Some Neruda for you

“We met each other when we were young, before we knew enough about disappointment, and once we did we found we reminded each other of it.”

― Nicole Krauss, The History of Love

Image : Michiel Huisman on Pinterest

Here I love you.

In 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.

Pablo Neruda

A time I love

When I found this quote or excerpt I didn't know who Katherine Mansfield was.  I don't know from which book it  was taken, but that is not really important to me.

The words she wrote are universal . . .  

Thank you Amanda Patterson of Writers Write for introducing me to her work.

Longing

There are lovers content with longing

I am not one of them

Paris

Sometimes I wonder how it would be to live in a rooftop flat in the middle of Paris,to write my memoirs,  at a table in front of an open window, at night, listening to late night noises of the city  . . .

I wonder, is Paris quiet at night?

“But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.”

Ernest Hemingway

The Book of Questions III

Image: Tumblr

Tell me, is the rose naked

 or is that her only dress?

 Why do trees conceal

 the splendor of their roots?

 Who hears the regrets

 of the thieving automobile? 

Is there anything in the world sadder

 than a train standing in the rain?

Pablo Neruda

The spaces between seconds

“I don’t know what they are called, the spaces between seconds– but I think of you always in those intervals.” 

― Salvador Plascencia, The People of Paper

He shall come

HE SHALL COME

"What I say unto you I say - unto all Watch.

"At even, or at midnight, or at the cock-crowing."

It may be in the evening,
When the work of the day is done,
And you have time to sit in the twilight,
And to watch the sinking sun;
While the long bright day dies slowly 
Over the sea,
And the hour grows quiet and holy
With thoughts of Me;
While you hear the village children
Passing along the street,
Among these thronging footsteps 
May come the sound of My feet;
Therefore I tell you, watch!
By the light of the evening star,
When the room is growing dusky
As the clouds afar;
Let the door be on the latch
In your home,
For it may be through the gloaming,
I will come.

It may be in the -midnight
When 'tis heavy upon the land,
And the black-waves lying dumbly
Along the sand;
When the moonless night draws close
And the lights are out in the house,
When the fires burn low and red,
And the watch is ticking loudly
Beside the bed;
Though you sleep tired on your couch,
Still your heart must wake and watch
In the dark room;
For it may be that at midnight
I will come.

It may be at the cock-crow, 
When the night is dying slowly In the sky,
And the sea looks calm and holy,
Waiting for the dawn of the golden sun
Which draweth nigh;
When the mists are on the valleys, shading,
The rivers chill,
And my morning star is fading, fading
Over the hill;
Behold, I say unto you, watch I
Let the door be on the latch
In your home,
In the chill before the dawning, 
Between the night and morning,
I may come.

It may be in the morning
When the sun is bright and strong, 
And the dew is glittering sharply 
Over the little lawn,
When the waves are laughing loudly
Along the shore,
And the little birds-are singing sweetly 
About the door;
With the long day's work before you
You are up with the sun,
And the neighbors come to talk a little
Of all that must be done;
gut, remember, that I may be the next
To come in at the door,
To call you from your busy work,
For evermore.
As you work, your heart must watch, 
For the door is on the latch
In your room,
And it may be in the morning
I will come.

So I am watching quietly Every day,
Whenever the sun shines brightly
I rise and say,
Surely it is the shining of His face,
And look unto the gate of His high place 
Beyond the sea,
For I know He is coming shortly
To summon me;
And when a shadow falls across the window

Of my room,
Where I am working my appointed task, 
I lift my head to watch the door and ask 
If He is come I
And the Spirit answers softly
In my home,
"Only a few more shadows,
And He will come."

Hold on

They hung a sign up in our town

"if you live it up, you won't

live it down"

So, she left Monte Rio, son

Just like a bullet leaves a gun

With charcoal eyes and Monroe hips

She went and took that California trip

Well, the moon was gold, her

Hair like wind

She said don't look back just

Come on Jim

Oh you got to

Hold on, Hold on

You got to hold on

Take my hand, I'm standing right here

You gotta hold on

Well, he gave her a dimestore watch

And a ring made from a spoon

Everyone is looking for someone to blame

But you share my bed, you share my name

Well, go ahead and call the cops

You don't meet nice girls in coffee shops

She said baby, I still love you

Sometimes there's nothin left to do

Oh you got to

Hold on, hold on

You got to hold on

Take my hand, I'm standing right here, you got to

Just hold on.

Well, God bless your crooked little heart St. Louis got the best of me

I miss your broken-china voice

How I wish you were still here with me

Well, you build it up, you wreck it down

You burn your mansion to the ground

When there's nothing left to keep you here, when

You're falling behind in this

Big blue world

Oh you go to

Hold on, hold on

You got to hold on

Take my hand, I'm standing right here

You got to hold on

Down by the Riverside motel,

It's 10 below and falling

By a 99 cent store she closed her eyes

And started swaying

But it's so hard to dance that way

When it's cold and there's no music

Well your old hometown is so far away

But, inside your head there's a record

That's playing, a song called

Hold on, hold on

You really got to hold on

Take my hand, I'm standing right here

And just hold on.

Before The Deluge

Some of them were dreamers 

And some of them were fools 

Who were making plans and thinking of the future 

With the energy of the innocent 

They were gathering the tools 

They would need to make their journey back to nature 

While the sand slipped through the opening 

And their hands reached for the golden ring 

With their hearts they turned to each other's heart for refuge 

In the troubled years that came before the deluge 

Some of them knew pleasure 

And some of them knew pain 

And for some of them it was only the moment that mattered 

And on the brave and crazy wings of youth 

They went flying around in the rain 

And their feathers, once so fine, grew torn and tattered 

And in the end they traded their tired wings 

For the resignation that living brings 

And exchanged love's bright and fragile glow 

For the glitter and the rouge 

And in the moment they were swept before the deluge 

Now let the music keep our spirits high 

And let the buildings keep our children dry 

Let creation reveal it's secrets by and by 

By and by-- 

When the light that's lost within us reaches the sky 

Some of them were angry 

At the way the earth was abused 

By the men who learned how to forge her beauty into power 

And they struggled to protect her from them 

Only to be confused 

By the magnitude of her fury in the final hour 

And when the sand was gone and the time arrived 

In the naked dawn only a few survived 

And in attempts to understand a thing so simple and so huge 

Believed that they were meant to live after the deluge 

Now let the music keep our spirits high 

And let the buildings keep our children dry 

Let creation reveal it's secrets by and by 

By and by-- 

When the light that's lost within us reaches the sky

For you, a poem by Ezra Pound

And the days are not full enough

And the nights are not full enough

And life slips by like a field mouse

Not shaking the grass

Ezra Pound

Bring him home

God on high

Hear my prayer

In my need

You have always been there

He is young

He's afraid

Let him rest

Heaven blessed.

Bring him home

Bring him home

Bring him home.

He's like the son I might have known

If God had granted me a son.

The summers die

One by one

How soon they fly

On and on

And I am old

And will be gone.

Bring him peace

Bring him joy

He is young

He is only a boy

You can take

You can give

Let him be

Let him live

If I die, let me die

Let him live

Bring him home

Bring him home

Bring him home.

Rain

I opened my eyes

And looked up at the rain,

And it dripped in my head

And flowed into my brain,

And all that I hear as I lie in my bed

Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,

I walk very slow,

I can't do a handstand--

I might overflow,

So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--

I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.

Shel Silverstein (1930 - 1999)

Poetry

Dedicated to Roland  . . . .  because it sparkles and glows

Painting: Starry night by Vincent van Gogh

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, not silence,

but from a street it called me,

from the branches of night,

abruptly from the others,

among raging fires

or returning alone,

there it was, without a face,

and it touched me.

I didn't know what to say, my mouth

had no way

with names,

my eyes were blind.

Something knocked 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,

the darkness perforated,

riddled

with arrows, fire, and flowers,

the overpowering night, the universe.

And I, tiny 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 with the wind.

Pablo Neruda 

(1904—1973)

Everything is meaningless

“Meaningless! Meaningless!”

says the Teacher.

“Utterly meaningless!

Everything is meaningless.”

What do people gain from all their labors

at which they toil under the sun?

Generations come and generations go,

but the earth remains forever.

The sun rises and the sun sets,

and hurries back to where it rises.

The wind blows to the south

and turns to the north;

round and round it goes,

ever returning on its course. 

All streams flow into the sea,

yet the sea is never full.

To the place the streams come from,

there they return again.

All things are wearisome,

more than one can say.

The eye never has enough of seeing,

nor the ear its fill of hearing.

What has been will be again,

what has been done will be done again;

there is nothing new under the sun.

Is there anything of which one can say,

“Look! This is something new”?

It was here already, long ago;

it was here before our time.

No one remembers the former generations,

and even those yet to come

will not be remembered

by those who follow them.

The words of the Teacher, son of David, king in Jerusalem:

Ecclessiastes 1

The Christmas Scale

An abandoned doll's tale

A weathered, frayed doll sits quietly at a corner
Its patches illuminated by dim rays of light
Shining through the dusty window yonder
Making the place a mysterious sight


A fine layer of dust encases the old cloth doll
Giving it an antique touch; faded glory
However, its bright beady eyes seem to call
Out to you, imploring you to hear its story


It ended up here, in this musty attic
For a reason, one that was extremely grievous
The doll takes a deep breath, gives a hic
And begins its tale, its expression serious


It had once been bought by a fickle boy
Who took a fancy to it, and seized it
Marking it as his property with joy
Promising that his love would never quit


He showered it with compliments and
Affection, always whispering sweet nothings
To it and taking it to his fantasyland
Where they would go for walks in clearings


Often, they would sit in the moonlight
Watching and wishing upon the stars
That shone, high up in the sky so bright
And the doll would think bad times were far


Not long after, however, the boy grew bored
And decided that the doll was passe
So he bought other things he could afford
While tossing the patched doll away


Thus, it lay wretched on the ground
Of the old attic, reminiscing its sad life
As days passed by, and dust settled around
The place where forgotten objects were rife


For a long time, the poor doll still
Hoped and believed the boy would be back
To collect it for a hike up a hill
And then its life would be back on track


But its hopes slowly faded over time
As it began to realize the bitter truth-
That it would never again hear the chime
Of the clock, or slide down railings so smooth


It perceived that the boy had never
Truly loved it, that he had only liked it for
Personal comfort and fun, if ever;
Stepping all over it like it was the floor


So, with bitterness and resentment
It relates its sorrowful tale
Tears dripping down its crummy cheeks
As it tries to repress them and fails


Upon finishing its story, it sinks back with
A sigh, one of sorrow and of resignation
Helplessly awaiting the day it would breathe
Its last breath, before its final cremation.


Alice

The dispensables

 One day, and that day is not far away, it will be us being alone and lonely, sinking in the empty space.

Empty Space

"I sink deeper and deeper,

with every move i make,

I hate this place with a passion,

Its so lifeless and dark,

I wish someone would feel this,

Empty space with in my Heart"...

                                                                            James Quin

Loneliness

'Won't you come and see

loneliness? Just one leaf

from the kiri tree.''

Basho

Upon Westminster Bridge

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802

Earth has not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This City now doth, like a garment, wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;

And all that mighty heart is lying still!

William Wordsworth 

(1770-1850 / Cumberland / England)