Twilight Whispers

Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda

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.

(Interlude) Dreams of Salt and Foam

The smallest tear tickled down my cheek, a careless whisper, the softest touch.

Oh, what is your endeavour, lonesome traveller?

Your crystalline fellows far behind,

Your secluded trail harder and harder to perceive,

Your existence a fainting sigh on my lips.

Yet your salty kiss drowns me in,

A mermaid consumed by the sour foam of past waves.

She dared believe them estranged tides, kindling other shores,

Whilst they sing their tales of olde to her ear, once again.

Oh, but what of her voice? No piercing cry shall be heard,

No forlorn lament shall be uttered,

No bitter laugh shall choke her heart, for

In a beat my eyelids are greeting daylight

And the small drop has borne the seeds of a smile.

Tell Me

"Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.
It's not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it's more like a song on a policeman's radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it's noon, that means
we're inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we'll never get used to it."

* Richard Siken * 

The Open Door

I’m a stubborn little rat. I am. I thrive on change, although it barely kills me with anxiety sometimes. It ends up being a healthy death. But what about New Year? It exasperates me, every single year, as society expects me to make amends and set new goals for myself. I’m still a spoiled child most of the time, so I don’t hesitate in putting my foot down and say – no, make me. Then again, why am I writing this? Alright, I admit it isn’t much for myself, my diary has already bore with that, but for you. I don’t think 2012 has been very kind to most of the people I care about, comparing to his predecessors. And I want you to know… it was a hell of a 366-day-rollercoaster-ride, so yes, I eventually grew out of it… just like you will. And you’ll engage on activities you never thought you could/dared/considered doing and you’ll be amazed at how much you succeeded/shone/sucked and, most importantly, it’ll put a genuine smile on your face, you know, that one… right, there it is. So will you please do me a favor? When the clock hits twelve, you’ll remember this and wear that very same smile, as you have a drink (of whatever pleases you most) for me, for all of us. And we’ll all be hoping 2012 feels the kick, and his younger, kinder brother feels invited.

;)
N.

The Little Match Girl

Winter is knocking on your door. It’s not a gentle tacking, it comes rustling, thundering, creeping into your bones. And you go home for Christmas, and get comfortably seated by the fire, still shivering, staring at your computer, while you sip your deliciously steamy cup of coffee. As you look through the window, raindrops succeed in hypnotizing your sluggish gaze, for not much can be seen, it’s early afternoon in this piece of land by the Atlantic but it’s already dusky out there. And you try to seize your restless heart to no avail. Why do you insist in not being content with all the coziness that embraces you? You who listen to the silent scream of your choking people more than in any precedent year, why can’t you just plug in your headphones and just indulge in the moment? You who pretend not no look when the begging shadows approach you, why don’t you just grab a bite or two of that marvellous just-out-of-the-oven chocolate cake? Because this freezing wind and its rainy mistress make my heart shiver, every once in a while, even by the enticing warmth of my childhood fireplace. Inevitably, I remember one of my favorite authors, as a child – Hans Christian Andresen – whose tales (along with Brother Grimm’s) I read and re-read until there was no one left to decipher. I admit I was slightly shocked at first, because the fairy tale cover given by popular cartoons didn’t quite match the tales, but that also intrigued and utterly amazed me. While Walt Disney studios have been quite successful in adapting those stories for younger audiences, this particular short film is quite faithful to the writing piece, as I recall it, so I’ll leave you with one of the most touching ones – The Little Matchgirl.

Raw With Love by Charles Bukowski

I will remember the kisses 

our lips raw with love

and how you gave me

everything you had

and how I

offered you what was left of

me,

and I will remember your small room

the feel of you

the light in the window

your records

your books

our morning coffee

our noons our nights

our bodies spilled together

sleeping

the tiny flowing currents

immediate and forever

your leg my leg

your arm my arm

your smile and the warmth

of you

who made me laugh

again.

Zero