Let Me Coat Your Body

Let me coat your body, my love
Let me drink your tears.
Feel the physical strain.
Let me throw myself
in front of
projectile words
that cause you pain.

Let me attempt to vanquish
the demons that scold you.

Your sacrifice
will never be in vain.

Your willingness
is fair and bold.

As you dare to love me,
veins, tendrils, more visible,
Hopelessness more frequent
than I’ve witnessed
before.

Let me clutch at my chest,
Wedge out bodies together-
So your hurt can be mine
And my strength can be yours.

Contemplation #1

Your mind
is
fast to dry,

Slow to mould,
to try refine.

You’ve the glasses,
But still blind-

Sighted by
specific “whys”.

Too deluded
to deny.

Too afraid
to dare defy.

With the norms
you have complied.

Not emotionally tried.

Looked inside yourself,
and lied.

Searched inside yourself
and cried.

Expectations
to abide.

Locked your true heart
deep inside.

Wished to free yourself
and sighed.

For a part of you
has died.

Translation of the day: ¿Refutación de Séneca? – Francisco Ruiz Noguera (ES)/(EN)

¿Refutación de Séneca? [ES]
publicado en El laberinto de Zinc, una revista de poesía – Málaga, Primavera (2001).

Porque en un mar tranquilo
cualquiera es buen piloto,
empecemos
por conocer el mar.
Unas nociones previas:

¿gobernarse a sí mismo,
el máximo gobierno?,

¿es la sabiduría
el único camino
para la libertad?

Saber el propio cuerpo.

Saber la esclavitud
alegre de los brazos.

Saber del desgobierno
que impone la pasión.

¿Cuál es el mar tranquilo?,
¿el que sabe del rumbo
cambiante del deseo,
o el que cree en las brisa
fija del espejismo
de una falsa bonanza inamovible?

A Refutation of Seneca? [EN] 

Because
in a tranquil ocean
anything is a good pilot;
Let us begin
to get to know the ocean.
Some preconceived notions:

To govern the self,
with maximum authority?

Is wisdom
the only path
to liberty?

To know one’s own body.

To know of slavery,
cheerfulness of arms.

To know of the misgovernment
that impedes the passions

Which is the tranquil ocean?
That knows the constantly changing course of desire,
or
believes in the fixed breeze in mirages
of a false immovable bonanza.

Giving Tree

I am the giving tree
You said…

But you don’t see
how much
You’ve given to me

So, who really…
is the Giving Tree?

You take my breath
and help me breathe

You cradle my head
with loving leaves

You branches hold mine
reaching up towards the sky
meeting heights never quite so excited…

Here rooted,
and I am delighted

We are united
in living
Giving
no misgivings,
forgiving this selflessness
so ridiculous

It’s worth the risk,
isn’t it?

So, let’s plant ourselves together
and go
where the sunset plays
and the calm wind blows,

swaying in sync
when night starts to sink

then I think I know
I’m no longer alone.

Sentimentality Hour: A girl walks into Forest Cafe…

Every now and then she enters, often only exposing a bashful nose and quiet eyes through the crevices of her winter gear. Slipping in deliberately unnoticed, she takes a seat in the corner that detaches herself from the communal nature of the cafe.

She looked so familiar to me, like a face I had seen somewhere else in another life. But then again, there are so many people like this, content to stay planted on the walls in a space where they prefer to observe rather than participate. Those same faces whose features only sharpen in familiarity and philosophical conversation, translating how their hearts and thoughts work in tandem to face the perils of living an average life…whose generic beauty is sculpted uniquely through the context in which you meet.

Still, she comes in and talks to no one, always ordering the same meal, as she summons into her hands a small paperback novel. Her eyes determinedly stay focused on the page, even though the pace of this place is spellbinding in its ability to distract. I am one of these victims, feeling rather rude most of the time when I sit inside, never being able to maintain eye contact with someone for too long despite the intimacy of the conversation. Most of the chairs point outwards and the walls are composed mostly of large panels of glass that make the outside world look more like an obscure reality show. If your back is facing these giant screens of mimicry, you will find yourself turning your head every now and then to see why the person you’re talking to seems to be unable to pay absolute attention to what you’re discussing.

On one such occasion, on a busy evening, she had to sit in the middle area that attracted the most friendly conversation between strangers. I was eager to quell a curiosity and went up to her.

“Have we met before?”

“I don’t think so.”

She had nothing more to say to me, but I wasn’t satisfied with such a curt reply.

“I’m sorry, I just thought I had seen you before.”

“Ah you know, this is Edinburgh. I’m sure you have seen me before somewhere.”

I knew better than to intrude on a private moment, even if it was in solitude.

What piqued my interest the most was the fact that she would enter such a loud and social environment to entertain this introverted nature. Perhaps it was her version of social interaction, watching all these lonely creatures congregate in this crazy melting pot of artists, alcoholics, lost souls and hungry people.

How ironic it was that we mostly stared outwards when we were here.

Motherly Love

The love of a mother
Is unlike any other
It is justified madness
Unfound in another

It drives the blood in our veins
Which has come from her own
Yet it reaches the day
When we trudge on alone

Is it possible to care too much
As a mother like this?
Suffocating and exhausting
Our patience and wit?

But this too’s understandable
Even if it feels wrong
Because the bond’s unconditional –
It’s lasting and strong….

They say blood runs deep
And this is probably why.
They’ll love you to death
‘Til the day that they die.

Their last breath will whisper
What has always been true:
She’ll say that she loves you,
And she knows you do too.