I came to read about Neruda’s writings only a few years back and it kind of like a little late on my part to be introduced, for the first time, to such masterpieces wrought by the master wordsmith himself, Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto in real life. I should have started reading his works when I was a lot younger. I should have been Neruda-struck so early, and many, many years before like it did not long ago. I instantly fell in love with his poetry but, in addition to the long lists of poems by the poets I admired starting with Shakespeare, the way it sunk in deep within was like being enmeshed with a kind of magic; each word fell into the trap of whose hands only you could wonder, leaving you with a knockout for what it could surprisingly show as a result.
Reading Neruda is, if you’re a natural poet, not just simply reading his works. It is to live with every word he was able to bring to life; to keep the consciousness flooding with a sense of knowing you’re a part of it. His poems carried the weight of a seemingly defined obscure which, in an attempt to bring something into the light of truth, will be deciphered to those who are willing to absorb.
Neruda is the poet who would either be forgotten or remembered. He ceased to become what will retain as memory; yet he will always be in the minds of those who can offer him love. Treat him as your beloved conquest, and you’ll have more of what he can abundantly offer.
While the artist in a man have long time ago perished in the flesh, this was how he can still connect: His presence could be felt through every well-wrought verse I produced. That may sound quite absurd, though, but that was just Neruda--and me.