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9 January 2001


     Welcome, everyone!  I'm glad to see that you have found yourself at my website.  It is a small, humble place devoted to who I feel was one of the greatest poets of love and politics of all time.  Whether you speak Spanish or not, you can appreciate Neruda's unique and liquid-like style of poetry.  Neruda is one of the most widely-translated poets of all time, and yet his work is left out of many high school literature classes.   But perhaps his appeal is so strong as to be an intoxicating experience only to those who choose to embrace his style.
     Please enjoy your visit to my website.   Bookmark me, if you will, and come back often.  I don't update very much, so the site never changes, and is free to explore at your discretion.


If you would like to share your poetry with me, please e-mail me at [email protected]


Click here to visit my EYES WIDE SHUT soundtrack page or to be updated on the status of its DVD/VHS release!
Click on the above picture to visit my
Eyes Wide Shut Soundtrack Page!

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Selected Works


List of
Complete Works


Pablo Neruda: Absence and Presence


If I die, survive me with such sheer force that you waken the furies of the pallid and the cold . . .

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1995'S Academy Award-winning film Il Postino (The Postman) tells the story of a postman whose personal assignment is to deliver mail to a small island where Pablo Neruda has been exiled from Chil´┐Ż


To learn more
about this
film, click


View the poems of The Postman


If you have any comments or suggestions, please e-mail me!



[email protected]



. . . "


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5 January 1985, 3 a.m.,

Matilde Urrutia, wife of poet Pablo Neruda, died, uttering, "I'm happy.  At last I'm going to be with my Pablo . . . "


Matilde Urrutia, I'm leaving you here
all I had, all I didn't have,
all I am, all I am not.
My love is a child crying,
reluctant to leave your arms,
I leave it to you forever--
you are my chosen one.

You are my chosen one,
more tempered by winds
than thin trees in the south,
a hazel in August;
for me you are as delicious
as a great bakery.
You have an earth heart
but your hands are from heaven.

You are red and spicy,
you are white and salty
like pickled onions,
you are a laughing piano
with every human note;
and music runs over me
from your eyelashes and your hair.
I wallow in your gold shadow,
I'm enchanted by your ears
as though I had seen them before
in underwater coral.
In the sea for your nails' sake,
I took on terrifying fish . . . .

Sometime when we've stopped being,
stopped coming and going,
under seven blankets of dust
and the dry feet of death,
we'll be close again, love,
curious and puzzled.
Our different feathers,
our bumbling eyes,
our feet which didn't meet
and our printed kisses,
all will be back together,
but what good will it do us,
the closeness of a grave?
Let life not separate us:
and who cares about death?

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Absence and Presence:
     from the pictorial essay by Luis Poirot    

So, drawn on by my destiny,
I ceaselessly must listen to and keep
the sea's lamenting in my consciousness,
I must feel the crash of the hard water
and gather it up in a perpetual cup
so that, wherever those in prison may be,
wherever they suffer the sentence of the autumn,
I may be present with an errant wave,
I may move in and out of windows,
and hearing me, eyes may lift themselves,
asking "How can I reach the sea?"
And I will pass to them, saying nothing,
the starry echoes of the wave,
a breaking up of foam and quicksand,
a rustling of salt withdrawing itself,
the gray cry of sea birds on the coast.

So, through me, freedom and the sea
will all in answer to the shrouded heart.











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