Feliz cumpleaños a mi!

I am not 32 but Neruda wrote 100 sonnets for his beloved Matilde and named this one XXXIII.  Do you have someone in your life that creates your order, that is your shimmering bee. I must love disorder if my desk looks like this! … pero mi encanta those with the gift to take a twig, place it on a piece of accordian-folded, origami-esque paper and effortlessly create art.
Wine that prefers to continue yesterday. Que quiere decir eso?

Besos,
Elisabet

XXXII
Pablo Neruda
 
The house this morning — with its truths
scrambled, blankets and feathers, the start of the day
already in flux — drifts like a poor little boat
between its horizon of order and of sleep.
 
Objects want only to drag themselves along:
vestiges, entropic followers, cold legaices.
Papers hide their shriveled vowels;
the wine in the bottle prefers to continue yesterday.
 
But you — The One Who Puts Things in Order — you shimmer
through like a bee, probing spaces lost to the darkness:
conquering light, you with your white energy.
 
So you contruct a new clarity here,
and objects obey, following the wind of life:
an Order establishes its bread, its dove.
(y el orden establece su pan y su paloma.)

Chardonnay and Triscuits

By John Dickinson

You once mentioned that your first date with your wife was (I think) camping along the Tuolumne river. We should probably pass on to the next generation of romantic hopefuls what an effective strategy this is.

Susan and my first date (22 years ago ) included BBQ Chicken, Smoked Oysters, Alouette Garlic spread and Triscuits, and a bottle of Chardonnay – sitting on a rock in the middle of the Merced river just below Bridalveil falls in Yosemite.

A full moon rose over half-dome ( she thinks I planned it that way, but it was just blind luck ) and we later walked over to Yosemite falls in the moonlight and got soaked in the mist. She decided it was THE most romantic date she had ever been on and that I was a keeper.

The fact that we later went back to separate tents to sleep, and that I got up to make sour-dough english muffins (from my own sourdough starter) and cowboy coffee in the very chilly morning cinched the deal.

we were falling in love and
we liked it
bottoms of feet stained
purple
floor splatters mingled into one
beneath toes and
heals and
arches
we began to kiss again no
pulling away for breath
she leaned in and
I was done
a slow sweet pull from all
time amalgamed into
three hour lip face soliloquy of
all things wonderful and
human and
alive in
moment

Day-colored wine,
night-colored wine,
wine with purple feet
or wine with topaz blood,
wine,
starry child
of earth,
wine, smooth
as a golden sword,
soft
as lascivious velvet,
wine, spiral-seashelled
and full of wonder,
amorous,
marine;
never has one goblet contained you,
one song, one man,
you are choral, gregarious,
at the least, you must be shared.
At times
you feed on mortal

Oh that a joy so soon should waste!
  Or so sweet a bliss
  As a kiss
Might not forever last!
So sugared, so melting, so soft, so delicious,
  The dew that lies on roses,
  When the morn herself discloses,
Is not so precious.
Oh, rather than I would is smother,
Were I to taste such another,
  It should be my wishing
  That I might die kissing.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Cherie writes: “Lessons may be necessary, but remember that loving is essentially an art form and that your practice will largely be shaped by your willingness to be creative with what you are experiencing… There is so much untapped potential: the naked promise in a glance, the electricity in a touch, the delicious merging of a kiss.”   

Ojalá!

Elisabet

How She Felt

by Samuel Sullivan Cox

How she felt when first he kissed her – like a tub of roses swimming in honey, cologne, nutmeg and blackberries.

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,

    Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove!

Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,

    Or the rapture that swells on the first kiss of love!

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow,

    Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove,

From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow,

    Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love!

If Apollo should e’er his assistance refuse,

    Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove,

Invoke them no more; bid adieu to the muse,

    And try the effect of the first kiss of love.

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art;

    Though prudes may condemn me. and bigots reprove,

I court the effusions that spring from the heart

    Which throbs with delight at the first kiss of love.

Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes,

    Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move:

Arcadia displays but a region of dreams:

    What are visions like these to the first kiss of love?

Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth,

    From Adam til now, has with wretchedness strove:

Some portion of Paradise still is on earth,

    And Eden revives in the first kiss of love.

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past, –

    For years fleet away with the wings of the dove, –

The dearest remembrance will still be the last,

    Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.

When thou the rosy neck of Telephus,

The waxen arms of Telephus, art praising

Woe is me, Lydia, how my jealous heart

Swells with the anguish I would vainly smother!

Then in my mind though has no settled base,

To and fro shifts upon my cheek the color,

And tears that glide adown in stealth reveal

By what slow fires mine inmost self consumeth.

I burn, whether he quarrel o’er his wine,

Stain with a bruise dishonoring thy white shoulders,

Or whether my boy-rival on thy lips

Leave by a scar the mark of his rude kisses.

Hope not, if thou wouldst hearken unto me,

That one so little kind prove always constant;

Barbarous indeed, to wound sweet lips imbued

By Venus with a fifth part of her nectar.*

Thrice happy, ay, more than thrice happy, they

Whom one soft bond unbroken binds together;

Whose love serene from bickering and reproach

In life’s last moment find the first that severs.

*The ancients supposed that honey contained a tenth part of nectar, and therefore the lips of Lydia were imbued with double the nectar bestowed on honey.

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady I swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
–the best gesture of my brain is less than
Your eyelids’ flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis