There is a storm that rages within you

 

Julie de Waroquier

Threatening to steal the very essence of life away from you.

You go into depression, lose hope and bemoan the life that you are riddled to live.

You lose yourself to mediocrity.

This is the life destiny deemed you to live, you say.

You embrace failure.

You embrace mediocrity.

Just to be part of the crowd.

Just so that the society doesn’t speak ill of you.

So much so that you forget about you.

You.

The beautiful, amazing, charming you.

The passionate, intelligent, effervescent you.

The dreams in you.

The magic in you.

The woman in you.

The one who can move mountains.

The one who can rise beyond problems and fly.

You have been caged too long.

Made to believe that you need to live a mediocre life.

Break through the cage.

Yours is the world and everything that is in it.

Break through.

Face the storm.

Spread your wings.

And fly.

The sky is all yours.

Be you.

Just you.

 

Vishnu Vardhan

Love’s Language

 

Elizabeth Wells

 

How does Love speak?

In the faint flush upon the tell-tale cheek,

And in the pallor that succeeds it; by

The quivering lid of an averted eye—

The smile that proves the parent to a sigh—

Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?

By the uneven heart-throbs, and the freak

Of bounding pulses that stand still and ache,

While new emotions, like strange barques, make

Along vein-channels their disturbing course;

Still as the dawn, and with the dawn’s swift force –

Thus doth Love speak.

 

How does Love speak?

In the avoidance of that which we seek—

The sudden silence and reserve when near—

The eye that glistens with an unshed tear—

The joy that seems the counterpart of fear,

As the alarmed heart leaps in the breast,

And knows, and names, the greets its god-like guest –

Thus doth Love speak.

How doth Love speak?

In the proud spirit suddenly grown meek—

The haughty heart grown humble; in the tender

And unnamed light that floods the world with splendour,

In the resemblance which the fond eyes trace

In all things to one beloved face;

In the shy touch of hands that thrill and tremble;

In looks and lips that can no more dissemble—

Thus doth Love speak.

How doth Love speak?

In the wild words that uttered seem so weak

They shrink ashamed to silence; in the fire

Glance strikes with glance, swift flashing high and higher,

Like lightnings that precede the mighty storm;

In the deep, soulful stillness; in the warm,

Impassioned tide that sweeps through throbbing veins,

Between the shores of keen delights and pains;

In the embrace where madness melts in bliss,

And in convulsive rapture of a kiss—

Thus doth Love speak.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Dark and Getting Darker

  

Elizabeth Sanderson

Everyone needs a genie and a lamp.

Ancient red handprints in a hard-to-get-to cave.

A wireless charger for their liver

after years of heedless drinking.

Also, not to dematerialize before seeing Venice,

which itself may soon dematerialize

beneath the Adriatic. Upstairs, my brother

bangs the supper dishes. My wish

is to be too drunk to think

about the sermon at the funeral mass,

the priest mumbling no one knew what,

or the coffin fed into the back of the hearse

and driven off with another brother’s body

while his widow went to pieces on the curb.

According to the internet, there are three things

a genie can’t do: no granting the wish for more wishes.

No bringing back the dead. For that,

you’ve got religion. Also, no making someone fall

in love with you. Luckily there are potions,

even if they’re bad for your digestion. I wish

my friend had never been diagnosed with Parkinson’s.

That we still lived together in that house

among the trees. I’d like to go there now

on a magically self-cleaning carpet

for when my dying cat throws up again,

and grieve.

Kim Addonizio

in, Exit Opera 

poema sem título

 

Ruy Belo

27/2/1933 - 8/8/1978

Um dia alguém numa grande cidade longí­nqua dirá que morri

di-lo-á decerto com pena mas sem o alívio que eu próprio decerto senti

primeiro ao solucionar de vez esse problema de respiração que a vida é

desde a convulsão da criança que a meio do copo deixou ir leite para a traqueia

até a instantânea atrapalhação do mergulhador a quem de súbito falta o ar comprimido

só dispõe da reserva e lhe faltava tanto que ver no fundo sonhador do mar

depois senti alívio porque às vezes a meio por exemplo da aragem na face

eu pensava na morte como problema metafísico a resolver pelo menos com higiene

se não com dignidade com acerto como mais um problema à medida do homem

Eu estava do lado dos vivos estou do lado dos mortos

o grande problema era saber se me doía ou se não me doía

agora nem sei se me doeu ou não ou fui um mero espetáculo de mau gosto

para a única pessoa encarregada de me ajudar nesse momento

Ninguém a princípio terá sabido que eu morrera só minha

mulher avisada de longe virá e me porá a mão sobre a testa

os demais não não disponho do olhar para me defender

o tempo depressa se passa são trâmites legais até me terem deixado

debaixo do chão bem debaixo do chão sem frases lidas

ou gravadas sem sentimento nenhum

Uns dias depois um pequeno grupo junto a uma grande janela

olhará a neblina da manhã de janeiro

e terá mãos que eu tive para os meus problemas de vivos

Onde eu estive sobre uma mesa com uma perna cruzada

suaves começarão a suceder-se e acumular-se os dias

como cartas revistas linguísticas ou livros adormecidos

despertos apenas no momento fugaz da leitura

A vida será indistinta virá até nós como árvores

rodará em volta como um lençol até cobrir-nos os ombros

Falareis de mim não posso impedir que faleis de mim

mas já nada disso me pesa como o simples facto de ter de ser vosso amigo

Estou só e só para sempre e só desde sempre

mas antes por direito de opção. Agora não

Deixaram-me aqui doutor em tantas e tão grandes tristezas portuguesas

e durmo o sono das coisas convivo com minerais preparo a minha juventude definitiva

Era como eu esperava mas não posso dizer-vos nada

pois tendes ainda o problema e a cara da pessoa viva

Ruy Belo

Love at First Sight

 

 Pixabay

They’re both convinced

that a sudden passion joined them.

Such certainty is beautiful,

but uncertainty is more beautiful still.

Since they’d never met before, they’re sure

that there’d been nothing between them.

But what’s the word from the streets, staircases, hallways—

perhaps they’ve passed by each other a million times?

I want to ask them

if they don’t remember—

a moment face to face

in some revolving door?

perhaps a “sorry” muttered in a crowd?

a curt “wrong number” caught in the receiver?—

but I know the answer.

No, they don’t remember.

They’d be amazed to hear

that Chance has been toying with them

now for years.

Not quite ready yet

to become their Destiny,

it pushed them close, drove them apart,

it barred their path,

stifling a laugh,

and then leaped aside.

There were signs and signals,

even if they couldn’t read them yet.

Perhaps three years ago

or just last Tuesday

a certain leaf fluttered

from one shoulder to another?

Something was dropped and then picked up.

Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished

into childhood’s thicket?

There were doorknobs and doorbells

where one touch had covered another

beforehand.

Suitcases checked and standing side by side.

One night, perhaps, the same dream,

grown hazy by morning.

Every beginning

is only a sequel, after all,

and the book of events

is always open halfway through.

Wislawa Szymborska

in, MAP: Collected and Last Poems