Wind and Water and Stone

The water hollowed the stone,
the wind dispersed the water,
the stone stopped the wind.
Water and wind and stone.

The wind sculpted the stone,
the stone is a cup of water,
The water runs off and is wind.
Stone and wind and water.

The wind sings in its turnings,
the water murmurs as it goes,
the motionless stone is quiet.
Wind and water and stone.

One is the other and is neither:
among their empty names
they pass and disappear,
water and stone and wind.

Octavio Paz

We have seas, full of the sun;
We have trees, full of leaves;
From dawn to dusk we go and go and come
Among our seas, among our trees
Full of
The blues.

My soul
Empty as the silence,
Empty with a vague,
Aching emptiness
Desiring,
Needing someone
Something ......

My hands
open the curtains of your being
clothe you in a further nudity
uncover the bodies of your body
My hands
invent another body for your body

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar:

I love not man the less, but Nature more,

From these our interviews, in which I steal

From all I may be, or have been before,

To mingle with the Universe, and feel

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

it is not important
that you take your bag and leave
all women take their bags and leave
when they are angry.
it is not the important question
that i put out my cigarettes nervously
on the upholstery of the chair,
all men do that
when they are angry.
the matter is not that simple.
it is out of our hands.
we are two zeroes in the margin of love.
two lines written in pencil.
what is important is this:
the golden fish thrown to us by the sea
was squashed between our fingers.

I know why the caged bird sings

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.

Bluebird

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?


Charles Bukowski.

THE POEM OF BEING LONELY

They don't know,
Those who don't live alone,
How frightening is
Soundlessness;
How a person talks to himself,
How he runs to mirrors,
Hungry for a soul,
They don't know it.

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 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 unto him, and take his hands,
saying, Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands

anyone reading here? or its just me?
:-)

I have lost the path and stand at the foot of what seems to be an insurmountable slope. As the height of the thing and the length of my journey become clearer in my consciousness, there comes a distinct desperation, a sadness only arising from the choice between two implausibles. I've come so far... and only to be faced by an obstacle that is seemingly insurmountable. Must the terrifying grade be attempted? Better yet, can it be attempted? With what despondency would I turn back. Uncertain annihilation lies ahead and a certain more subtle obliteration behind.

The sun is setting and the rocks grow cold. If I remain here I am certain I will fade by the time the ice comes into being, in the twilight well before dawn. Yet the thought of staying fills me with such peace... such cessation of despair, that I consider it a little longer. Yes, this may be the best option. No desperate attempts, no brokenhearted retreats. Without even moving, I find I am quite comfortable, and that the stars will not quite admit utter darkness this night. In doing nothing I find there is nothing to fear, and I in a little while I will fall asleep.

you say "I will come"
and you dont come
now you say,
"I will not come"
so i shall expect you.
have i learned to understand you?