I Love You Poems
Source(google.com.pk)
This poem I wrote for my fiance Adam...We have been apart for 11 years and he never once hinted how he felt until just out of the blue recently he finally admitted that he loves me. I had to admit though that if he had told me I would have admitted that I loved him too back then. Now we are getting married and I can't imagine life getting any better!
Source: All The Ways I Love You!, I Love You Poem http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/all-the-ways-i-love.
www.FamilyFriendPoems.com n the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.
The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.
Oh the black cross of a ship.
Alone.
n the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.
The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.
Oh the black cross of a ship.
Alone.
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.
The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire. His original name was Ricardo Eliecer Neftalà Reyes Basoalto (say again?) before he borrowed his pen name from Czech poet Jan Neruda.
He was active in the Chilean Communist Party until his exile to Argentina after communism was temporarily outlawed in Chile, but he returned to his country after his Nobel Prize acceptance, in 1971, and collaborated with Chile’s new, socialist president Salvador Allende.
He died of an alleged heart attack, three days after being hospitalized with cancer, during the coup d’etat led by Chile’s to-be-dictator, Augusto Pinochet, who overthrew Allende’s government in 1973.
He wrote in green ink, to symbolize the hope and desire often present even in his darkest lyrics.
In case you are the only human left on earth who hasn’t yet fallen in love with his most famous and recited poem, let alone heard of Neruda, today is your lucky day.
Clear your throat, take another sip of wine, coffee, coconut water, herbal tea, rain (whatever liquid is best suited to your imagination) and repeat with me:No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sÃ, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.
Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
asà te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
sino asà de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mÃa,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueñoI thought, if I could ever get to do that with words, twist and bend and break them as if they were alive, make love to them, make hate, eat them and cry them out and breathe new life into them, until there’s nothing left of me but words, then anything was possible.But over the years, I’ve been reminded of my original infatuation and my Nerudian gateway into poetry, here and there, voiced through different life travelers.
Like this reading by Glenn Close, that magically seals my heart’s broken mouth and quiets my monkey mind and the Voices, somebody get the Voices, and everything else that keeps me from the present moment—if only, for a brief minute.I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth.
As all things are filled with my soul
you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,
and you are like the word Melancholy.
I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.
It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.
And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
Let me come to be still in your silence.
And let me talk to you with your silence
that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.
I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.His original name was Ricardo Eliecer Neftalà Reyes Basoalto (say again?) before he borrowed his pen name from Czech poet Jan Neruda.
He was active in the Chilean Communist Party until his exile to Argentina after communism was temporarily outlawed in Chile, but he returned to his country after his Nobel Prize acceptance, in 1971, and collaborated with Chile’s new, socialist president Salvador Allende.
He died of an alleged heart attack, three days after being hospitalized with cancer, during the coup d’etat led by Chile’s to-be-dictator, Augusto Pinochet, who overthrew Allende’s government in 1973.
He wrote in green ink, to symbolize the hope and desire often present even in his darkest lyrics.
In case you are the only human left on earth who hasn’t yet fallen in love with his most famous and recited poem, let alone heard of Neruda, today is your lucky day.
Clear your throat, take another sip of wine, coffee, coconut water, herbal tea, rain (whatever liquid is best suited to your imagination) and repeat with me:No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sÃ, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.
Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
asà te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
sino asà de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mÃa,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueñoI thought, if I could ever get to do that with words, twist and bend and break them as if they were alive, make love to them, make hate, eat them and cry them out and breathe new life into them, until there’s nothing left of me but words, then anything was possible.But over the years, I’ve been reminded of my original infatuation and my Nerudian gateway into poetry, here and there, voiced through different life travelers.
Like this reading by Glenn Close, that magically seals my heart’s broken mouth and quiets my monkey mind and the Voices, somebody get the Voices, and everything else that keeps me from the present moment—if only, for a brief minute.I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth.
As all things are filled with my soul
you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,
and you are like the word Melancholy.
I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.
It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.
And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
Let me come to be still in your silence.
And let me talk to you with your silence
that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.
I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,His original name was Ricardo Eliecer Neftalà Reyes Basoalto (say again?) before he borrowed his pen name from Czech poet Jan Neruda.
He was active in the Chilean Communist Party until his exile to Argentina after communism was temporarily outlawed in Chile, but he returned to his country after his Nobel Prize acceptance, in 1971, and collaborated with Chile’s new, socialist president Salvador Allende.
He died of an alleged heart attack, three days after being hospitalized with cancer, during the coup d’etat led by Chile’s to-be-dictator, Augusto Pinochet, who overthrew Allende’s government in 1973.
He wrote in green ink, to symbolize the hope and desire often present even in his darkest lyrics.
In case you are the only human left on earth who hasn’t yet fallen in love with his most famous and recited poem, let alone heard of Neruda, today is your lucky day.
Clear your throat, take another sip of wine, coffee, coconut water, herbal tea, rain (whatever liquid is best suited to your imagination) and repeat with me:No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sÃ, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.
Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
asà te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
sino asà de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mÃa,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueñoI thought, if I could ever get to do that with words, twist and bend and break them as if they were alive, make love to them, make hate, eat them and cry them out and breathe new life into them, until there’s nothing left of me but words, then anything was possible.But over the years, I’ve been reminded of my original infatuation and my Nerudian gateway into poetry, here and there, voiced through different life travelers.
Like this reading by Glenn Close, that magically seals my heart’s broken mouth and quiets my monkey mind and the Voices, somebody get the Voices, and everything else that keeps me from the present moment—if only, for a brief minute.I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,you.
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth.
As all things are filled with my soul
you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,
and you are like the word Melancholy.
I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.
It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.
And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
Let me come to be still in your silence.
And let me talk to you with your silence
that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.
I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
One word then, one smile, is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it’s not true.
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
One word then, one smile, is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it’s not true.
One word then, one smile, is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it’s not true.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
His original name was Ricardo Eliecer Neftalà Reyes Basoalto (say again?) before he borrowed his pen name from Czech poet Jan Neruda.
He was active in the Chilean Communist Party until his exile to Argentina after communism was temporarily outlawed in Chile, but he returned to his country after his Nobel Prize acceptance, in 1971, and collaborated with Chile’s new, socialist president Salvador Allende.
He died of an alleged heart attack, three days after being hospitalized with cancer, during the coup d’etat led by Chile’s to-be-dictator, Augusto Pinochet, who overthrew Allende’s government in 1973.
He wrote in green ink, to symbolize the hope and desire often present even in his darkest lyrics.
In case you are the only human left on earth who hasn’t yet fallen in love with his most famous and recited poem, let alone heard of Neruda, today is your lucky day.
Clear your throat, take another sip of wine, coffee, coconut water, herbal tea, rain (whatever liquid is best suited to your imagination) and repeat with me:No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sÃ, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.
Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
asà te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
sino asà de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mÃa,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueñoI thought, if I could ever get to do that with words, twist and bend and break them as if they were alive, make love to them, make hate, eat them and cry them out and breathe new life into them, until there’s nothing left of me but words, then anything was possible.But over the years, I’ve been reminded of my original infatuation and my Nerudian gateway into poetry, here and there, voiced through different life travelers.
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth.
As all things are filled with my soul
you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,
and you are like the word Melancholy
I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.
It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.
And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
Let me come to be still in your silence.
And let me talk to you with your silence
that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.
I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
One word then, one smile, is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it’s not true.
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