I have an aria
made up of words
like cells replicating within me.
My hands at the ready,
fingers tapping against the keys,
searching for the string
of perfect words, nouns, phrases,
to make up a sentence
that says it all.
My own perfect concerto
on to a blank page.
And We Stay by Jenny Hubbard the author of Paper Covers Rock is a story of overcoming tragedy and is full of good prose and in a few instances poetry which caused me do that thing, where you inhale and hold it for a second…because you want to pause for a moment to give yourself enough time to really absorb the words.
Though I enjoyed the story overall, I felt disconnected from the main character Emily Beam, as she tried to deal with her guilt over the role she played in the events that transpired in her school’s library. Events, which ultimately led her to be in Amerherst, the home town of her favorite poet Emily Dickinson. I have to wonder if the author didn’t choose to write in third person so that the reader would feel a separation from Emily, much like she felt from the world as she struggled to face the pivotal moments that shattered her life. It is through her poetry the reader really begins to feel for Emily, and I suppose that is the point.
If I had one issue with the plot it’s with regards to Emily Beam’s character mirroring to perfectly in a lot of ways that of Emily Dickinson. I however enjoyed some of the history regarding Emily Dickinson and the treat of both her poems and those written by her namesake.
Being separated from my husband is not something that is unfamiliar to me. This poem expresses the longing I feel to be near his bones so perfectly. So keenly. Indeed I think what made Neruda a great romantic poet was not his ability to write about love but to express it’s completeness, it’s at times imperfection, or complication so truthfully.
Here I Love You
Here I love you.
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.
The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.
Oh the black cross of a ship.
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.
The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.
Aquí Te Amo
En los oscuros pinos se desenreda el viento.
Fosforece la luna sobre las aguas errantes.
Andan días iguales persiguiéndose.
Se desciñe la niebla en danzantes figuras.
Una gaviota de plata se descuelga del ocaso.
A veces una vela. Altas, altas estrellas.
O la cruz negra de un barco.
A veces amanezco, y hasta mi alma está húmeda.
Suena, resuena el mar lejano.
Este es un puerto.
Aquí te amo.
Aquí te amo y en vano te oculta el horizonte.
Te estoy amando aún entre estas frías cosas.
A veces van mis besos en esos barcos graves,
que corren por el mar hacia donde no llegan.
Ya me veo olvidado como estas viejas anclas.
Son más tristes los muelles cuando atraca la tarde.
Se fatiga mi vida inútilmente hambrienta.
Amo lo que no tengo. Estás tú tan distante.
Mi hastío forcejea con los lentos crepúsculos.
Pero la noche llega y comienza a cantarme.
La luna hace girar su rodaje de sueño.
Me miran con tus ojos las estrellas más grandes.
Y como yo te amo, los pinos en el viento,
quieren cantar tu nombre con sus hojas de alambre
IF I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain
I think my heart stopped when I read this. xo n.
I am not the first person you loved.
You are not the first person I looked at
with a mouthful of forevers. We
have both known loss like the sharp edges
of a knife. We have both lived with lips
more scar tissue than skin. Our love came
unannounced in the middle of the night.
Our love came when we’d given up
on asking love to come. I think
that has to be part
of its miracle.
This is how we heal.
I will kiss you like forgiveness. You
will hold me like I’m hope. Our arms
will bandage and we will press promises
between us like flowers in a book.
I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat
on your skin. I will write novels to the scar
of your nose. I will write a dictionary
of all the words I have used trying
to describe the way it feels to have finally,
finally found you.
And I will not be afraid
of your scars.
I know sometimes
it’s still hard to let me see you
in all your cracked perfection,
but please know:
whether it’s the days you burn
more brilliant than the sun
or the nights you collapse into my lap
your body broken into a thousand questions,
you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I will love you when you are a still day.
I will love you when you are a hurricane.
— Clementine von Radics, “Mouthful of Forevers”
Hello remember me? I’m the one who is suppose to pop in and share what’s up with her world, writing, and anything really…
I could try to explain why I’ve been away. I have a ton of posts laid out in my head. Photographs even taken. I’ve just been otherwise engaged, which to my mind is such a rude thing to say, esp if you’re here using up your valuable time to read this.
However today is the first day of Fall. It’s a Sunday morning here and my little Evan has a cold so we’re keeping our germs away from Church and his RE classes and opting for a quiet Sunday at home. The hubster is stateside on TDY and we’re content with a peaceful Sunday morning occupied with things we enjoy. The boys are in their playroom and I sit here at my desk.
Happy Fall and I hope you have a great Sunday!
To celebrate I thought I’d share this poem by Wallace Stevens it’s a poem I’ve found difficult to read in the past but I like to go back and reread things as I get older and wiser. It’s all about perspective I think…
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.
Here’s what my Muse has found pleasing…
I made this little graphic so I could print out and tape into my journal – but quickly discovered that my printer is out of ink. Grrr, I purchased those before I left Miami, but I guess not using them for nearly six months can make them feel all ignored and decide their not in a printerly mood.
I so do love Shakespeare’s Sonnet 43… The way it speaks of yearning is so poignant. I’m totally channeling this feeling for one of my characters.
The photo I used I found via Tumblr. Apparently it’s a statue located in Rome. So it’s on my list of things to see when we visit. I just have to figure out where.
Music definitely helps rev up my creativity. I recently discovered The National, I’ve had their album High Violet on near constant replay. They’re heading straight toward being one of my favorite bands.
Florence + the Machine… Two songs specifically I’ve found to be quite thematic, for my writing these days, Cosmic Love and Blinding off of the Lungs album.
Le Sigh. Love those.
Here are a few links to the two albums I referenced. These links are affiliate codes…
What follows is the result of a sleepless night spent with a restless brain.
I can’t promise it will be good.
I am a paradox and a little bit strange.
I hope for sunshine but relish the rain.
I catch my breath and let it go.
I’m loud when I should whisper low.
I am awkward I am shy.
I long to dress like Grace Kelly.
And pray for happy endings.
I love sad songs, and ballerina flats.
I toast to fallen stars and broken glass.
I sometimes feel like a balloon floating on the horizon,
Both free and doomed to get tangled up in a turbo prop engine.
I believe in Angels. I think I spied one once.
I don’t think all accidents happen by chance.
I’m present in the moment but get lost quite often.
Twisting and churning like a falling leaf in the middle of autumn.
In my youth I tried to fit in. I’m sure I did, with a few select friends.
Sometimes I felt, like someone on the outside looking in.
I can’t say, I don’t feel that way still upon occasion.
I like long exploring walks where I can laugh out loud
and marvel at all I behold.
While shedding a tear for the decay that will eventually unfold.
Yes. That is definitely not good. It is quite bad.
Oh well. It was a good writing exercise to say the least.
Where did you go to, when you went away?
It is as if you step by step were going
Someplace elsewhere into some other range
Of speaking, that I had no gift for speaking,
Knowing nothing of the language of that place
To which you went with naked foot at night
Into the wilderness there elsewhere in the bed,
Elsewhere somewhere in the house beyond my seeking.
I have been so dislanguaged by what happened
I cannot speak the words that somewhere you
Maybe were speaking to others where you went.
Maybe they talk together where they are
Restlessly wandering, along the shore,
Waiting for a way to cross the river.
I love swans. They somehow manage to elicit the ethereal, graceful, and magical all at once. They are indeed my favorite bird, and play a symbolic roll in the novel I’ve been working on.
They seem so delicate and precious too…So much so they make me wish I could cup one in my palms much like The Childlike Empress cradled that single grain of sand in The Neverending Story.
I’m a blabbering whimsical mess tonight. I’m off to go drown myself in a yogurt parfait. (As any self respecting adorer of the chimerical would do.)
love & whimsy,