May 2009
sometimes it is just too much
“Usually when people are sad, they don’t do anything. They just cry over their condition. But when they get angry, they bring about a change.”
—Malcolm X
“If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don’t write, because our culture has no use for it.”
—Anais Nin
“Don’t cry for a man who’s left you, the next one may fall for your smile.”
—Mae West
Sonata
Neither the heart cut by a piece of glass
in a wasteland of thorns
nor the atrocious waters seen in the corners
of certain houses, waters like eyelids and eyes
can capture your waist in my hands
when my heart lifts its oaks
towards your unbreakable thread of snow.
Nocturnal sugar, spirit
of the crowns,
ransomed
human blood, your kisses
send into exile
and a stroke of water, with remnants of the sea,
neats on the silences that wait for you
surrounding the worn chairs, wearing out doors.
Nights with bright spindles,
divided, material, nothing
but voice, nothing but
naked every day.
Over your breasts of motionless current,
over your legs of firmness and water,
over the permanence and the pride
of your naked hair
I want to be, my love, now that the tears are
thrown
into the raucous baskets where they accumulate,
I want to be, my love, alone with a syllable
of mangled silver, alone with a tip
of your breast of snow.
Pablo Neruda
April 2009
“I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.”
—Percy Bysshe Shelley
“Wine is a clog to the pen, not an inspiration.”
—Mark Twain
“Quickly, bring me a beaker of wine, so that I may wet my mind and say something clever.”
—Aristophanes
