Cositas desde Buenos Aires, Santiago, y un Pueblecito Colombiano

Soneto XII

Plena mujer, manzana carnal, luna caliente,
espeso aroma de algas, lodo y luz machacados,
¿qué oscura claridad se abre entre tus columnas?
¿Qué antigua noche el hombre toca con sus sentidos?

Ay, amar es un viaje con agua y con estrellas,
con aire ahogado y bruscas tempestades de harina:
amar es un combate de relámpagos
y dos cuerpos por una sola miel derrotados.

Beso a beso recorro tu pequeño infinito,
tus márgenes, tus ríos, tus pueblos diminutos,
y el fuego genital transformado en delicia

corre por los delgados caminos de la sangre
hasta precipitarse como un clavel nocturno,
hasta ser y no ser sino un rayo en la sombra.


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perhaps "Soneto XII" is a bit much, but i just love the fist line... full woman, fleshy apple, hot moon...
yesterday i bought a copy of Cien Años de Soledad. i think it will be good for me. however, i am still in the looking up every 9th word in the dictionary mode. hopefully that will soon end as it is entirely too much work.

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Ode To Broken Things

Things get broken
at home
like they were pushed
by an invisible, deliberate smasher.
It's not my hands
or yours
It wasn't the girls
with their hard fingernails
or the motion of the planet.
It wasn't anything or anybody
It wasn't the wind
It wasn't the orange-colored noontime
Or night over the earth
It wasn't even the nose or the elbow
Or the hips getting bigger
or the ankle
or the air.
The plate broke, the lamp fell
All the flower pots tumbled over
one by one. That pot
which overflowed with scarlet
in the middle of October,
it got tired from all the violets
and another empty one
rolled round and round and round
all through winter
until it was only the powder
of a flowerpot,
a broken memory, shining dust.

And that clock
whose sound
was
the voice of our lives,
the secret
thread of our weeks,
which released
one by one, so many hours
for honey and silence
for so many births and jobs,
that clock also
fell
and its delicate blue guts
vibrated
among the broken glass
its wide heart
unsprung.

Life goes on grinding up
glass, wearing out clothes
making fragments
breaking down
forms
and what lasts through time
is like an island on a ship in the sea,
perishable
surrounded by dangerous fragility
by merciless waters and threats.

Let's put all our treasures together
-- the clocks, plates, cups cracked by the cold --
into a sack and carry them
to the sea
and let our possessions sink
into one alarming breaker
that sounds like a river.
May whatever breaks
be reconstructed by the sea
with the long labor of its tides.
So many useless things
which nobody broke
but which got broken anyway.

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The two poems are by Pablo Neruda.. a chilean communist, senator, embassador, nobel prize winner.. i just find them very beautiful. i havent been brooding over them or anything, but more just ran across them. right now i am suffering from a desire to blog (something which very rarely happens), so i decided it would be an apt place to put down these poems along with a few thoughts. i´m not going to pretend to be a guru an analyze what i am reading. i think that there´s alot to be said for impact. i´ve really tried to love alot of things, when it comes to literature, but honestly, it´s just exhausting. i like whta i like, and that´s it.

recently i´ve been listening to neutral milk hotel. that´s what inspired me to write on this almost forgotten blog. its interesting. i find myself both intruiged and repulsed by the idea of sharing oneself to a crowd of strangers via the internet. Pero igual.. es lo que hay.

so, the past few months, i have realized what a sucker for melancholy i am. there´s something inately sad in most good things, i find. beauty and love (especially). this may seem like a very elementary observation, but it´s had a quite profound impact on my life. sometimes interconnectedness is really quite overwhelming. i fear this is coming across as naive and crude.. but in my thought process, it doesn´t appear that way. i think i´m going to quit talking about this now.

except for one thing. on mothers day, i went to a cemetary. the largest cemetary in buenos aires. it contains galleries and galleries of catacombs, and as i was sort of wandering around by myself, i came across an incredibly pregnant woman kissing the grave of what was her mother. it was really quite a surreal moment. i couldnt help but think about the beauty and sadness that make up life and motherhood and love and the cycles that seem to envelope them.

anyway. as this is titled "bible of dreams" i suppose i should talk about them for a second. i stopped having dreams about a month ago. i just now realized that. but when i was having them, they were either seemingly insignificant or really really messed up. but that´s a subject for a different entry. one that, in all honesty, probably wont make it to this blog.