Other love

My heart is broken to thousand pieces.
My lungs heavy as stones in my chest.
My pride buried three feet underground.
My dreams don’t let me sleep at night.

Each new day hurts more than the last.
Each meal is a battle rather than feast.
Each breath is a triumph to stay alive.
Each word hard to utter to make a sound.

…And I’m the one who hasn’t loved?

Salome

I’m dying of thirst for your beauty,
Neither rain nor flood can quench it.

I’m dying of hunger for your body,
No wine or fruit can satisfy me.

Nothing in this world is as black as your hair.
As white as your skin, as red as your mouth.

But your words stung me like knives.

You refused to kiss me. You did not even look at me.

And now…
I’m alive.
And you are dead.

Now, I can kiss your mouth.
But you’re still not looking.

 

*I just came back from the theatre, I went to see the opera “Salome” by Richard Strauss. It left a deep impression on me. So I decided to summarize the story in this little “poem”.

Street poetry

Dear anonymous poet, whose poem I found scribbled on the glass wall in the streets of Bratislava,

I don’t know who you are but please keep writing on walls of this town. It desperately needs some more poetry. You could maybe start a new genre: a street poetry. It would be a perfect way to get poems closer to people. I’m your huge fan already.

Now, this is probably what I’d say to him/her if I knew who it was. But seriously, when I bumped into this poem randomly scrawled on a glass wall as if in a rush, I thought: what a wonderful and selfless intention, whose ever it was, to brighten up this gloomy street with a beautiful piece of poetry. And make the passers by stop for a moment, read it and think about it. (Too bad that all the people I saw passing the place didn’t even pay attention to it.)

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I tried to translate it, although it doesn’t sound half as good as the original:

Through the glass wall

He’s looking through glass,
has no faith in coincidences,
Those trees must have grown
for a certain purpose.
He wants to touch them,
In other way than before,
He’s looking through glass,
silently watching their silhouettes.

He’d love to walk on the grass
barefoot again,
Breathe its scent in
when it’s freshly mowed
He has no faith in coincidences,
And the sky is pale,
A windless day,
And the grass is dead still.

He dreams of a storm,
that makes his heart pound
And when the rain comes,
He wants to go out
But he can’t fight with the glass wall.

He doesn’t feel pain, nor relief
Speechlessly
He’s looking at the trees, at the grass
He wants to believe, but the world
Makes no sense today.

 

*That’s the kind of vandalism I heartily support!*

Cry me a lake

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Nine years passed by
in an eye-blink.
Shaped in a tear
as dark as an ink.

Her hopes and dreams
are only reminiscences
Playing hide and seek
with her senses.

And now,
She contemplates all when and whys,
Good-byes and bad buys,
Break ups and break downs,
Solid airs, moving grounds,
Single choices, double mistakes,
Triple Johnnies, Jims and Jacks,
With whom she cried
rivers and lakes.

She collected all memories,
And locked them up safe
in a secret place,
just in case…

On the road

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A car is humming
its tranquil song,
And all the gods,
above and under,
singing along.
Set your eyes up,
you break the mould,
And as far you can see
all is blue, white and gold.
You show me infinity
is no design of men
Like two of the stars
we live by no plan.
As vain as to describe
colors to a blind one,
Such is to live by limits,
when there are none.
Only rumbling of wheels,
as promising as a wish,
The road, the dust and
a mind young and foolish,
Are tools to turn us
to what we’re supposed to be.
And if we weren’t fools
then who’d we be?

(photo taken in Norway)

Equal affection

I was maybe thirteen or fourteen when I first came across W. H. Auden’s poem ‘The more loving one’. I fell in love with it instantly. Being so young when first reading it I obviously could not understand it that well. Neither I experienced love up to that point, nor a broken heart so the real meaning of the poem was yet to be revealed to me. Here is the poem:

“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 More Loving One)

Just today I was thinking how special and rare is equal affection between two people. Like I said in one of my previous posts, you can never know what the other person feels, you don’t even know whether you can trust him/her, you only have to feel it. You have to trust your intuition in this. I really do trust it – but even that can fail me sometimes. That’s disillusionment. Or some call it a broken heart.

At this very moment I feel like there is no such thing as equal affection. One always loves more than the other. There is always one who is the admirer – the one who lovingly observes a cold and distant star, but in vain.

Here’s my poem though it’s nowhere near as good as Auden’s:

I tried to solve countless equations
Yet my want for you is uncountable.
I failed with science and calculations
To make my heart sustainable.

Answer I longed for I never found
Neither on tongue, nor in your eyes,
Found myself falling from the cloud,
On the day you said your goodbyes.

I traded pleasure and joyfulness
For the final movement of the ninth.
In tentative reply to loneliness
I choose to be my largest crowd.

Walls are higher, stairs are steeper,
Wild is path I have to go through.
With every breath I dive deeper,
Insatiable is my desire for you.

If equal affection can not be true,
I wish the more loving one were you.

Nostalgia

O sweet nostalgia,
You, who torture us with vivid pictures and lucid sounds.
You, who bring back fragrant scents and fierce sensations.
You, who we loathe when we feel the blame.
You, who we worship when times are mad.

We run to you in desperate need to escape back to times when everything was wonderful. Why is it that you always taste so wonderful? Why is it that you always taste sweeter than this very day?
Everything about you is perfect.

But you are just an illusion.
Everything is an illusion but this very moment.