next to me
so asleep and so sunless
in that
night and moon of sleep,
What do I think on the other side?
of your dream, where there is light
that I don’t see.
Where it is day and you walk
-you smile when you sleep-
with that open smile,
so happy, so flowery,
that the night and I feel
that can’t be from here.

night light It is another example of the importance of dreams for the poet, allowing him to harbor love and the hope of recovering it.

my faith

I don’t trust the rose
of paper,
so many times I made it
me with my hands
I don’t even trust the other
true rose,
daughter of the sun and season,
the bride of the wind.
Of you that I never made you,
of you that they never made you,
I trust you, round
sure chance.

The rose as a metaphor for love and loss This also inspired Pedro Salinas in this short poem about heartbreak and the pain it causes.

reason for love

If the voice were felt with the eyes
Oh, how I would see you!
Your voice has a light that illuminates me,
light of hearing
when speaking
the spaces of sound light up,
breaks into silence
the great darkness that is. your word
It has hints of dawn, of young dawn,
every day, coming to me again.
When you affirm,
a zenithal joy, a noon,
reigns, no longer art of the eyes.
There is no night if you talk to me at night.
No loneliness, here alone in my room
If your voice comes, so bodyless, light.
Because your voice creates its body. They are born
In the empty space, innumerable,
the delicate and possible shapes
of the body of your voice. They almost fooled themselves
the lips and arms that search for you.
And souls of lips, souls of arms,
They look around for your voice
made to be born, divine creatures,
invention of your speech.
And in the light of hearing, in that area
that the eyes do not see, all radiant,
they kiss for us
the two lovers who do not have
more day nor more night
than your starry voice, or your sun.

Pure poetry by Pedro Salinas dedicated to love that like a voice illuminates it and gives meaning to everythingto the living of the author himself and of all lovers.

long lament

How happy the water will be
tomorrow when I wake up
and finds its channel,
the two arms that carry her
narrowed to its destiny,
between shores that rejoice!

How happy the light will be,
tomorrow,
when it meets eyes,
that they capture her, and use her,
and it’s worth seeing!

How perfect the bird will be
when their wings meet,
and his body and the dawn
of the day, still undecided,
with a tweet, with a song,
in the throat asleep,
May it give voice to the morning!

But the soul, tell me, the soul
that the next day of that
He finds himself without more eyes,
without more hands, without more feet,
that sadly yours,
that the alone,
tell me. In what channel, in what light,
in which song are you going to live
if there is no more left
that your body to that soul?

Sadness takes over the poet’s soul when he sees his love leave and no one better than him describes the sadness of someone who has no reason to live and his soul has been left without eyes, without hands, without feet and without anything.

Present Simple (Trust)

Neither memories nor omens:
just present, singing.

Neither silence, nor words:
your voice, only, only, speaking to me.

Neither hands nor lips:
just two bodies,
in the distance, separated.

Neither light nor darkness,
neither eyes nor look:
vision, the vision of the soul.

And finally, finally,
neither enjoyment nor sorrow,
neither heaven nor earth,
neither up nor down,
neither life nor death, nothing
only love, only loving.

When you love there is only room for love, and this poem by Pedro Salinas is once again a reflection that When love comes to you, you don’t need anything else.

How do you let me think about you?

How do you let me think about you!
I don’t think about you alone, me.
Thinking about you is having you,
like the naked body before kisses,
all before me, delivered.
I feel how you give yourself to my memory,
how you give in to hot thinking,
your great consent in the distance.
And more than consenting, more than giving you,
you help me, you come to me, you teach me
memories in foreshortening, you make signs to me
with the delights, alive, of the past,
inviting me
You tell me from there
Let’s do what I want
—unite—when thinking of you.
And we enter through the kiss that you open to me,
and we think of you, both of us, just me.

The way you love (from ‘the voice due to you’)

The way you love
It’s letting me love you.
The yes with which you surrender to me
It is silence. your kisses
are offering me their lips
for me to kiss them.
Never words, hugs,
They will tell me that you existed,
that you loved me: never.
White sheets tell me,
maps, omens, telephones;
you, no.
and I’m hugging you
without asking you, out of fear
that it is not true
that you live and love me.
and I’m hugging you
without looking and without touching you.
I’m not going to discover
with questions, with caresses,
that immense loneliness
to love you only me.

Was it like kiss or cry?

Was it like kiss or cry?
Are we found
with our hands, looking for us
groping, with screams,
crying out, with their mouths
that the emptiness they kissed?
Was it a collision of matter
and matter, combat
chest to chest,
that by dint of contacts
became victory
joyful of both,
in prodigious pact
of your being with my being
whole?
Or was it that simple,
so effortless, like
a light that is found
with another light, and it remains
illuminated the world,
without anything being touched?

You will be, love…

Will you be, love
a long goodbye that never ends?
To live, from the beginning, is to separate.
In the same meeting
with the light, with the lips,
the heart perceives the anguish
of having to be blind and only one day.
Love is the miraculous delay
of its term itself:
is to prolong the magical fact
that one and one are two, against
of the first sentence of life.
With kisses,
with sorrow and chest they conquer,
in busy struggles, between joys
similar to games,
days, lands, fabulous spaces,
to the great disjunction that is waiting,
sister of death or death itself.
Every perfect kiss separates time,
throws him back, widens the brief world
where you can still kiss.
Neither in the place, nor in the discovery
love has its summit:
It is in the resistance to separate
where you feel it,
naked, towering, trembling.
And separation is not the time
when arms, or voices,
They say goodbye with material signs.
It’s from before, from after.
If you shake hands, if you hug,
It is never to leave,
It is because the soul blindly feels
that the possible way to be together
It is a long, clear farewell
and that the safest thing is goodbye.

More verses by Pedro Salias about the miracle of love and its games. An ode to feeling and its ins and outs.

Bank

If it weren’t for the rose
fragile, foam, very white,
that he, from afar, invents,
who was going to tell me
that his chest was moving
to breathe, that is alive,
that has an impetus inside,
who wants the whole earth,
blue, still, July sea?

The difficult

At the extremes you are
of you, for them I look for you.
Loving you: what to come and go
to yourself from yourself!
To find you, close,
how far we will have to go!
Love: distances, coming and going
non-stop.

In the middle of the road, nothing.
No, not your voice, your silence.
Round, smooth, without break,
like air, the questions
they barely curl it,
like stones, the questions
deep down he keeps them.
surface of silence
and I looking at myself in it.
Nothing, your silence, yes.

Or all your scream, yes.
Sharp in silence,
steel, lightning, bolt,
tearing, tearing,
what sudden accuracy
breaking the core of the world,
and the bottom of the world above,
where he arrives, very fleeting!
Everything, yes, your scream, yes.

But I don’t want your voice.

Horizontal, yes, I love you

Horizontal, yes, I love you.
Look at the face of the sky,
face. leave it now
to feign a balance
where you and I cry.
Give up
to the great final truth,
to what you have to be with me,
already lying, parallel,
in death or in the kiss.
Horizontal is the night
in the sea, great trembling mass
on the lying earth,
defeated on the beach.
Standing, lie:
just run or lie down.
And what you and I want
and the day—already so tired
to be with your light, right—
is that it comes to us, living
and with trembling of dying,
at the height of the kiss,
that staying surrendered
for the most weightless love,
to the weight of being made of earth,
matter, flesh of life.
In the night and the late night,
and love and afterlove,
already changed
in final horizons,
you and I, of ourselves.