Me Gustas Cuando Callas (I Like You When You Are Quiet) ...

... is a poem by one of my favorite poets Pablo Neruda and is from the book “Twenty love poems and one desperate song”.  The last stanza bought the poem alive for me ... He touches on something profound and magical in the depth of our souls of anyone who has ever loved/be loved ...



I like you quiet because its as if you are absent,
and you hear me from far away, and my voice doesn´t touch you.
It seems that your eyes had flown away
and it seems that a kiss is closing your mouth.

As all the things are filled with my soul
you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
Dream butterfly, you look like my soul,
and you look like the word melancholia.

I like you quiet and its as if you are distant.
And you are as if complaining, you cooing butterfly.
And you hear me from far away, and my voice doesn´t reach you:
let me be quiet with your silence.

Let me speak to you also with your silence
clear as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, quiet and constellated.
Your silence is as a star´s, so far and simple.

I like you quiet because its as if you are absent.
Distant and painful as if you had died.
A word then, a smile would do.
And I´m happy, happy that it isn´t true.

Palabras para Julia (Words for Julia) ...

... is a poem by José Agustín Goytisolo, written for his daughter Julia. She was named after his mother, who was killed in a bombing during the Spanish civil war in 1938. It is a poem celebrating life, against all dictators.

You cannot turn back
because life already pushes you
like a never-ending howl.

My daughter 'tis better to live
with the happiness of mankind
than to cry before the blind wall.

You will feel cornered,
you will feel lost or lonely,
maybe you'll wish you hadn't been born.

I know very well they will tell you
that there is no object to life,
that it is an unfortunate affair.

Then always remember
what I wrote one day
thinking of you as I am now thinking.

A man alone, a woman,
Taken like that, one by one,
are like dust, are nothing.

But when I talk to you
when I write these words for you
I also think of other people.

Your destiny is in others,
your future is your own life,
your dignity that of everybody.

Others expect you to hang on,
the help of your happiness,
your song among their songs.

Then always remember
what I wrote one day
thinking of you as I am now thinking.

Never give up or halt
by the road, never say
I can't take it and here I'll remain.

Life is beautiful you will see
how in spite of everything
you'll have love, you'll have friends.

For the rest there is no choice
and this world as it is
will be all you have.

Forgive me, I do not know
what else to say but understand
I am still on my way.

And always, always, remember
what I wrote one day
thinking of you, like I am now thinking.

Time is ...

... by Henry Van Dyke summaries this week for me and maybe an ideal superpower will be to shape time; to relieve certain moments, to fasten certain frames but ultimately, the clock hand moves forward in its own pace, with or without our participation ... 

Time is 
Too Slow for those who Wait,
Too Swift for those who Fear,
Too Long for those who Grieve,
Too Short for those who Rejoice;
But for those who Love,
Time is not.

Also, in "The Lost Steps" by Alejo Carpentier ... 

This living in the present, without possessions, without the chains of yesterday, without thinking of tomorrow, seemed to me amazing.  And yet it was apparent that this attitude must lengthen the lapse of hours from one sun to another   She spoke of days that were very long and of days that were very short, as though they were in different tempos - tempos of a telluric symphony that had its andantes and  adagios, as well as its prestos.  The astonishing thing was that, now that time was of no concern to me, I noticed in myself different values of the intervals: the prolongation of certain mornings, the frugal elaboration of a sunset, and was lost in wonder at all that could be fitted into certain tempos of this symphony which we were reading backward from right to left, contrary to the key of G, returning to the measures of Genesis.  

The hour is lost ...

... by the Australian poet John Shaw Neilson capture the fleeting nature of time ... 

THE hour is lost. Was ever hour so sweet?
Fruitful of blessing, friends and honeyed words—
The sunlight in our faces—at our feet
The world, bright, beautiful, its flocks and herds,
Foliage of forests, choruses of birds . . .
O happy time, why did we stand downcast?
We should have leapt for love: but now, the hour is past.

The hour is lost. Scarce had we time to mark
The glory of the green, the sky's soft blue;
It came as silently as comes the dark,
Our hearts burned hot within us ere we knew . . .
Then suddenly we said, Can it be true
This golden time was ours?—and now downcast
We stand dumb and amazed. Alas! the hour is past.

a trifle (eine KleinigKeit) ...

... is a poem by the German poet Erich Fried for his Catherine ... I am not sure why he chose "water rat" but there you are ...

I don’t know what love is but perhaps
it is something like this:

When she
come home from abroad
and tells me proudly: “I saw
a water rat”
and I remember these words
when I wake up in the night
and next day at my work 10 and I long
to hear her say
the same words once more
and for her
to look exactly the same
as she looked
when she said them –

I think that is maybe love or something rather like it

Ich weiß nicht was Liebe ist aber vielleicht
ist es etwas wie das:

Wenn sie
nach Hause kommt aus dem Ausland
und stolz zu mir sagt: "Ich habe
eine Wasserratte gesehen“
und ich erinnere mich an diese Worte
wenn ich aufwache in der Nacht
und am nächsten Tag bei der Arbeit 10 und ich sehne mich danach
sie dieselben Worte
noch einmal sagen zu hören
und auch danach
dass sie nochmals genau so aussehen soll
wie sie aussah
als sie sagte –

Ich denke, das ist vielleicht Liebe
oder doch etwas hinreichend Ähnliches