Past by Pablo Neruda

We have to discard the past
and, as one builds
floor by floor, window by window,
and the building rises,
so do we go on throwing down
first, broken tiles,
then pompous doors,
until out of the past
dust rises
as if to crash
against the floor,
smoke rises
as if to catch fire,
and each new day
it gleams
like an empty
plate.
There is nothing, there is always nothing.
It has to be filled
with a new, fruitful
space,
then downward
tumbles yesterday
as in a well
falls yesterday's water,
into the cistern
of all still without voice or fire.
It is difficult to teach bones
to disappear,
to teach eyes
to close
but
we do it
unrealizing.
It was all alive,
alive, alive, alive
like a scarlet fish
but time
passed over its dark cloth
and the flash of the fish
drowned and disappeared.
Water water water
the past goes on falling
still a tangle
of bones
and of roots;
it has been, it has been, and now
memories mean nothing.
Now the heavy eyelid
covers the light of the eye
and what was once living
now no longer lives;
what we were, we are not.
And with words, although the letters
still have transparency and sound,
they change, and the mouth changes;
the same mouth is now another mouth;
they change, lips, skin, circulation;
another being has occupied our skeleton;
what once was in us now is not.
It has gone, but if the call, we reply;
"I am here," knowing we are not,
that what once was, was and is lost,
is lost in the past, and now will not return.

Adventures Of Isabel by Ogden Nash

Isabel met an enormous bear,
Isabel, Isabel, didn't care;
The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,
The bear's big mouth was cruel and cavernous.
The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you,
How do, Isabel, now I'll eat you!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry.
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up,
Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.
Once in a night as black as pitch
Isabel met a wicked old witch.
the witch's face was cross and wrinkled,
The witch's gums with teeth were sprinkled.
Ho, ho, Isabel! the old witch crowed,
I'll turn you into an ugly toad!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry,
She showed no rage and she showed no rancor,
But she turned the witch into milk and drank her.
Isabel met a hideous giant,
Isabel continued self reliant.
The giant was hairy, the giant was horrid,
He had one eye in the middle of his forhead.
Good morning, Isabel, the giant said,
I'll grind your bones to make my bread.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She nibled the zwieback that she always fed off,
And when it was gone, she cut the giant's head off.
Isabel met a troublesome doctor,
He punched and he poked till he really shocked her.
The doctor's talk was of coughs and chills
And the doctor's satchel bulged with pills.
The doctor said unto Isabel,
Swallow this, it will make you well.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She took those pills from the pill concocter,
And Isabel calmly cured the doctor.

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone enough / Rainer Maria Rilke

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
enough
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
enough
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everday jug,
like my mother's face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm.

On the Ning Nang Nong by Spike Milligan

On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
and the monkeys all say BOO!
There's a Nong Nang Ning
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots jibber jabber joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang
And you just can't catch 'em when they do!
So its Ning Nang Nong
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning
Trees go ping
Nong Ning Nang
The mice go Clang
What a noisy place to belong
is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!

Advice to a Girl / Sara Teasdale

No one worth possessing
Can be quite possessed;
Lay that on your heart,
My young angry dear;
This truth, this hard and precious stone,
Lay it on your hot cheek,
Let it hide your tear.
Hold it like a crystal
When you are alone
And gaze in the depths of the icy stone.
Long, look long and you will be blessed:
No one worth possessing
Can be quite possessed.

Episode by Zbigniew Herbert

We walk by the sea-shore
holding firmly in our hands
the two ends of an antique dialogue
—do you love me?
—I love you


with furrowed eyebrows
I summarize all wisdom
of the two testaments
astrologers prophets
philosophers of the gardens
and cloistered philosophers


and it sounds about like this:
—don’t cry
—be brave
—look how everybody


you pout your lips and say
—you should be a clergyman
and fed up you walk off
nobody loves moralists


    what should I say on the shore of
    a small dead sea


    slowly the water fills
    the shapes of feet which have vanished

Just Keep Quiet and Nobody Will Notice / Ogden Nash

There is one thing that ought to be taught in all the colleges,
Which is that people ought to be taught not to go around always making apologies.
I don’t mean the kind of apologies people make when they run over you or borrow 

five dollars or step on your feet,

Because I think that is sort of sweet;
No, I object to one kind of apology alone,
Which is when people spend their time and yours apologizing for everything they own.
You go to their house for a meal,
And they apologize because the anchovies aren’t caviar or the partridge is veal;
They apologize privately for the crudeness of the other guests,
And they apologzie publicly for their wife’s housekeeping or their husband’s jests;
If they give you a book by Dickens they apologize because it isn’t by Scott,
And if they take you to the theater, they apologize for the acting and the dialogue and 

the plot;
They contain more milk of human kindness than the most capacious diary can,
But if you are from out of town they apologize for everything local and if you are a foreigner 

they apologize for everything American.
I dread these apologizers even as I am depicting them,
I shudder as I think of the hours that must be spend in contradicting them,
Because you are very rude if you let them emerge from an argument victorious,
And when they say something of theirs is awful, it is your duty to convince 

them politely that it is magnificent and glorious,
And what particularly bores me with them,
Is that half the time you have to politely contradict them when you rudely agree with them,
So I think there is one rule every host and hostess ought to keep with the comb and 

nail file and bicarbonate and aromatic spirits on a handy shelf,
Which is don’t spoil the denouement by telling the guests everything is terrible, but let them have the thrill of finding it out for themselves.

Ogden Nash (1902 - 1971)
  

The Land of Lost Content by Alfred Edward Housman

Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

Amazing Grace — John Newton, Olney Hymns, 1779

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost but now am found
Was blind, but now I see.


'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed!


Through many dangers, toils, and snares,
We have already come;
'Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.


The Lord has promised good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be
As long as life endures.


Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.


The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun forbear to shine;
But God, who called me here below,
Will be forever mine.

Scarborough Fair Ballad

"Scarborough Fair" is a traditional ballad of the United Kingdom. The song tells the tale of a young man, who tells the listener to ask his former lover to perform for him a series of impossible tasks. The lyrics of "Scarborough Fair" appear to have something in common with an obscure Scottish ballad, The Elfin Knight (Child Ballad ), which has been traced at least as far back as 1670 and may well be earlier. The melody is very typical of the middle English period.

A version published in 1889 is typical of modern versions:

Are you going to Scarborough Fair?

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;

Remember me to one who lives there,

For once she was a true love of mine.




Tell her to make me a cambric shirt,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;

Without any seam or needlework,

Then she shall be a true lover of mine.




Tell her to wash it in yonder well,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;

Where never spring water or rain ever fell,

And she shall be a true lover of mine.



Tell her to dry it on yonder thorn,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;

Which never bore blossom since Adam was born,

Then she shall be a true lover of mine.




Now he has asked me questions three,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;

I hope he'll answer as many for me

Before he shall be a true lover of mine.




Tell him to buy me an acre of land,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;

Betwixt the salt water and the sea sand,

Then he shall be a true lover of mine.




Tell him to plough it with a ram's horn,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;

And sow it all over with one pepper corn,

And he shall be a true lover of mine.




Tell him to shear it with a sickle of leather,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;

And bind it up with a peacock feather.

And he shall be a true lover of mine.




Tell him to thrash it on yonder wall,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme,

And never let one corn of it fall,

Then he shall be a true lover of mine.




When he has done and finished his work.

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme:

Oh, tell him to come and he'll have his shirt,

And he shall be a true lover of mine.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Another Version:

Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.
Remember me to one who lives there.
She once was a true love of mine.

Tell her to make me a cambric shirt,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.
Without any seam or fine needlework,
and then she'll be a true love of mine.

Tell her to wash it in yonder dry well.
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.
Which never sprung water nor rain ever fell,
and then she'll be a true love of mine.

Tell her to dry it on yonder thorn.
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.
Which never bore blossom, since Adam was born,
and then she'll be a true love of mine.

Ask her to do me this courtesy.
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
and ask for a like favour from me,
and then she'll be a true love of mine.

Oh, will you find me an acre of land,
parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
between the salt water and the sea sand,
or never be a true love of mine.

Oh, will you plough it with a lamb's horn.
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.
And sow it all over with one peppercorn,
or never be a true love of mine.

Oh, will you reap it with a sickle of leather.
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.
And gather it up with a rope made of heather,
or never be a true love of mine.

And when you have done and finished your work.
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.
Then come to me for your cambric shirt,
and you shall be a true love of mine.

If you say that you can't, then I shall reply,
parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
oh, let me know that at least you will try,
or you'll never be a true love of mine.

The Light of Other Days - Thomas Moore

Oft, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me:
The smiles, the tears
Of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimm'd and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.


When I remember all
The friends, so link'd together,
I've seen around me fall
Like leaves in wintry weather,
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me.
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

A Rainy Evening / Casey Stewart

In a room lined with marble
I find a moment of peace
Standing there with a calm breath
I realize, life goes on...
An eveing of temptations
Has come to an end and
once again, I sit with friends
The world can wait...
I have found my escape
Friends keep me afloat
When the storm is too dark
For land to be seen
They are my light in the shadows
All I needed to relax was a rainy evening... 

P.S. thanks to Sulagna for suggesting Casey Stewart.

I Love You / Sara Teasdale

When April bends above me
And finds me fast asleep
Dust need not keep the secret
A live heart died to keep.


When April tells the thrushes,
The meadow-larks will know,
And pipe the three words lightly
To all the winds that blow.


Above his roof the swallows,
In notes like far-blown rain,
Will tell the little sparrow
Beside his window-pane.


O sparrow, little sparrow,
When I am fast asleep,
Then tell my love the secret
That I have died to keep.

Do not stand at my grave and weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.




*** Do not stand at my grave and weep is a poem written in 1932 by Mary Elizabeth Frye. Although the origin of the poem was disputed until later in her life, Mary Frye's authorship was confirmed in 1998 after research by Abigail Van Buren, a newspaper columnist.

Funeral Blues / W.H.Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Love Poem XIV : I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the gray light unwind in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.

I want
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Clenched Soul / Pablo Neruda

We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
While the blue night dropped on the world.
I have seen from my window
The fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.
Sometimes a piece of sunburned like a coin in my hand.
I remembered you with my soul clenched
In that sadness of mine that you know.
Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly?
When I am sad and feel you are far away?
The book fell that always closed at twilight
And my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.
Always, always you recede through the evenings
Toward the twilight erasing statues.

Ghost Story / Sting

I watch the Western sky
The sun is sinking
The geese are flying South
It sets me thinking


I did not miss you much
I did not suffer
What did not kill me
Just made me tougher


I feel the winter come
His icy sinews
Now in the fire light
The case continues


Another night in court
The same old trial
The same old questions asked
The same denial


The shadows closely run
Like jury members
I look for answers in
The fire's embers


Why was I missing then
That whole December
I give my usual line:
I don't remember


Another winter comes
His icy fingers creep
Into these bones of mine
These memories never sleep


And all these differences
A cloak I borrow
We kept our distances
Why should it follow I must have loved you


What is the force that binds the stars
I wore this mask to hide my scars
What is the power that pulls the tide
I never could find a place to hide


What moves the Earth around the sun
What could I do but run and run and run
Afraid to love, afraid to fail
A mast without a sail


The moon's a fingernail and slowly sinking
Another day begins and now I'm thinking
That this indifference was my invention
When everything I did sought your attention


You were my compass star
You were my measure
You were a pirate's map
A buried treasure


If this was all correct
The last thing I'd expect
The prosecution rests
It's time that I confess: I must have loved you

In The End / Linking Park

(It starts with)
One thing, I don’t know why
It doesn’t even matter how hard you try
Keep that in mind, I designed this rhyme
To explain in due time


All I know
time is a valuable thing
Watch it fly by as the pendulum swings
Watch it count down to the end of the day
The clock ticks life away
It’s so unreal


Didn’t look out below
Watch the time go right out the window
Trying to hold on but didn’t even know
Wasted it all just to
Watch you go


I kept everything inside and even though I tried, it all fell apart
What it meant to me will eventually be a memory of a time when I tried so hard
And got so far


But in the end
It doesn't even matter
I had to fall
To lose it all


But in the end
It doesn't even matter


One thing, I don’t know why
It doesn’t even matter how hard you try
Keep that in mind, I designed this rhyme
To remind myself how
I tried so hard


In spite of the way you were mocking me
Acting like I was part of your property
Remembering all the times you fought with me
I’m surprised it got so (far)


Things aren’t the way they were before
You wouldn’t even recognize me anymore
Not that you knew me back then
But it all comes back to me
In the end


You kept everything inside and even though I tried, it all fell apart
What it meant to me will eventually be a memory of a time when I tried so hard
And got so far
But in the end
It doesn’t even matter
I had to fall
To lose it all


But in the end
It doesn’t even matter


I've put my trust in you
Pushed as far as I can go
For all this
There’s only one thing you should know
I've put my trust in you
Pushed as far as I can go
For all this
There’s only one thing you should know


I tried so hard
And got so far
But in the end
It doesn’t even matter
I had to fall
To lose it all
But in the end
It doesn’t even matter

Truth by Barrie Wade

Sticks and stones may break my bones, 
But words can also hurt me.
Stones and sticks break only skin, 
While words are ghosts that haunt me.
Slant and curved the word-swords fall
To pierce and stick inside me.
Bats and bricks may ache through bones,
But words can mortify me.
Pain from words has left its scar
On mind and heart that’s tender.
Cuts and bruises now have healed;
It’s words that I remember.

If Wishes were Horses... / nursery rhyme

If wishes were horses then beggars would ride,
If turnips were swords I'd have one by my side.
If 'ifs' and hands were pots and pans
There would be no need for tinkers hands!

One flew over the cuckoo's nest - nursery rhyme

Vintery, mintery, cutery, corn,
Apple seed and apple thorn,
Wire, briar, limber lock
Three geese in a flock
One flew East
One flew West
And one flew over the cuckoo's nest

Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead by Alfred Tennyson

Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
'She must weep or she will die.'

Then they praised him, soft and low,
Called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept,
Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee—
Like summer tempest came her tears—
'Sweet my child, I live for thee.'

Love after Love ~ Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Invictus - William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.


P.S.

At the age of 12, Henley fell victim to tuberculosis of the bone. A few years later, the disease progressed to his foot, and physicians announced that the only way to save his life was to amputate directly below the knee. It was amputated when he was 25. In 1875, he wrote the "Invictus" poem from a hospital bed. Despite his disability, he survived with one foot intact and led an active life until his death at the age of 53.

The Good-Morrow - John Donne

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?
’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.


And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.


My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres,
Without sharp north, without declining west?
Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

Consummation Of Grief / Charles Bukowski

I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water
is their tears.
I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoehorn
a laundry ticket
it becomes
cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .
it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
what counts
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.

Crossing the Bar / Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Sunset and evening star,
  And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
  When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
    Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
    Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
    When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
    The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
    When I have crost the bar.

Our Desires / Jack Kerouac

There is a wind that seeks the crevice
under my heart
the way insects file at night
beneath a doorway


Its edges are rough, it slits
the cords.It trips my steady breathing.
When it comes there is no one
I can trust.


It seems, at times, I have designed
too well this vision of you.
I cannot survive your eyes
when they are scarred with a need
for some lesser form of love.


I admit to this conceit.
And though you will not accept it
You love it nonetheless


It is just like you.Our desires
will always be kept sharp
by a kind of perversity.A need
to be each forever alone….


Its color is violet, like lips
that have been smashed by nights
or robbed of blood by lack of breath.
The wind I was speaking of does this.

I can feel it now.

On Tears / Jack Kerouac

Tears is the break of my brow,
The moony tempestuous
Sitting down

In dark railyards
When to see my mother’s face
Recalling from the waking vision
I wept to understand
The trap mortality
And personal blood of earth
Which saw me in—

Father father

Why hast thou forsaken me?
Mortality & unpleasure
Roam this city—

Unhappiness my middle name
I want to be saved,--
Sunk—can’t be
Won’t be
Never was made—
So retch!

Ditty of First Desire / Federico García Lorca

In the green morning
I wanted to be a heart.
A heart.


And in the ripe evening
I wanted to be a nightingale.
A nightingale.


(Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the color of love.)


In the vivid morning
I wanted to be myself.
A heart.


And at the evening's end
I wanted to be my voice.
A nightingale. Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the color of love.

Love / Pablo Neruda

Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of
you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
window.
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.

Mayday / An Unknown Poet

From nowhere
Rises the wave of loneliness
Desperately seeking
A place to come ashore
A land to throw herself at
Like a mother who lost her pup
Like the one, who has lost a limb, soul, meaning
A desire to hit something, find something
That would end the restlessness
The insanity of searching
For nothing
After foaming some time
It calms down, settle into it's destiny
Swelling into it's bottomless sadness
Only to gather strength again.

One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII BY Pablo Neruda

I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries
the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,
and thanks to your love the dense aroma that arose
from the earth lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,

except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.

****

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.