“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.”
― Pablo Neruda, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair
Category Archives: Poetry
Death of Time
The Return Journey
My life was a geography
I surveyed over and over again,
a book of maps or dreams.
In America I awakened.
Were these perhaps dreams of rivers and towns?
Was there nothing real about these countries?
Are there three steps in my journey:
dreaming, waking, and dying?
I’ve fallen asleep among statues
and upon waking found myself alone.
Where are the benevolent shadows?
Did I love and in truth was I loved?
It was a geography of dream,
a magical history.
I know by memory the islands and faces
visited or, perhaps, dreamed.
Upon the spoils of the universe
– fruit, woman, the immensity –
fell all of my inebriated senses,
like drunken pirates of the sea.
At last I found in harbor,
a naked girl, perfectly shaped:
in her great, tremulous water
I quenched my human thirst.
Later came the maiden of wheat,
the vegetal virgin;
but, always, from each door
the eternal Other called me.
From snow to palm tree
I saw cities of the earth
where God had cleaned the windows
and no one wanted to die.
I saw the arid earth of the bull
– last refuge of blue –
and a country where pine trees
raised their green obelisks to the light.
Did I dream this face on the wall,
that hand upon my skin?
This street of apples
and doves, did I dream it all?
The harbor like equal sections
of a crystal watermelon,
and islands like seeds:
was this a dream and nothing more?
Is this dust the mortal ash
that still clings to my feet?
Were they not harbors but years,
those places I anchored in?
Only in the most distinct languages
did I become fluent in solitude
and graduated as a doctor of dreams.
I came to America to awake.
Again, in my throat burns
the thirst to live, the thirst to die,
and so I humbly bend down
to this earth of maize.
Land of fruit and tombs,
sole property of the sun:
I come from the world – O great dream! –
with a map scrolled in my voice.
-Jorge Carrera Andrade
el insomnio
Image
With these fragmented thoughts
sleep is elusive
muscle spasm nightmares
and technicolor dreams
give way to
fleeting moments of panic
I am lost in a bizarre
stream of consciousness
Cold and fatigued,
I eventually succumb
to the other side
Happy Birthday, Pablo Neruda
“On our earth, before writing was invented, before the printing press was invented, poetry flourished. That is why we know that poetry is like bread; it should be shared by all, by scholars and by peasants, by all our vast, incredible, extraordinary family of humanity.” —Happy birthday, Pablo Neruda.
Ode To the Sea
HERE
Surrounding the island
There’s sea.
But what sea?
It’s always overflowing.
Says yes,
Then no,
Then no again,
And no,
Says yes
In blue
In sea spray
Raging,
Says no
And no again.
It can’t be still.
It stammers
My name is sea.
It slaps the rocks
And when they aren’t convinced,
Strokes them
And soaks them
And smothers them with kisses.
With seven green tongues
Of seven green dogs
Or seven green tigers
Or seven green seas,
Beating its chest,
Stammering its name,
Oh Sea,
This is your name.
Oh comrade ocean,
Don’t waste time
Or water
Getting so upset
Help us instead.
We are meager fishermen,
Men from the shore
Who are hungry and cold
And you’re our foe.
Don’t beat so hard,
Don’t shout so loud,
Open your green coffers,
Place gifts of silver in our hands.
Give us this day
our daily fish.
-Pablo Neruda
Deaths And Entrances by Dylan Thomas
On almost the incendiary eve
Of several near deaths,
When one at the great least of your best loved
And always known must leave
Lions and fires of his flying breath,
Of your immortal friends
Who’d raise the organs of the counted dust
To shoot and sing your praise,
One who called deepest down shall hold his peace
That cannot sink or cease
Endlessly to his wound
In many married London’s estranging grief.
On almost the incendiary eve
When at your lips and keys,
Locking, unlocking, the murdered strangers weave,
One who is most unknown,
Your polestar neighbour, sun of another street,
Will dive up to his tears.
He’ll bathe his raining blood in the male sea
Who strode for your own dead
And wind his globe out of your water thread
And load the throats of shells
with every cry since light
Flashed first across his thunderclapping eyes.
On almost the incendiary eve
Of deaths and entrances,
When near and strange wounded on London’s waves
Have sought your single grave,
One enemy, of many, who knows well
Your heart is luminous
In the watched dark, quivering through locks and caves,
Will pull the thunderbolts
To shut the sun, plunge, mount your darkened keys
And sear just riders back,
Until that one loved least
Looms the last Samson of your zodiac.
Small distractions by Leah Grace O’Brien…revised
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I lay in bed amongst the security of large pillows and books small termites dance around the lamp on my nightstand their tobacco wings do not spread out and flutter in the elegant manner in which a moth carries itself … Continue reading
Congress Street by Leah Grace O’Brien
There once was a time when I drank beer in the shower and listened to Lady Day on the busted old record player it wasn't romantic or interesting being poor hardly ever is unless you have a good imagination and know how to get what you want but I lacked talent when it came to such things and couldn't even barter a new shower faucet from the ancient handyman who lived on the top floor