"I want this music and this dawn
and the warmth of your cheek against mine.
The grief-armies assemble,
but I'm not going with them.
This is how it always is
when I finish a poem.
A great silence overcomes me,
and I wonder why I ever thought
to use language."
~~ Rumi from "A Thirsty Fish"
Words are so inadequate. The more I write, the clearer that becomes. I fear if I continue trying to record my thoughts, they will soon become sheer gibberish.
Maybe they already have.~~GH
Was recently exposed to Neruda's poetry. About all I can say is, picture me with my hands clasped to my chest, nodding "Yes."
~~ GH
Sonnet
XVII
I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or
arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain
dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the
soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and
carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and
thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance
that rises from the earth.
I love you without knowing how, or
when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or
pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way
of loving
but this, in which there is no I or you,
so
intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that
when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.
