I am the Pablo Bird,
bird of a single feather,
a flier in the clear shadow
and obscure clarity,
my wings are unseen,
my ears resound
when I walk among the trees
or beneath the tombstones
like an unlucky umbrella
or a naked sword,
stretched like a bow
or round like a grape,
I fly on and on not knowing,
wounded in the dark night,
who is waiting for me,
who does not want my song,
who desires my death,
who will not know I'm arriving
and will not come to subdue me,
to bleed me, to twist me,
or to kiss my clothes,
torn by the shrieking wind.

That's why I come and go,
fly and don't fly but sing:
I am the furious bird
of the calm storm.

neruda

how can you mend a broken heart?

Oh soul,
you worry too much.

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time

W.H. Auden

The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revalations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller, but for want of an understanding ear.

The Nights Where I Couldn't Write

The Nights Where I Couldn't Write
I went
to the ocean blue
to hear
a thousand chains
dragged on
marble floors
I went
to the mountain green
to smell
the stench
of rotting flesh
So I hid
in my room
and bolted the doors
to pick up
the chains
and smell the stench
to lay dead
on my bed
for the ocean
to take me away
while the
mountains
watch over me

Where is your mama?
as you sleep
on cardboards that
used to wrap
refrigerators
and when you snuggle
up only to feel your
elbows against your
knees on a rainy
night while taxis
pass by without
blowing their horns
in a highway without
traffic
in the middle
of the night.

Where is your mama?
as you puff cigarettes
like a marlboro chimney
with every penny you have saved
from not washing your face
and walking on hot cement
while the sun is out
to burn your little feet
and spare your tiny hands.

Where is your mama?
as you fight with bigger kids
to earn your day's glue
to grant you dreams
while you walk in a crowd
full of people who look away
when they stare right through your eyes
afraid they would only see..
themselves.

 some joys are better expressed in silence,
as a smile hold more meaning than laughter,
i was asked if i enjoyed meeting you in life,
i just smiled...
me too...
 
 i do anything so that you love me
i change my face
i'll look like the way you want
i change my attitude
i'll be what you want
i change my words
i'll say what you want
i even change my name
call me what you want
do you love me now?
no wait!
dont love me please
i've changed so much
that i'm gonna hate myself now

Herve Joncour, a French silkworm trader, undertakes several hazardous journeys to Japan in the 1860s, to purchase the finest silkworm eggs in the world. The travel itself is incidental to the tale, and Baricco deals with it perfunctorily, in a formalised repetition that captures the cadence of tedium in repeated travels. While in Japan, Joncour is profoundly struck by a deep and aching desire for the concubine of Hara Kei, a feudal warlord who owns silkworm eggs, an aviary filled with exotic birds, a village and all its inhabitants, and the girl. This passion draws Joncour back to Japan time and again, and, though their relationship is unrequited, except indirectly in a stunningly written ritual bathing scene, his feelings for the girl deeply affect his life with his wife and friends in France.
 
Don't miss reading silk by alessandro baricco

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write for example, 'The night is shattered
and the blue stars 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 immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to a pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered 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 searches for her as though to go to her.
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 tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voice. Her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is 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.

Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of
you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
window.
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.

pablo neruda

i'm so tired...

There are times in life when one becoms a poet; when that joy and pain becomes irepressible and it wakes you up in the middle of the night to write the songs and wails of the heart

If you cannot join me
in my darkness
or weep as my heart breaks
I will ask what love is.
Will you buy me cigarettes
in the morning?
and serve me whiskey for lunch?
If you won't
I will ask what love is.
Can you see me in my empty eyes?
then feel the void in your heart?
If not, I will ask what love is.
In my asking
will you ask with me?
And if you shall
I will know what love is.

There's nothing different about the looks on those faces you recognize and hold dear. There was never anything ordinary about the faces you ignore. All are one and the same, besides what you invest in them. There is only one face, ever before you in a hundred wise, only one day infinitely repeating.

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Maya angelou

Silence is not a lack of words.
Silence is not a lack of music.
Silence is not a lack of curses.
Silence is not a lack of screams.
Silence is not a lack of colors
or voices or bodies or whistling wind.
Silence is not a lack of anything.

I am a man: little do I last
and the night is enormous.
But I look up:
the stars write.
Unknowing I understand:
I too am written,
and at this very moment
someone spells me out

octavio paz

Memories
the break up conversation game!

You only love what you cannot touch, for you know that your touch would mar any object of love beyond recognizability. You love what is fleeting only because it has no regard for you, can never be hurt or destroyed by you.

And you dream of being equally untouchable, you sit and think of the perfect love: some divine dualism where each regards the other equally and neither is capable of inflicting pain or suffering it.

People generally don't understand how this could be love. They're so used to, so hardened by, being with one another that they just assume love always entails pain.

We watchers of cloud, tracers of stars, we collectors of broken glass and broken light, we who love with camera and pen, with mind and soul, we know.

Jody-from sound to sense

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell!
They'd advertise -- you know!

Where Did I Wake Up?
Where did I wake up? where am I? Where’s
my right side, where’s the left? where’s above, and
where’s below?

what can we do?
at their best, there is gentleness in Humanity.
some understanding and, at times, acts of
courage
but all in all it is a mass, a glob that doesn't
have too much.
it is like a large animal deep in sleep and
almost nothing can awaken it.
when activated it's best at brutality,
selfishness, unjust judgments, murder.

what can we do with it, this Humanity?

nothing.

Charles Bukowski

Tree Heart
by Raphael Dagold

In a tree, blackbirds -- a swarm, an open hive,
each black lightness its own small chamber:
The birds are not crows and are not death

and there are hundreds of them in the dryness,
quick late-summer breathing back at the leaves
they're hungry doubles of, wet shades of oxygen

gathering, a gather and a making of a flock
from a tree, a leaf a wing, two a bird, three a bird
with a beak and a flutter and a lack

of patience, sun up and a hot sheen
already, air heated and moving in quick drifts
shaking the leaves, the leaves are strange here,

so many of them shaking but still silent,
their sound is under the sound of the birds
loud in the light, light shooting clean

from one hillside through to the next, pale,
before it's gone and saturated everything,
light strung to a key the birds play, each of the hundred,

the birds are so loud it's easy to think this,
that the very light is sound:
Then one of them goes. No mission. No scout.

Just go, come back, like that, some more go
to land in the field below the tips of grain
so a haze begins, elastic, a stream of one body

from the tree like a cell's separation,
no flat, no hollow, no more,
you'd think, could fit where they all go

to eat, is all, all the flock's pieces
beating their wings for the ground.
It is almost. It is almost too much

for the field to carry where they've described
themselves, written their own low arcs,
rippling and settling for each new two or three

until the tree of birds is in the field. Murmuring.
The light is there. The light is a disappearance.
And they are eating. And they are making room.

"I like not only to be loved, but also to be told that
I am loved. I am
not sure that you are of the same mind. But the realm
of silence is
large enough beyond the grave. This is the world of
light and speech,
and I shall take leave to tell you that you are very
dear."
George Eliot
- also known as Marian Evans

How can you bear to look at the Neva?
How can you bear to cross the bridges?.
Not in vain am I known as the grieving one
Since the time you appeared to me.
The black angels' wings are sharp,
Judgment Day is coming soon,
And raspberry-colored bonfires bloom,
Like roses, in the snow

Anna Akhmatova