When you chose me ... Finale ...

Pedro Salinas is a Spanish poet who I discovered recently ... His life story is fascinating but his fate is so different from Pablo Neruda; politically and romantically  ... A road not taken is always something you wonder and I sincerely hope that "Finale" will be true for my last words on earth. At least it will be for this blog.  Tumblr is the new venture for being spontaneously combusted ... 

http://beingspontaneouslycombusted.tumblr.com/

When you chose me—
love chose—
I came out of the great anonymity
from everyone, from nothing.
Till then
I was never taller than
the sierras of the world.
I never sank deeper
than the maximum
depths marked out
on maritime charts.
And my gladness was
sad, as small watches are
without a wrist to fasten to,
without a winding crown, stopped.
But when you said: you,
to me, yes, to me singled out,
I was higher than stars,
deeper than coral.
And my joy
began to spin, caught
in your being, in your pulse.
You gave me possession of myself
when you gave your self to me.
I lived. I live. How long?
I know you will back out.
When you go
I will go back to a deaf
world that does not distinguish
gram or drop
in weight or water.
I'll be one more—like the rest—
when you are lost.
I'll lose my name,
my age, my gestures, all
lost in me, from me.
Gone back to the immense bone heap
of those who have not died
and now have nothing
to die for in life.
- Pedro Salinas


Matilde, years or days   
sleeping, feverish,   
here or there,
gazing off,
twisting my spine,   
bleeding true blood,   
perhaps I awaken   
or am lost, sleeping:
hospital beds, foreign windows,
white uniforms of the silent walkers,
the clumsiness of feet.

And then, these journeys   
and my sea of renewal:   
your head on the pillow,   
your hands floating
in the light, in my light,   
over my earth.

It was beautiful to live   
when you lived!

The world is bluer and of the earth   
at night, when I sleep
enormous, within your small hands.
- Pablo Neurda

Sleeping head ...

... by Tom Otterness at the MOMA once reminded me of someone 

... and the following from  "The book of disquiet" by Fernando Pessoa made me realise why ...

I had the same sensation as when we watch someone sleep.  When asleep we all become children again.  Perhaps because in the state of slumber we can do no wrong and are unconscious of life, the greatest criminal and the most self-absorbed egotist are holy, by a natural magic, as long as they're sleeping ...

... he's dreaming.  He's attentive to what doesn't exist.  Perhaps he still hopes.  If there's any justice in the God's injustice, then may they let us keep our dreams, even when they're impossible, and may our dreams be happy, even when they're trivial.  



...

A list of books ...

... which has affected me in some ways ...

November 2012

The year of magical thinking by Joan Didion

By Grand Central Station I sat down and wept by Elizabeth Smart

An unquiet mind by Kay Redfield Jamison

The unbearable lightness of being by Milan Kundera

Never let me go by Kazuo Ishiguro 

One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich 

The power and the glory by Graham Greene

The bridge of San Luis Rey by Thornton Wilder

The heart is a lonely hunter by Carson McCullers
The book of disquiet by Fernando Pessoa

It may not always be so; and I say ...

... by ee cummings is a poem which pretty much sums up what I did recently, wishing him "all happiness" from a distance via a letter ... 


It may not always be so; and I say
That if your lips, which I have loved, should touch
Another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch
His heart, as mine in time not far away;
If on another's face your sweet hair lay
In such a silence as I know, or such
Great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,
Stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

If this should be, I say if this should be --
You of my heart, send me a little word;
That I may go to him, and take his hands,
Saying, Accept all happiness from me.
Then I shall turn my face, and hear one bird
Sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines ...

... by Pablo Neruda ... is a poem someone once has written to me, and I have since written to someone else ... 

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

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.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one 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 one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tries to find the wind to touch her hearing.

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 maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

Ritual Acts (iii) ...

... is a poem by Adrienne Rich I discovered at the Strand bookshop at NYC and a part of me agrees with it a little ... 

After all - to have loved, wasn't that the object?
Love is the only thing in life
but then you can love too much
or the wrong way, you lose 
yourself or you lose
the person
or you strangle each other 
Maybe the object of love is 
   to have loved 
   greatly
   at one time or another
Like a cinema trailer 
watched long ago 

The hope of loving ...

... by Meister Echkart ...

What keeps us alive, what allows us to endure?

I think it is the hope of loving,

or being loved.

I heard a fable once about the sun going on a journey

to find its source, and how the moon wept

without her lover’s

warm gaze.

We weep when light does not reach our hearts. We wither

like fields if someone close

does not rain their

kindness

upon 

us.

Love at first sight ...

... is by the Polish poet, Wislawa Szymborska, translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh.  It reminds me a little of a little book drawn by a Taiwanese artist called "A Chance of Sunshine" ... 

They're both convinced

that a sudden passion joined them.

Such certainty is beautiful,

but uncertainty is more beautiful still.

Since they'd never met before, they're sure

that there'd been nothing between them.

But what's the word from the streets, staircases, hallways --

perhaps they've passed each other a million times?

I want to ask them

if they don't remember --

a moment face to face

in some revolving door?

perhaps a "sorry" muttered in a crowd?

a curt "wrong number" caught in the receiver?

but I know the answer.

No, they don't remember

They'd be amazed to hear

that Chance has been toying with them

now for years.

Not quite ready yet

to become their Destiny,

it pushed them close, drove them apart,

it barred their path,

stifling a laugh,

and then leaped aside.

There were signs and signals,

even if they couldn't read them yet.

Perhaps three years ago

or just last Tuesday

a certain leaf fluttered

from one shoulder to another?

Something was dropped and then picked up.

Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished

into childhood's thicket?

There were doorknobs and doorbells

where one touch had covered another

beforehand.

Suitcases checked and standing side by side.

One night, perhaps, the same dream,

grown hazy by morning.

Every beginning

is only a sequel, after all,

and the book of events

is always open halfway through.

Mark Strand ...

... is a poet I discovered when I was at NYC earlier this month ...

Provisional eternity

A man and a woman lay in bed. “Just one more time,” said the man, “just one more time.” “Why do you keep saying that?” said the woman. “Because I never want it to end,” said the man. “What don’t you want to end?” said the woman. “This,” said the man, “this never wanting it to end.”

When I turned a hundred

I wanted to go on an immense journey, to travel night and day into the unknown until, forgetting my old self, I came into possession of a new self, one that I might have missed on my previous travels.  But the first step was beyond me.  I lay in bed, unable to move, pondering, as one does at my age, the ways of melancholy - how it seeps into the spirit, how it disincarnates the will, how it banishes the sense to the chill of twilight, how even the best and worst intentions wither in its keep.  I kept staring at the ceiling, then suddenly felt a blast of cold air, and I was gone.  

Our Union ...

… is a poem by a Suri poet called Hafiz.  I like the first three stanzas as it reminds me a common simile of “I love you more than sliced bread”, but I am not sure about the rope in the last stanza …

Our

union is like this:

You feel cold so I reach for a blanket to cover

our shivering feet.

A hunger comes into your body
so I run to my garden and start digging potatoes.

You asked for a few words of comfort and guidance and
I quickly kneel by your side offering you
a whole book as a
gift.

You ache with loneliness one night so much
you weep, and I say

here is a rope, tie it around me,
Hafiz will be your
companion
for life.

Kindness ...

... By Naomi Shihab Nye is a poem I came across at a bookshop at NYC and it seems to be befitting for a city post-Hurricane Sandy and an early winter snow storm ...

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

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 

Jonathan Sacks ...

... wrote an article in the Times about Dr Ludwig Guttmann, a Jewish neurologist who set up the National Spinal Injuries Centre in the UK. He was a pioneer in using sports for rehabilitation and it accumulated into the first Paralympics in Rome in 1960. I don't think I agreed with all of the points made in this piece but its sentiments is staggering. The power of beliefs, whatever its source, from others or ourselves or God, can create an imperative in us that allows us to face another day, even if the journey is tortuous and full of thorns ... at least we can try to listen, admire the wonders or just breath in the cold crisp air.

He [God] sees that, in our souls if not our bodies, we are injured. Our spiritual muscles are atrophied through lack of use. We bear the scars of bruising experience of the world. Yet year after year we and those around us accept our condition, spiritually bed-ridden yet so sedated by a relentlessly secular society that we do not even feel the pain.

God does not let us lie there. He tells us to sit up, get out of bed and exercise our soul even though it hurts. He coaxes us out of our comfort zone. And though, we fail time and again, like Dr Guttmann, God never gives up on us until, through prayer and ritual and services to others, we come alive. In this game, there are no medals and no losers, but by taking part we learn to live and breath more deeply until, in the end, we find ourselves lifted to a greatness we never know we could achieve.

The Magus ...

... is a novel by John Fowles set in a magical remote Greek Island, with Nicolas being slowly caught up in a never-ending psychological games of changing identity and reality ... It is a minefield for quotes, but here are a few which spoke to me ... 

You wish to be liked. I wish simply to be. One day you will know what that means, perhaps. And you will smile. Not against me. But with me.

Wild strawberries ...

... is a haunting film by Ingmar Bergman about a old medical professor's redemptive journey. It has several meditative stops on death, life, regrets, pains, choices and relationships, with meandering dreams and this Swedish hymn by Johan Olaf Wallin in the middle ...

Where is the friend I seek at break of day?
When night falls I still have not found Him.
My burning heart shows me His traces
I see His traces wherever flowers bloom
His love is mingled with every air.

Freud ...

... wrote the following in his case history on Frau Emmy von N. which I found to be most illuminating ...

I recite to her that is in effect a paraphrase of the old legal maxim "de minimis non curat lex" that between good and evil there is a whole class of small, indifferent things for which no one should approach themselves.