My Wishes For NV....

....the week before her wedding.

As fiercely as I cling on to my old friends, I’ve come to learn that it’s possible to love the new ones just as much, and want the very best for them always: whether or not you know all their history, their journey, their mistakes and their triumphs.

I can’t lay much of a claim to knowing what true romantic love is all about, and descriptions and best wishes and sweeping hand gestures (that ALWAYS knock over a few wine glasses) don’t seem to do the emotion justice. And marriage – well, never had a clue, doubt I ever will, so how can I know what wishes I’m bestowing on this friend of mine? However, Pablo Neruda’s Sonnet XVII has always seemed to be the best way to put a voice to my ineloquence. From the moment I first read it, I thought “That’s what I want someday,” even if the thoughts were half-formed and shooed away as wistful and longing. But, for the people who have found that love….

So, for you, NV:

“I do not love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
Or arrow of carnations that propagate fire;
I love you as certain dark things are loved:
Secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom and carries
Hidden within itself the light from those flowers;
And, thanks to your love, darkly
In my body lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where;
I love you simply: without problems or pride.
I love you in this way because I know no other way of loving

But this: in which there is no I or you.
So close that your hand upon my chest is my hand;
So close, that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.”

I hope your love, your wedding, your marriage, and the life after is all of this, and so much more. All the very very best to you and AM :)

Apparently I Was One Of Those Angsty Teenagers

My God, I could not be a BIGGER cliche. How disappointing. Looking through my old stories (Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger fanfiction, how I miss thee), I came across a poem I had written at the ripe old age of 19. It positively drips with love scorned and world-weariness. Sheesh. How pretentious we are at that age, how we think we know EVERYTHING and have been through EVERYTHING and NO!ONE!UNDERSTANDS! I'm quite embarrassed by it, actually!

Of course, chances are I'm going to stumble across this blog post in 10 years' time and think the same thing :)

For anyone who cares, here's the melodramatic goodness:

Waiting and hoping,

Watching and praying;

Replaying the words

Of the rubbish you were saying

To make me forgive you,

To make the lies true;

To make me forget

My trust in you.

Mumbling and cursing,

Smiling and rehearsing

My most genuine fake smile

To keep your lips from pursing

At how childish I'm being;

How naive I am for not seeing

Through the half-truths you told me

To keep me from leaving

When I could have walked without getting hurt;

When I could have left without feeling like dirt:

Walked all over by you

Like I'm not even worth

A proper kiss,

Or a promise you'll miss

All that we had

All eternity, then this:

Nothing.

Just Because I Need To Complain....

...doesn't mean I can't do it in rhyme :)

I'd give all the money I have to just take a nap;
I think I'm coming down with the flu, I feel like crap.
There's rivers of snot pouring out of my nose,
And I feel sick from my head right down to my toes.


Phlegm has clogged up my throat and deepened my voice,
And every cough makes a tremendous thunderous noise.
My trumpet-like sneezes evoke no sympathy, no pity:
They’re so loud they make elephants seem dainty and pretty.


But worst of all is the look on my face:
Part stoner, part loner, part alien from space.
I’m blotchy and red and look like I’m holding in my pee,
Oh this cold really will be the death of poor little me.

The results of boredom at work

Oh the pain, oh the woe!
Oh the sprain in my little big toe!
Oh that I must wear such heels!
Oh that style matters more than how it feels!

But truth be told it is my choice:
For sensible shoes are not so nice;
So my shoes are pretty and dainty and jewel laden -
And stab me more than an iron maiden!

Oh that I choose to eschew
Ugly, but comfortable, flat-heeled shoes;
Ah, that beauteous straps and laces adorn
Shoes that are leaving me bleeding and torn.

So my beautiful and deadly stilettos
Are forcing me to walk on my tippy-toes,
And adding to my strained arch’s woes:
So the price of beauty goes.

Alright, so I'll never be Dr. Seuss, but it helped pass the time...well, the 5 minutes it took me to come up with that.

Now I'm bored again!

I Wish...

... I could write like this...but I think that prodigious talent and honour lies only with Maya Angelou.

One of my favourite poems by her: In And Out Of Time. Enjoy.

The sun has come,
The mist has gone:
We see in the distance...our long way home.
I was always yours to have,
You were always mine...
We have loved each other in and out of time.

When the first stone looked up at the blazing sun
and the first tree struggled up from the forest floor...
I had always loved you more.

You freed your braids...gave your hair to the breeze;
It hummed like a hive of honey bees.
I reached in the mass for the sweet honey comb there....
Mmmm...God how I love your hair.

You saw me bludgeoned by circumstance;
Lost, injured, hurt by chance.
I screamed to the heavens....loudly screamed....
Trying to change our nightmares to dreams...

The sun has come,
The mist has gone:
We see in the distance... our long way home.
I was always yours to have,
You were always mine...
We have loved each other in and out
in and out
in and out
of time.

Sigh. I want.

Okay, so I know a lot of people out there aren't really into poetry in a major way (or at all, really)...but this is a poem I go around stumping to just about everyone. You know how it is...you come across something so beautiful, you just have to share it with people. It's Pablo Neruda's Sonnet XVII: Love.

I do not love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
Or arrow of carnations that propagate fire.
I love you as certain dark things are loved:
Secretly, between the shadow and the soul;
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom
And carries hidden within itself the light of those flowers...
And thanks to your love, darkly in my body
Lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where;
I love you simply, without problems or pride.
I love you in this way because I know no other way of loving

But this, in which there is no I or you:
So close, that your hand upon my chest is my hand;
So close, that when I fall asleep, it is your eyes that close.

God, I love this one. Actually, I love most of his stuff. They're all translations into English, though, since the originals were in Spanish, but it makes you wonder...if the translation can feel like such a kick to the gut, how beautiful must the original be? His "Body of a Woman" is amazing...this one line gets me everytime: "You look like a world, lying in surrender." Gah. Oh, and his "Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines"...wow...just...wow.

It's amazing the power that words can carry...how immensely evocative they are...how, to someone with an imagination (and hoo boy, do I ever have one!), words can convey more than a picture ever could. And I've seen this power mostly in poetry and songs...Not just Neruda, but Frost, and Dylan Thomas, and Byron, and Shakespeare and...Metallica, and 3 Doors Down, and Deathcab for Cutie, and Bif Naked, and....okay, it could go on forever.

But seriously. Do yourself a favour. Read Neruda's "Sonnet XVII" and "Body of a Woman". And Ben Jonson's "Love Poem to Celia". And then listen to Metallica's "Turn the Pages". And Bif Naked's "Lucky". And Bush's "Out of This World". And Staind's "It's Been A While".

Actually, listen to just about anything that makes you smile and sit down and say "Oh." Do that once a day, and I think it'll be a whole lot better for you than any vitamin tonic or calcium tablet or iron pill.

Now if I could just sell that theory to my doctor. Sigh.