Monday, March 26, 2018
Sunday, March 11, 2018
|Breakfast, Pierre Bonnard (1917)|
it is a fine Sunday morning
like all the rest
usually breakfast is served in a little chipped bowl
i will smile at your photograph trapped into the bronze frame
you will smile back
some other times
you will not even notice i am sitting here
but i will not say a thing because i know
you like it this way
you like it this way
and as always
it is understandable
a Sunday morning like all the rest
suddenly i feel tears escaping from my eyes
not knowing from where they came
or where they go
all blur and me standing here
struggling to discover
the meaning of this sea behind my eyelids
maybe it is just an allergic reaction
an eye infection or dust or the sun...
or maybe it was my reflection in the mirror when i woke up
i looked at it hopping to find you on the other side
but there was nothing
only a forgotten shirt thrown on a chair
and last night's kisses
on the floor....
*"Une femme connait le visage de l'homme qu'elle aime,
comme un marin connait la mer" *
Honore De BalzacGently as the evening wind blows
over the waves sadly plays like a dolphin
my longing for you
The trembling sun dies shattered in fiery fragments
With my fingers, glowing,
I set the passing clouds on fire
painting my yearning across the melting sand
How many times have I called your name
and still it flies back to me sang by a siren
sleeping inside a fairy tale…
I must be mad…
But is not Love the ultimate madness?...
The day dies like a black swan into the arms of Oceanus,
and distant stars shyly shine above me
If i was under another sky
like when i was a child
i would count them one by one singing a fair well to summer...
and yet, here,
my mind is only full of you...
Suddenly your face ignites into my soul
Ripples and blue eyes and shiny lips
harmonic cosmic symphonies
I dive into your smile, wild and unstoppable,
melting like sea foam around your body
tasting salty lips and skin that is the twin of my own
as we vibrate tuned to an ancient rhythm...
Oh…how the heart knows what hunger for the beloved is…
inside this terrifying silence
I conjure away the inevitable fading of your memory
With seashells and moving sand dunes
that have the shape of your face
sleeping beside me at 4am in the morning…
"...A woman knows the face of her lover like the sailor knows the sea..."*
Tuesday, July 18, 2017
"...When I remember that Shelley calls our minds “mirrors of the fire for which all thirst,” I cannot but ask the question all have asked, “What or who has cracked the mirror?” I begin to study the only self that I can know, myself, and to wind the thread upon the perne again.
At certain moments, always unforeseen, I become happy, most commonly when at hazard I have opened some book of verse. Sometimes it is my own verse when, instead of discovering new technical flaws, I read with all the excitement of the first writing. Perhaps I am sitting in some crowded restaurant, the open book beside me, or closed, my excitement having over-brimmed the page. I look at the strangers near as if I had known them all my life, and it seems strange that I cannot speak to them: everything fills me with affection, I have no longer any fears or any needs; I do not even remember that this happy mood must come to an end. It seems as if the vehicle had suddenly grown pure and far extended and so luminous that one half imagines that the images from Anima Mundi, embodied there and drunk with that sweetness, would, as some country drunkard who had thrown a wisp into his own thatch, burn up time..."
|photo at http://goo.gl/Qi9WA|
I can wrap you around my little finger
A silk red ribbon
To remind me
How you make my blood flow faster inside my veins
I can pull your strings
I can watch you, distant,
As you undress your soul in front of me
When we are one and i paint my dark desire on your face
With whispers and kisses and my dangerous loving
When your manly armor cracks and falls at my feet
That moment you are mortal and vulnerable,
And i see your face so bright
And then i love you
Only because i know i do not love you
I ignite my night with your touch
As your velvet eyes travel over my trembling flesh
You break me, you melt me, you swallow me
holding me, feeling my tide rising
Yes, I can pull your strings until you beg me
To stop and start again
Ours is not a passion fit for hypocrites and cowards
We dare to dream the nightmares of the Heart
Risking our lives to the death
Beggars of Love
Jesters of the flesh
Eternally impenitent Sinners...
|photo by © Michael Jurick, at http://goo.gl/nThMj|
Let's whisper words of love
Lost in each other's arms
This night is blessing us with stars and fireflies
My lips on your lips
Your hands hold me softly
We share the silence
This night keeps us safe
Hidden away from the world
The moon is rising, blood red, from the horizon
Compassionate for the lovers
We move with every wave
My heart full of you
Your heart full of me
Making love with the tide
So soon, so soon
This night will pass and be gone
Tuesday, December 27, 2016
"...I would like to tell you a story from my country. A young man went off to war, leaving his pregnant wife behind. Two years later, he was able to return home, and the young woman went with their young son to meet her husband. They cried together out of joy. In Vietnam, in our tradition, when an event of this kind takes place, it has to be announced to the ancestors. So the young father asked his wife to go to the market to buy the things that are needed for the offering that is placed on the altar to the ancestors. Such an altar is found in every house. Each morning we burn a stick of incense to our ancestors on this altar, and in this way we make a connection with them. Burning this incense, adorning the altar with photographs of our ancestors, and dusting the shrine off are very important gestures.
These are moments in which we come in contact with our ancestors. There are people living in the world who are completely uprooted because they do not practice such a turning toward their ancestors.
So the young wife went off to the market. During this time, the young father was trying to convince his child to call him Daddy. The little boy refused: “Mister, you’re not my daddy. My daddy is somebody else. He visits us every night and my mommy talks to him every night, and very often she cries with him. And every time my mommy sits down, he sits down too. Every time she lies down, he lies down too.”
After he heard these words, the young father’s happiness entirely evaporated. His heart turned into a block of ice. He felt hurt, deeply humiliated, and that is why, when his wife came home, he would no longer look at her or speak a word to her. He ignored her. The woman herself began to suffer; she felt humiliated, hurt. When the offering was placed on the altar, the young father burned the incense, recited the prayers to the ancestors, and did the four traditional prostrations. Then he picked the mat up instead of leaving it there for his wife so she could do the four prostrations in her turn. In his mind he thought that she was not qualified to present herself before the ancestors, and she was humiliated by this.
After the ceremony, he didn’t stay at the house to eat but went to the village and spent the day in a bar. He tried to forget his suffering by drinking alcohol, and he did not come back to the house until very late at night.
The following day, it was the same thing, and this went on for several days in a row. The young woman could not take it anymore. Her suffering was so great that in the end she threw herself in the river and drowned.
When the young father heard this news, he returned to the house, and that night he was the one who went to get the lamp and lit it. Suddenly the child cried out: “Mister, Mister, it’s my daddy, he’s come back!” And he pointed to the shadow of his father on the wall. “You know, Mister, my father comes every night. Mommy talks to him and sometimes she cries; and every time she sits down my daddy sits down too.” In reality, this woman had been alone in the house too much and every night she had talked to her shadow: “My dear one, you are so far away from me. How can I raise my child all by myself? . . . You must come back home soon.” She would cry, and of course every time she sat down, the shadow would also sit down. Now the husband’s false perception was no longer there, but it was too late—his wife was already dead.
A misperception is something that can destroy an entire family. The Buddha told us a number of times that we are subject to misperceptions in our everyday life. Therefore we have to pay close attention to our perceptions. There are people who hang on to their misperceptions for ten or twenty years, and during this time they continue to suffer and make other people suffer.
Why did the young father not want to talk this thing over with his wife? Because pride got in between them. If he had asked his wife: “Who is this person who came every night? Our child told me about him. I am suffering so much, my darling, you have to help me. Explain to me who this person is.” If he had done that, his wife would have had a chance to explain, and the drama could have been avoided. However, it was not only his fault, but that of his young wife as well. She could have come to him and asked him the reason for his change in attitude: “Husband, why don’t you look at me anymore, why don’t you talk to me? Have I done something awful that I deserve such treatment? I am suffering so much, dear husband, you have to help me.” She did not do this, and I do not want you to make the same mistake in your everyday life.
We are subject to misperceptions every day, so we have to pay attention. Every time you think it is somebody else who is causing the suffering, you must remember this story. You must always check things out by going to the person in question and asking for his or her help: “Dear one, I am suffering so much, help me please.”