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I don’t typically voice my politics, nor do I ever embed Youtube videos, in my blog. But I had to in the last post, because I have a raging contempt for Sarah Palin.
In order to restore beauty, literature and poetry to my blog, please enjoy two of my favorite Neruda poems.
Poetry
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.
I do not love you
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.
Bright flashes of white and yellow
Pink mini skirts and bejeweled handbags
flung around dance floors
In dark corners and you
feel the music in your bones
in your skin and you can’t help
but move and groove
The drums, the drums
the drums, and a dj.
A red glow, the slow burn
of the tip of his cig
catches your eye
and you stare mesmerized by
the painted scene against a backdrop
of fresh air and black light
in a crowded back alley
and you realize that he sees you
under the tilted brim of his hat
with an unlit cigarette in your hand.
An invitation.
You’re back inside and dancing
and he is there too, dancing
his eyes under his newsboy cap fixated
on the floor and your feet
your legs, your breasts, your mouth
your eyes, your eyes
your eyes and you spin away.
A slow burn.
It’s four o’clock in the morning
and you drunkenly sashay in the parking lot
outside the club and people leave
and scream and laugh and continue to
dance. He grabs you and whispers something
you can’t quite hear but you nod anyway
and he takes your hand
and hails a taxi and
you climb in and he follows and
gives the driver an address.
You wake up in your own bed
in a haze
a fog
of dancing and music
vodka and cigarettes and you wonder
how you got home because you don’t remember
much and you look around
your room at clothes, a pink mini skirt
a newsboy cap, a newsboy cap?
and you hear a toilet flush
and suddenly you remember
kissing in taxis.
I look at you, a split second
Longer than a friend might,
And wonder if you notice me
Sneaking sideways glances.
I’m easily distracted
As I hear your laugh
In a crowded room,
Above the muddled chatter.
I ignore this person,
His mundane conversation,
And discreetly strain
To listen to yours.
I’m embarrassed, I blush
And feel so foolish,
To hold high hope;
To care so much.
I wish I could know
What you are thinking,
When ours eyes finally meet
And you hold my gaze.
I wish you could know
What I was thinking.
So we wouldn’t have to speak.
We’d just finally agree.
But even though I can’t
Quite let you know yet,
I know you see me look at you
Longer than a friend would.
And even if you can’t be honest
With me, nor with yourself,
I smile as I notice you
Sneaking sideways glances.
Translucent exterior;
In a good way.
I see in you a color
I’ve never seen before.
It makes me want to paint.
Paint my bedroom walls
With you.
So that when I fall asleep,
I can’t help but dream
Of you.
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You are my flower, my balloon, my moon. And even if we don’t talk (every day), even if we can’t see each other (all the time), I look at the moon and know that you look at it too. I wonder if we look at it simultaneously and think about each other. And if we do, does it mean I’m really just standing right next to you in that different world filled with pretty people? A world I know (I hope) exists but not for a few more years. Not for at least a few more years…
I see the moon and I see the man on the moon. But I cannot see your face. I don’t even know what your face looks like, its silhouette, its rigdes, maybe its dimples, are foreign to me. I wonder if I’ve seen you before and never realized who you were, a stranger passing me on the street. Maybe you noticed me though. Maybe I met your gaze and smiled, the polite hello I give away to strangers every day.
I do not know your face, but I know the man on the moon…
As a child and into adolescence, I used to stare at the moon they way one is supposed to stare at those psychedelic posters to see a hidden picture. But as hard as I stared I could never see “the man”. Much like I could never see the hidden picture.
The very first time I finally saw him was by accident.
I had been living in Newport Beach for a few months and had just returned home from work. It was nearly midnight and as I walked from my car to the house where I rented a room, I casually glanced up at the sky. There he was.
I stopped in shock and stood, in the middle of the street, with my jaw locked open. I laughed in disbelief and looked quickly around, hoping to share my excitement with someone, anyone. Only the large eucalyptus trees responded to my laughter as they bowed to the warm summer wind and shook their branches, scenting the air. Any other night the trees would be looming and ominous but in the bright moon shine they were comforting. I stared in awe for minutes. I couldn’t believe it. I was afraid to look away, afraid that by sheer dumb luck this was my only opportunity to gaze upon the man on the moon.
But I know the man well now. He smiles at me and I smile at him too, every full moon, like a friend I’ve missed for a long while. The only friend I have that can smile at you too. The only friend I have who knows that you are not a stranger.
My eyes, the color of the ocean
on a cloudy day,
are fixed on the ceiling above,
noting the popcorn flecks.
I turn my head
on the flat pillow,
towards your sleeping torso,
interspersed
with beauty marks;
constellations rediscovered
every night
by insomniac eyes.
I try to muffle the noise
of my quiet, steady breathing,
warm against your skin.
Your arm rests underneath my pillow,
my head is cradled
in the crook of your armpit.
You’re fast asleep,
breathing deep, and
I can’t seem to sleep a wink.
I think too much of things left
unsaid,
and search for the pesky words
in my head.
When I finally find them
I hold on tight,
but they always escape
by the end of the night,
when the sun starts to rise,
and you open your eyes,
and you look into mine;
I say nothing,
I just sigh.
‘Cause I realize
that it will never be time,
you’ll never be mine,
but really,
that’s fine.
You pull me close but
I’ve got to go,
so I roll off the bed,
and quickly get dressed,
pulling your favorite
shirt over my head.
You reach for my hand and
ask where I’m going.
Home,
I reply
without an excuse.
I put on my shoes.
I’m aware of your gaze
following me
across the room.
I can only assume
that you felt confused,
when I left the door cracked,
but didn’t look back.
For me,
walking away
was the right thing to do,
and said way more than words
would ever get through to you.
As the red fall sun
Sinks behind lazy clouds,
The crisp night air
Stings my cheeks.
As soft winds whisper
To golden leaves,
That shiver on branches
Of sleeping trees.
Mel 2003
“Doesn’t every human being feel longing? It’s the reason writers write and singers sing and artists paint and sculpt and take pictures. I am no exception.”
Holly Hunter
I want you to remember
the rain-soaked twilight,
softly glimmering off
dirty water.
beautiful candlelight
from the sun.
Mel 2004
The flowers in your
curly hair
weren’t meant for you,
a crown to wear.
As people stared
and bared their souls
they cried to all
but no one cared.
I listened to
this sorrow song
and tried to sing
along
but couldn’t understand
the melody.
So I turned away
and tried to leave,
closed my eyes but
could only see
your face,
your crown
in place,
pinned to your curls
afloat on a bed
of silk and lace,
enclosed in this secret space
that everyone can see.
And no one knows what
it will finally mean
when you’re really gone
and not around.
Alone just like
the rest.
It’s for the best but
it’s not for free.
We paid a price
and so did you
but you paid the most
and I’m so sorry
but there’s nothing
I can do.
So I’ll just sit here
listening to
all the people cry
for you and
wonder why and how
it came to be
that you’re no longer
sitting here
with me.
Mel 2004
Inside the purples and blues
of your dreams
you see me and
I’m dreaming too.
It’s snowy and sunny and
I’m skipping and smiling.
But I’m hiding the truth
because I’m good at it.
I walk down the sidewalk
towards you,
slow,
a motionless movement,
like water in the wind.
And you disappear,
like you always do,
a drunken fool with
pep in your skip,
step on the sand and
daydream like me.
First glance at Cortney
blonde ambition, hooker heels;
so much more than that.
<br>
Mackensy my love,
indecision personified,
we’ll talk and laugh forever.
<br>
Michelle, my sister
my best friend, life-long love,
my partner-in-crime.
<br>
Life is a party
when your name is Jeff Andrs.
Turn it up, Spills. Dance.
<br>
Artistic Justine,
Glance around and paint this life.
The world needs to see.
<br>
Write away Molly,
It’s like oxygen to us.
Breathe beautiful words.
<br>
Colorful Kara.
Dreams and laughs and memories.
Create more and hope.
<br>
Aja’s got it all.
A beautiful family.
Live your lovely life.
<br>
Strong, Kristina. Proud.
You undulate, steadfastly.
Your world is seemly.
<br>
A witty writer.
With talent, a rarity.
Mike already knows.
<br>
Jeni, crazy, fun.
Too alike, cancer sisters.
Stubborn. Respect. Love.
<br>
Loving Alexis.
Your smile and your laughter
Bring light to others.
One day I wrote his name in the sand,
With a stick I found while walking along the shore.
And before I could write my name next to his,
A wave came and washed it away.
I stood and watched as the letters faded,
As each wave smoothed the sand, and then retreated.
Not before long it had completely disappeared,
Almost as if it had never been written.
I longed for my heart to be like the ocean,
To wash something away, without a trace.
To forget so easily, without emotion;
To continue on unfettered, unmoved, unchanged.
