is salt water – sweat, tears, or the sea
Your Feet
When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.
Do you remember the first
lightning bug
you accidentally killed?
How you squeezed it too hard
in your fist because
you wanted to keep it long enough
to show us?
No one knows what you did with
the light, or where your hand
has been since it happened,
but they’re all curious.When did it get bad?
When did your voice turn into an
answering machine?
There’s a man at the door who wants
to save your soul. Says he’s been
looking for you,
that God sent him a message telling
him you needed his forgiveness.
The act. The circus of it all.
I’ll tell him to come back later.Do you remember when you cracked
open by accident,
spilled your firefly sun all over my floor
like it was wine?
I do. I saw it. Proof that you
were still here,
glowing somewhere that you
forgot you could reach.Tell me about everything you buried
and how it came climbing out of
you with a vengeance. Tell me about
beauty and the beast, the hand and
the fist,
how you remembered you could be
both the thing that opens and the
thing that closes.
Come to me.
Forgive yourself for the things
that turned you into a ghost.
Let me watch you love yourself
solid again.
Do you see these hands?
They have measured
the earth, they have separated
minerals and cereals,
they have made peace and war,
they have demolished the distances
of all the seas and rivers,
and yet,
when they move over you,
little one,
grain of wheat, swallow,
they can not encompass you,
they are weary seeking
the twin doves
that rest or fly in your breast,
they travel the distances of your legs,
they coil in the light of your waist.
For me you are a treasure more laden
with immensity than the sea and its branches
and you are white and blue and spacious like
the earth at vintage time.
In that territory,
from your feet to your brow,
walking, walking, walking,
I shall spend my life.
Lovely one,
just as on the cool stone
of the spring, the water
opens a wide flash of foam,
so is the smile of your face,
lovely one.Lovely one,
with delicate hands and slender feet
like a silver pony,
walking, flower of the world,
thus I see you,
lovely one.Lovely one,
with a nest of copper entangled
on your head, a nest
the color of dark honey
where my heart burns and rests,
lovely one.Lovely one,
your eyes are too big for your face,
your eyes are too big for the earth.There are countries, there are rivers,
in your eyes,
my country is your eyes,
I walk through them,
they light the world
through which I walk,
lovely one.Lovely one,
your breasts are like two loaves made
of grainy earth and golden moon,
lovely one.Lovely one,
your waist,
my arm shaped it like a river when
it flowed a thousand years through your sweet body,
lovely one.Lovely one,
there is nothing like your hips,
perhaps earth has
in some hidden place
the curve and the fragrance of your body,
perhaps in some place,
lovely one.Lovely one, my lovely one,
your voice, your skin, your nails,
lovely one, my lovely one,
your being, your light, your shadow,
lovely one,
all that is mine, lovely one,
all that is mine, my dear,
when you walk or rest,
when you sing or sleep,
when you suffer or dream,
always,
when you are near or far,
always,
you are mine, my lovely one,
always.
-Neruda
Language is such a fascinating thing. Even in the same language, there can be such great variations in the meaning of a word. I watch quite a few BBC programs, because most American TV is mindless drivel. My latest find is Last Tango in Halifax. Whenever I watch a show from the UK I have to turn on the closed captioning so I can understand what is bring said. The English have an accent that I just can’t understand. Ironic, isn’t it? I’m frequently pausing the program so I can look up the British meaning of an English word. For example, pissed in Britain means drunk, not mad. And I hope that no one ever calls me a slapper, because it means something totally different there.
“Translating poetry is like making jewelry. Every word counts, and each sparkles with so many facets. Translating prose is like sculpting: get the shape and the lines right, then polish the seams later.” – James Nolan
Ode to a Naked Beauty
With chaste heart, and pure
eyes
I celebrate you, my beauty,
restraining my blood
so that the line
surges and follows
your contour,
and you bed yourself in my verse,
as in woodland, or wave-spume:
earth’s perfume,
sea’s music.Nakedly beautiful,
whether it is your feet, arching
at a primal touch
of sound or breeze,
or your ears,
tiny spiral shells
from the splendour of America’s oceans.
Your breasts also,
of equal fullness, overflowing
with the living light
and, yes,
winged
your eyelids of silken corn
that disclose
or enclose
the deep twin landscapes of your eyes.The line of your back
separating you
falls away into paler regions
then surges
to the smooth hemispheres
of an apple,
and goes splitting
your loveliness
into two pillars
of burnt gold, pure alabaster,
to be lost in the twin clusters of your feet,
from which, once more, lifts and takes fire
the double tree of your symmetry:
flower of fire, open circle of candles,
swollen fruit raised
over the meeting of earth and ocean.Your body – from what substances
agate, quartz, ears of wheat,
did it flow, was it gathered,
rising like bread
in the warmth,
and signalling hills
silvered,
valleys of a single petal, sweetnesses
of velvet depth,
until the pure, fine, form of woman
thickened
and rested there?It is not so much light that falls
over the world
extended by your body
its suffocating snow,
as brightness, pouring itself out of you,
as if you were
burning inside.Under your skin the moon is alive.
-Pablo Neruda
This is a lesser known poem of Neruda’s, but I absolutely love it. I don’t think that it’s commonly translated into English and I don’t think that it’s always a very accurate translation. For example, in the original version the line that reads “your eyelids of silken corn” actually says ” tus párpados de trigo”. Trigo is wheat, not corn. Nonetheless, it moves me. My brain is filled with such glorious visual imagery when I read these words. It’s sexy, yet subtly so. Sometimes that is the best way.
The last few days the wind has had many opportunities to mess up my hair as the air conditioning in my car needs to be recharged and it’s been really hot for the first time this summer, so I’ve been driving with my windows down. I do love the feeling of the wind blowing in my hair, but my allergies don’t love it quite as much.
Shake The Dust
This is for the fat girls
This is for the little brothers
This is for the school yard wimps and the childhood bullies that tormented them
For the former prom queen and for the milk crate ball players
For the nighttime cereal eaters
And for the retired elderly Walmart store front door greeters
Shake the dust
This is for the benches and the people sitting upon them
For the bus drivers who drive a million broken hymns
For the men who have to hold down three jobs simply to hold up their children
For the nighttime schoolers
And for the midnight bikers who are trying to fly
Shake the dust
This is for the two year olds
Who cannot be understood because they speak half English and half God
Shake the dust
For the boys with the beautiful sisters
Shake the dust
For the girls with the brothers who are going crazy
For those gym class wallflowers and the twelve year olds afraid of taking public showers
For the kid who is always late to class because he forgets the combination to his locker
For the girl who loves somebody else
Shake the dust
This is for the hard men who want love but know that it won’t come
For the ones who are forgotten
The ones the amendments do not stand up for
For the ones who are told speak only when you are spoken to
And then are never spoken to
Speak every time you stand so you do not forget yourself
Do not let one moment go by that doesn’t remind you
That your heart, it beats 10,000 times every single day
And that there are enough gallons of blood to make everyone of you oceans
Do not settle for letting these waves that settle
And for the dust to collect in your veins
This is for the celibate pedophile who keeps on struggling
For the poetry teachers and for the people who go on vacation alone
For the sweat that drips off of Mick Jaggers’ singing lips
And for the shaking skirt on Tina Turner’s shaking hips
For the heavens and for the hells through which Tina has lived
This is for the tired and for the dreamers
For those families that want to be like the Cleavers with perfectly made dinners
And songs like Wally and the Beaver
This is for the bigots, for the sexists, and for the killers
And for the big house pin sentenced cats becoming redeemers
And for the springtime that somehow seems to show up right after every single winter
This is for everyone of you
Make sure that by the time the fisherman returns you are gone
Because just like the days I burn at both ends
And every time I write, every time I open my eyes
I’m cutting out parts of myself simply to hand them over to you
So shake the dust
And take me with you when you do for none of this has ever been for me
All that pushes and pulls
And pushes and pulls
And pushes and pulls
It pushes for you
So, grab this world by its clothespins
And shake it out again and again
And jump on top and take it for a spin
And when you hop off shake it again
For this is yours, this is yours
Make my words worth it
Make this not just some poem that I write
Not just some poem like just another night that sits heavy above us all
Walk into it, breathe it in, let it crash through the halls of your arms
Like the millions of years of millions poets
Coursing like blood, pumping and pushing
Making you live, shaking the dust
So when the world knocks at your front door
Clutch the knob tightly and open on up
And run forward and far into its widespread, greeting arms
Your runaway hands left my hair in knots
I try to brush you out as the clumps fall to the floor
You always took a part of me with you
You always left me less of whatever I started as before
Your leaving kisses left my stomach in my throat
I try to swallow you down and get you out
You’re the taste in my mouth in the morning reminding me that I’m alone.
You’re the endless seconds turned into weeks spent staring at the phone
You are the worst demand and the best ache
from my brittle bones to my hollow heart
to the cold blood bringing color to my cheeks.
You are the released sigh telling me the pain is over
For but a moment I feel relief
You are the constant longing and the begging for slaughter
The bleeding out from my fingertips as I touch a body of nails
that awakens every atom and every cell and every tear and every scream.
You are the pushing you away and the pulling you inside of me
All the way inside
Until you disappear
You always disappear.
Until we meet again.*****
– macaile
It’s two-for-the-price-of-one Poetry Tuesday. I couldn’t decide which I liked better, so I’m using both. I can do that.
I am so sleepy tonight. :Yawn: My bed is calling to me. I swear, my bed is one of my favorite places on earth. You cannot underestimate the importance of a comfortable bed, excellent sheets, and a peaceful and visually calming bedroom. Books and flowers on the nightstand, and perhaps a nice smelling (but not too strong) candle. Excellent lamps to read by, my sound dock to play music, and a few special objects to remind me of special people and experiences in my life.
On a (mostly) unrelated note, I finished my “About Me” page. 50 random facts about me that you probably never wanted to know. 😉
She wanted
more than fingertips
tracing, fluttering against her back.
She wanted
more than a breath
along her shoulder, over her lips.
She wanted
more than familiarity
in a hand that barely touched her hips.
She wanted
more than a smile,
softness at the edges, grace in the giving.
She wanted
to pull her spirit
down through her toes into the soil that’s damp and sweet after a summer rain.
She wanted
more than a whisper
along her ear, delivering secrets only she could hear.
She wanted
more than a pause
in between the breaths, and the expectations.
She wanted
more than her mind
gave into the not giving.
She wanted
more than simplicity
in the acts of honesty, as words, sometimes, cannot carry the enormity of a heart.
She wanted
more than a re-do
in the art of caring, sharing mistakes
like dimes, not pennies, flicked across a fountain’s pool,
knowing she’ll never really get all of her ten wishes from the dime,
maybe one,
if she is so lucky,
so she tries
knowing she wanted
more.
-Jes Wright
I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth.
As all things are filled with my soul
you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,
and you are like the word Melancholy.
I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.
It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.
And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
Let me come to be still in your silence.
And let me talk to you with your silence
that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.
I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
One word then, one smile, is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it’s not true.
Me gustas cuando callas…
Me gustas cuando callas porque estas como ausente,
y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca.
Parece que los ojos se te hubieran volado
y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca.
Como todas las cosas estan llenas de mi alma
emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mía.
Mariposa de sueño, te pareces a mi alma,
y te pareces a la palabra melancolía.
Me gustas cuando callas y estas como distante.
Y estás como quejandote, mariposa en arrullo.
Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza :
déjame que me calle con el silencio tuyo.
Dejame que te hable tambien con tu silencio
claro como una lampara, simple como un anillo.
Eres como la noche, callada y constelada.
Tu silencio es de estrella, tan lejano y sencillo.
Me gustas cuando callas porque estas como ausente.
Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto.
Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan.
Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no
This is a lovely video of Glenn Close reading the poem. I love her voice. Well, except for when she played crazy lady in Fatal Attraction.
There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry “hello there, Anne”
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.
All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean,
though often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.
So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.
The Joy that isn’t shared, I’ve heard,
dies young.
-Anne Sexton
Oh, what a morning it is! It’s so fresh and cool out this morning. I have my windows open and crisp air is blowing in on a breeze. I don’t want to leave this place, this time. Savoring it for a just a few minutes longer before I begin the hustle and bustle of my day.
Actually, all of me is raw. I just got back from a lovely and relaxing week of vacation. I should feel great, content. But instead I have this overwhelming feeling of dissatisfaction and frustration. My initial reaction to feeling that way is to chastise myself for it. Suck it up, buttercup. Or my mother’s favorite, “it could be worse”. How I hated that phrase when I was a kid. It’s mostly true, but it took away validation for any negative feelings. Now I just accept those feelings, both good and bad, without comparison. It is what it is. When I no longer fight the negative feelings, they can simply pass through me.
I read this today: “For every one complaint you have in life, try to come up with 3 solutions to that problem. Before complaining to someone else, come up with 3 solutions of your own. In work, if you have a suggestion to make something better, don’t bring your 1 complaint to your boss, bring 3 solutions on how to progress or bring solutions to problems you’re facing.” Im working on some solutions. But first, a bath, a good book, and my bed. I find these three things to be comforting to the soul.
Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses,
Your wet body wedged
Between my wet body and the strake
Of our boat that is made of flowers,
Feasted, we guide it – our fingers
Like tallows adorned with yellow metal –
Over the sky’s hot rim,
The day’s last breath in our sails.
Pinned by the sun between solstice
And equinox, drowsy and tangled together
We drifted for months and woke
With the bitter taste of land on our lips,
Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime
And the sound of a rope
Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,
And lay like fish
Under the net of our kisses.
As I post this I am on a holiday near the water. While it’s not the sea, it’s close enough to do my soul good. The photo above was taken this morning; one of the roses that was left outside in the patio table during the wonderful thunderstorm that rolled through last night. The thunder carries across Lake Michigan and rumbles in a much more dramatic way than it does in the city. Even when the storm was far out into the lake, the almost constant flash of lightning could be seen. It lit up the night sky like a Fourth of July fireworks show. In the morning, the sky was a crisp and clear cerulean blue and the world was fresh and washed clean again. A new start.
Do not ask your children
to strive for extraordinary lives.
Such striving may seem admirable,
but it is a way of foolishness.
Help them instead to find the wonder
and the marvel of an ordinary life.
Show them the joy of tasting
tomatoes, apples, and pears.
Show them how to cry
when pets and people die.
Show them the infinite pleasure
in the touch of a hand.
And make the ordinary come alive for them.
The extraordinary will take care of itself.William Martin
We arch our backs
and pour into each other,
souls seeping
through and through,
A little of me,
a little of you.These bodies are
only vessels
that contain
the vastness of ourselves,
and those we let in
through windows.When we speak
in silence,
we hear more.
When we love
in silence,
we feel more.These bodies are
only vessels
that will wear off,
and tear off,
but our beings remain
fossilized.When we exist,
knowing,
believing,
embracing,
being,
that pure truth.These bodies are
only vessels
that carry you,
they carry me
and an undying spirit,
that carries us all.Ray Iyer
Naked you are simple as one of your hands;
Smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round.
You’ve moon-lines, apple pathways
Naked you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.Naked you are blue as a night in Cuba;
You’ve vines and stars in your hair.
Naked you are spacious and yellow
As summer in a golden church.Naked you are tiny as one of your nails;
Curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born
And you withdraw to the underground world.As if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores;
Your clear light dims, gets dressed, drops its leaves,
And becomes a naked hand again.
The image is mine, but these beautiful words are Pablo Neruda’s. One of the many books I’m currently reading is a collection of his poems. I pick it up and read a few lines in the morning before I get out of bed. His amazing words create an oasis of tranquility and peace in my mind from which I can draw throughout my day. That, my friends, is one of the many reasons poetry is such a magnificent thing.
It’s poetry Tuesday. I first learned to love poetry in 8th grade AP English Literature class. I think I can still recite some of the poems that my teacher made us memorize.
Poetry is the clothing of words. It shows you things that naked, raw words on their own can’t tell you as effectively.
You Learn
After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security.And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,And you learn to build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.After a while you learn…
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.And you learn that you really can endure…
That you really are strong
And you really do have worth…
And you learn and learn…
With every good-bye you learn.
– Jorge Luis Borges
Why wait for someone to buy you flowers when you can buy them for yourself? 🙂 And yes, sunshine burns if you get too much; just ask my pink tummy after this past weekend. However, I don’t think Borges meant that in such a literal sense. It does make me think of this line by F. Scott Fitzgerald: “Too much of anything is bad, but too much Champagne is just right.” Is there such a thing as too much Champagne? I think not. 😉
I think I shall deem Tuesday Poetry Tuesdays around here. If you don’t like poetry, then I suggest not stopping by on Tuesdays. 😉
One of my favorite poems by Anne Sexton is Admonitions to a Special Person:
Watch out for power,
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.
Watch out for hate,
it can open its mouth and you’ll fling yourself out
to eat off your leg, an instant leper.
Watch out for friends,
because when you betray them,
as you will,
they will bury their heads in the toilet
and flush themselves away.
Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.
Watch out for games, the actor’s part,
the speech planned, known, given,
for they will give you away
and you will stand like a naked little boy,
pissing on your own child-bed.
Watch out for love
(unless it is true,
and every part of you says yes including the toes),
it will wrap you up like a mummy,
and your scream won’t be heard
and none of your running will end.
Love? Be it man. Be it woman.
It must be a wave you want to glide in on,
give your body to it, give your laugh to it,
give, when the gravelly sand takes you,
your tears to the land. To love another is something
like prayer and can’t be planned, you just fall
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
Special person,
if I were you I’d pay no attention
to admonitions from me,
made somewhat out of your words
and somewhat out of mine.
A collaboration.
I do not believe a word I have said,
except some, except some, except I think of you like a young tree
with pasted-on leaves and know you’ll root
and the real green thing will come.
Let go. Let go.
Oh special person,
possible leaves,
this typewriter likes you on the way to them,
but wants to break crystal glasses
in celebration,
for you,
when the dark crust is thrown off
and you float all around
like a happened balloon.
Annie knew what she was talking about, especially when it came to love (and toes).
Guilty confession: I like poetry. So there. I said it. I frequent poetry websites and I even keep books of poetry on my nightstand. I’m weird like that. 🙂
I came across this poem the other day and found it so wonderful that I had to share. Amazing…. :sigh:
Strip me.
Remove my guards and my walls and my endless goodbyes
Remove my questions and wondering and
Remove all of my control
Use your hands
To read my spine
Press your pages
Into mine
And dog-ear your favorite parts with kisses and sweat and tickling breath.
Watch with awestruck eyes our words run together as two stories become one.
Strip me.
Remove the blank stares and rehearsed answers
Get behind the walls of doubt and fear and begging you not to come too close
Come close.
Come closer.
Strip me.
Spend time reading the answers before asking more questions
And question my answers
So I know you were listening
Read me and study me and memorize me
And fall asleep singing me and humming me and wake up
Rediscovering me.
Spend more time on my mind and I promise you’ll fall
Look past the skin and the bones and the batting eyelashes
Notice how my cheeks flush and my eyes glisten and my heart starts beating fast
Feel my lungs breathe you in as my eyes roll back drunk
And drink me with your lips until you thirst no more.
Strip me.
Draw a masterpiece across my shoulders with your sticky breath
Breathe fire along the small of my back
Find the needle in the haystack,
Search me
Find me
Strip me
And perhaps then I’ll let you get beneath my clothes.
