noreia

I Can Write, by Pablo Neruda I can write the saddest lines tonight.Write, for example, 'The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.I can write the saddest lines tonight. I loved her, sometimes she loved me too.On nights like these I held her in my arms. I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.She loved me, sometimes I loved her too. How could I not have loved her great still eyes.I can write the saddest lines tonight. To think that I don't have her. To feel that I have lost her.To hear the vast night, more vast without her. Lines fall on the soul like dew on the grass.What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is fractured and she is not with me.That is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance. My soul is not content to have has lost her.My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer. My heart looks for her; she is not with me.The same night whitens the same trees. We, of that time, we are no longer the same.I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her. My voice tried to find the breeze to reach her.Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses. Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.I no longer love her, that's certain, but perhaps I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.Because on nights like this one I held her in my arms my soul is not content to have lost her.Though this be the last pain she will make me suffer and these are the last lines I will write for her.
III -- an excerpt of "The Cathedral of Erotic Misery" by Kurt SchwittersMy shell, my skin, my diary of dreams -- dark corners of a life plastered over -- my search through time for a form beyond. All this it is and more,for this search need not end in these planes of white plaster -- this vision like a life will go on transforming till darkness takes all.
The Man Who Died by Kurt Schwitters grey rain the day the man said when I die let it rain that day whenever it rains then is grey to whomever time says goodbyewho set the man singing said the man who died said grey the man is grey said grey the rain is dead goodbye said the rainwhenever the man is singing then in a grey raincoat time says die wring out the rain ring it out that day save the grave for whomever the man said save the rain for a gay day sing it whenever said the grey die sighs the rain goodbye whenever
only death, by pablo nerudaThere are lone cemeteries, tombs filled with soundless bones, the heart passing through a tunnel dark, dark, dark; like a shipwreck we die inward, like smothering in our hearts, like slowly falling from our skin down to our soul.There are corpses, there are feet of sticky, cold gravestone, there is death in the bones, like a pure sound, like a bark without a dog, coming from certain bells, from certain tombs, growing in the dampness like teardrops or raindrops.I see alone, at times, coffins with sails weighing anchor with pale corpses, with dead-tressed women, with bakers white as angels, with pensive girls married to notaries, coffins going up the vertical river of the dead, the dark purple river, upstream, with the sails swollen by the sound of death, swollen by the silent sound of death.To resonance comes death like a shoe without a foot, like a suit without a man, she comes to knock with a stoneless and fingerless ring. she comes to shout without mouth, without tongue, without throat. Yet her steps sound and her dress sounds, silent, like a tree.I know little, I am not well acquainted, I can scarcely see, but I think that her song has the color of moist violets, of violets accustomed to the earth, because the face of death is green, and the gaze of death is green, with the sharp dampness of a violet leaf and its dark color of exasperated winter.But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom, she licks the ground looking for corpses, death is in the broom, it is death's tongue looking for dead bodies, it is death's needle looking for thread.Death is the folding cots: in the slow mattresses, in the black blankets she lives stretched out, and she sudeenly blows: she blows a dark sound that swells the sheets, and there are beds sailing to a port where she is waiting, dressed as an admiral.

in the night we shall go in, by pablo nerudaIn the night we shall go in, we shall go in to steal a flowering, flowering branch.We shall climb over the wall in the darkness of the alien garden, two shadows in the shadow.Winter is not yet gone, and the apple tree appears suddenly changed into a fragment of cascade stars.In the night we shall go in up to its trembling firmament, and your hands, your little hands and mine will steal the stars.And silently to our house in the night and the shadow, perfume's silent step, and with starry feet, the clear body of spring.

from little gidding, II, by t.s. eliotAsh on and old man's sleeve Is all the ash the burnt roses leave. Dust in the air suspended Marks the place where a story ended. Dust inbreathed was a house— The walls, the wainscot and the mouse, The death of hope and despair, This is the death of air.There are flood and drouth Over the eyes and in the mouth, Dead water and dead sand Contending for the upper hand. The parched eviscerate soil Gapes at the vanity of toil, Laughs without mirth. This is the death of earth.Water and fire succeed The town, the pasture and the weed. Water and fire deride The sacrifice that we denied. Water and fire shall rot The marred foundations we forgot, Of sanctuary and choir. This is the death of water and fire.

1062, by Emily Dickinson He scanned it -- staggered -- Dropped the Loop To Past or Period -- Caught helpless at a sense as if His Mind were going blind --Groped up, to see if God was there -- Groped backward at Himself Caressed a Trigger absently And wandered out of Life.CURRENT MOON lunar phases....
Mad Girl's Love Song: A Villanelle by Sylvia PlathI shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head.)The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade: Exit seraphim and Satan's men: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.)I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
this is life fire and dark, rolling thunderclouds. grey sky against so-green austrian hills. the smell of cloves, vanilla, cinnamon, coffee -- real coffee, european, filling the air. low, mellow, minor-chord guitar. yodeling. the feel of wet clay. the sound of slapping cards. charcoal-grey. tea and wine. clunky, too-big combat boots. taking photos of everything. shaping my world through words. beautiful people, the feel of skin, a kiss. phases when everything is smooth, the world beautiful, having a life-soundtrack, colors blurred together in rain, watercolor trees against the sky.
places i love oesterreich. vallejo, ca. portland. santa cruz. san francisco. the ocean. the hill at night. ancient austrian churches. cemeteries. omi's house: outside in the rain and the gravel, with coffee and a book and glowing candles and cigarettes; up on the third floor during booming thunder storms; in the kitchen for afternoon coffee while omi cooks . . . powell's books. spike's old room. asw and the humbox. the bird house at the berkeley art museum years ago. the room at moma with all the whispered voices and the video-box. forests...
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