The Princess Chronicles: VIII + +

[PrinceMyshkin]

Princess Chronicle I http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=27138
Princess Chronicle II http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=27189
Princess Chronicle III http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=27224
Princess Chronicle IV http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=27259
Princess Chronicle V http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=27299
Princess Chronicle VI http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=27338
Princess Chronicle VII http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=27410




Voi che sapete / che cosa è amour

The sea is our planet!
Our language is song!
Kum-ba-ya along with me,
let’s raise our voices
in a joyous Jesu, Joy of man’s desiring, or
We shall Overcome.

The world and men are as bad
as they have ever been
and getting worse
and as good as they have ever been
and getting better, and
we shall overcome.

The odds against us, darling,
do not grow less long, but
we shall overcome.

Impatience, insecurity, doubt
will attack us again
and again, from time to time,
but we shall overcome.

My longing for you is sometimes
so bad that I wonder...
What have we started here?
Did I have any idea
to begin with, that it would be
so lousy
and so beautiful, but

We shall Overcome.
We shall Overcome.
Oh, deep in my heart,
I do believe
We shall Overcome
Some day...

Dalla sua pace la mia dipende

[Niamh]

I've created links to all of the other seven Chronicles. If you could possibly post all comments here in this thread, and refere to which poem you are commenting on, it would be great! IE "P.C.I.... P.C.II etc
cheers!
Niamh
Other threads are now closed for posting with permission. Please post all comments here

[Sweets America]

This is one of my favorite ones, Lover! This is full of hope, and I believe that hope is the best thing to nourish our mind with when we face an uncertain future.


I will go on howling the song
For it bears the weight of our love
The weight of my soul
That has grown heavier

Because of your love
Because of my fears

― Because of your love ―
I wake up singing
Already
With my eyes still closed
And the sound of your voice
Reaches my ears
As you call my name

― Because of my fears ―
I look around,
Anxious
Barking out loud:
‘Where are you, Jerry?!’
‘Have I been abandoned?!’

But,
Like the dog that I am
I will wait for you
Patiently...
And when you’re back,
I’ll jump in your arms
And bark my relief in your ears

I know you’ll be back
Someday
I know you’ll sit next to me,
Invite me on your lap
And caress me gently
With the love
You are always ready to give

Then only,
I will rest my snout
On your reassuring hand
And fall asleep
Escaping in the dreams
Where you and I
Are never apart.

[PrinceMyshkin]

This is one of my favorite ones, Lover! This is full of hope, and I believe that hope is the best thing to nourish our mind with when we face an uncertain future.


I will go on howling the song
For it bears the weight of our love
The weight of my soul
That has grown heavier

Because of your love
Because of my fears

― Because of your love ―
I wake up singing
Already
With my eyes still closed
And the sound of your voice
Reaches my ears
As you call my name

― Because of my fears ―
I look around,
Anxious
Barking out loud:
‘Where are you, Jerry?!’
‘Have I been abandoned?!’

But,
Like the dog that I am
I will wait for you
Patiently...
And when you’re back,
I’ll jump in your arms
And bark my relief in your ears

I know you’ll be back
Someday
I know you’ll sit next to me,
Invite me on your lap
And caress me gently
With the love
You are always ready to give

Then only,
I will rest my snout
On your reassuring hand
And fall asleep
Escaping in the dreams
Where you and I
Are never apart.


Your poem sings to me,
to every part of me,
as does your voice,
your brave attempt
to make jokes!
(I see that humour
is a very young art
in France!) Your being,
our thing - which I no longer
strive to define
- is a mystery to me,
as is the preciousness
of consciousness itself!

[Sweets America]

My sick humor, Sweet Prince
Will always strike again!
Now I think
Your best humor
Is in your attempts
To speak French!
Do you realize
How funny it sounds
To your Sophie’s ears?

:D :p :D

[PrinceMyshkin]

My sick humor, Sweet Prince
Will always strike again!
Now I think
Your best humor
Is in your attempts
To speak French!
Do you realize
How funny it sounds
To your Sophie’s ears?

:D :p :D

That is how you repay me for my tenderness, my humble efforts to assure you that you are loved, cherished, admired? Well, who was it who should have said: "Insults are the efforts of a timid heart to speak of love!"

[Sweets America]

Eheh, yes. You do know that every word I say to you means 'I love you', right?
:p
I feel all your tenderness in your French sentences, even when you call me 'salle type'.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Eheh, yes. You do know that every word I say to you means 'I love you', right?

Actually, no. I suspect that some of them mean I have a craving for some chocolate cake
:p

I feel all your tenderness in your French sentences, even when you call me 'salle type'.

And salope?

[Sweets America]

I think the 'chocolate cake' can be a metaphor? Anyway...:p

Oh, I don't mind about salope, as long as you can be my old bastard.:D

[PrinceMyshkin]

What’s the story, Frenchie?
A little while ago you and I
found - or invented - each other
and I’ve sort of been holding my breath
ever since. But yesterday,
in Riviere des Prairies, not very far
from here, Francesca, 14,
living in a group home, was found
murdered in a park.
Some will call her murderer
“sick,” some will call him or her
evil.

I am thinking
there are filthy, murderous swine
around and among us
and none of us knows
where or on whom
one of them might land next.

And this, my love, my
tender angel, is the land
in which you and I attempt
only to love...

[Sweets America]

The story is the one of manhood
With its striking varieties.
In each one of us,
Dark impulses
Are laying next to purity;
Holding hands.
Our schizophrenic souls are never white or black.
Rainbows of colors are illuminating them
And making them go from the lightest to the darkest shades,
Which evolve in time.
Inside of your Princess...
Have cohabited the lover and the murderer.

Now my love,
You and I, with the pastel colors we draw our lives with,
Are making up for the blackness of the void in which
Some souls have lost themselves.

While the sick and the evil
Use their hands to remove life
We use ours to create it, to make art of it.
Touch my body, my Prince
As though it were a piece of pottery
Which you would bring alive
With your agile fingers...
And as it takes shape,
Let me hand to you
Some of its youth
Let me mold you
Till you become
The best of yourself
Let me turn you
Into the New Man
I allow you to be.
A Man who had been asleep in the core of your being.

See the whole of us
Don’t be afraid of
The dark sides...
And, if they ever take over for a while,
Be patient ―
For the tide of our love
Will wash them away
And make them lighter
Just as the sun brightens
The dark land
Every morning.

[PrinceMyshkin]

May I make love to this poem? Please?
May I take it slowly into my arms?
May I drink of it
as if it were the first cool water
after a long, lost sojourn in the Negev?

That's hyperbole, of course,
because often when I have thirsted
I found water here or there
and God knows you have been
like the greenest oasis
with the deepest pool
of fresh, abundant water!
You have been water
and meat, foie gras,
succulent greens,
the chocolate cake you love so much
and the deep, dark espresso
I love...

You have been manna
and abundance
and every time I protest
that I am full,
yuo tell me Wait! Wait!
There's more...

Just as the sun brightens
The dark land
Every morning.

[PrinceMyshkin]

The ‘stars’ are so hard-set
against us, not even God,
I fear, the arch astro-physicist,
could budge them
from their bitter course.
The year I was born your parents,
perhaps, had not yet been conceived!

They might have grown up
one degree away from what they did,
might have met and married others
and never have had you.
And I would know nothing of that,
would know only in the vaguest sense
that something was missing.

I might have tried to imagine a “Sophie,” but
would have called her “Miracle,”
“Unattainable Dream” or
“My born-gain Heart...”

But the stars are against us,
and there is no joy like the sadness
I feel in loving you,
no sadness like the joy
of loving you...

[Sweets America]

May I make love to this poem? Please?
May I take it slowly into my arms?
May I drink of it
as if it were the first cool water
after a long, lost sojourn in the Negev?

That's hyperbole, of course,
because often when I have thirsted
I found water here or there
and God knows you have been
like the greenest oasis
with the deepest pool
of fresh, abundant water!
You have been water
and meat, foie gras,
succulent greens,
the chocolate cake you love so much
and the deep, dark espresso
I love...

You have been manna
and abundance
and every time I protest
that I am full,
yuo tell me Wait! Wait!
There's more...

Just as the sun brightens
The dark land
Every morning.


Make love to this poem, Jerry,
― Please ―
Make love to each of its words
Kiss them, lick them, caress them...

Make them yours!

Entirely yours
From their first to their last letter.
Take each one of those letters
And form new words with them.
Shape them into our names,
Celebrate their sounds as you whisper
The delicate syllables of elation;
Drink them, let them run on your tongue,
Taste all of their subtle meanings and revelations.

And,
After you’ve made love to my poetry,
Let me ask you eagerly to Wait! Wait!
Because there will be more to savour
When your Cookie helps you with a part
Of her chocolate cake.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Make love to this poem, Jerry,
― Please ―
Make love to each of its words
Kiss them, lick them, caress them...

Make them yours!

Entirely yours
From their first to their last letter.
Take each one of those letters
And form new words with them.
Shape them into our names,
Celebrate their sounds as you whisper
The delicate syllables of elation;
Drink them, let them run on your tongue,
Taste all of their subtle meanings and revelations.

And,
After you’ve made love to my poetry,
Let me ask you eagerly to Wait! Wait!
Because there will be more to savour
When your Cookie helps you with a part
Of her chocolate cake.



We call it "love," but
it might be nothing more
than heightened friendship

just as the sun
might be nothing
but an over-ambitious candle.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I love you more than
is an old and honourable game
that lovers play
especially in the early, incendiary days
of their love as they search for
adequate expressions of what they feel..
My grandson did it as well as anyone
when he told his father
“I love you more than
I love you!”

So let me try it some other way:
I love you less than I would love
to see the end of war.

I love you less than I would love
to see the abolition of global hunger.

I love you less than I would love it
if the Holocaust could be reversed
or even if one of the martyred dead
could be brought back to life.

I love you less than I would love
never to grow a day older than I am now
that I might love you even longer.

[PrinceMyshkin]

This so-called love-affair of ours,
what good is it anyway?
Until I touch the least of my fingers
to the back of your hand, your forearm
or cheek, how “real” is it?

Is it anything but a dream
we dream together in separate beds
on separate continents?

One day you will look into
my old, old face, my hopeful
but tired-looking eyes, and your libido
will take off, at full speed,
for some other place...

[PrinceMyshkin]

May I have this dance?
I extend my hand to you,
open, palm up
and watch as you bring your own hand
--small, warm and sincere,
--and set it down in mine
as if in a nest
where it will be, always, safe.

Listen to the music,
dreamy and yet urgent:
something by Cole Porter, perhaps:
"Begin the Beguine"
or "I’ve Got You Under My Skin"
Yes, I’ve got you under my skin
I've got you deep in the heart of me,
So deep in my heart,
You're really a part of me,
I've got you under my skin.

The music ceases to be outside of us,
becomes you, becomes me,
becomes us...But that’s how we
began, tossing a few notes
back and forth across the cyber-sea,
notes in search of a melody. I
Was Porter, you were Cole, or
I was Ira, you were George.

(For all the honest-to-God
hanky-panky that might go on
between us, heck, we
might as well have been brothers!)

Of course you have your own music
by singers and groups that even my chldren
might not be familiar with! And I,
I turned off the radio maybe 30 years ago
and even then, I’d have been too old for you!

May I have this dance?
And the next?

And the next?

[Sweets America]

This so-called love-affair of ours,
what good is it anyway?
Until I touch the least of my fingers
to the back of your hand, your forearm
or cheek, how “real” is it?

Is it anything but a dream
we dream together in separate beds
on separate continents?

One day you will look into
my old, old face, my hopeful
but tired-looking eyes, and your libido
will take off, at full speed,
for some other place...


This so-called love affair of ours
Is good in that it allows two beings
To reach one another in the deepest ways
Without even a touch.

Reality...what is reality?
The love that is born on my mind
And that I nourish my laptop with
Reaches your heart
And makes you elated.
Feelings are reality.

Now if you could touch my cheek...
But
If we lost the spiritual connection in the meantime
Would our love be more real?

Are material sensations more real
Than spiritual ones?
Are the things we can’t touch
Less real than the others?
Is the wind less real
Than my chocolate cake?

Our love, just like the wind,
Blows around us,
Makes us shiver, at times,
Feels bitter on our skins,
Makes our eyes cry,
But also refreshes us
When life around is suffocating...

Breathe my words
As a fresh French morning air
Feel its wind blow on your face
And smell my perfume that comes along with it...

This, is reality.
Our reality.

[PrinceMyshkin]

This so-called love affair of ours
sort of crept up on us, didn’t it?
It was supposed to be nothing
but a loving friendship
and it is that...

But... (I struggle with these
knuckle-headed words
which never quite say
all I want to say to you!)

But things sort of got
out of hand, didn’t they?
Reality sort of turned around on us.
But then, as Lily Tomlin
sagely said: “Reality
is just a collective hunch!”

[Sweets America]

May I have this dance?
I extend my hand to you,
open, palm up
and watch as you bring your own hand
--small, warm and sincere,
--and set it down in mine
as if in a nest
where it will be, always, safe.

Listen to the music,
dreamy and yet urgent:
something by Cole Porter, perhaps:
"Begin the Beguine"
or "I’ve Got You Under My Skin"
Yes, I’ve got you under my skin
I've got you deep in the heart of me,
So deep in my heart,
You're really a part of me,
I've got you under my skin.

The music ceases to be outside of us,
becomes you, becomes me,
becomes us...But that’s how we
began, tossing a few notes
back and forth across the cyber-sea,
notes in search of a melody. I
Was Porter, you were Cole, or
I was Ira, you were George.

(For all the honest-to-God
hanky-panky that might go on
between us, heck, we
might as well have been brothers!)

Of course you have your own music
by singers and groups that even my chldren
might not be familiar with! And I,
I turned off the radio maybe 30 years ago
and even then, I’d have been too old for you!

May I have this dance?
And the next?

And the next?




Let’s share this dance
And as our bodies are whirling
Our thoughts will get blurred
And only fleshy sensations will remain

Your hand holding my waist firmly
As if you refused that we ever stopped dancing
My heart beating against yours,
Drumming
My eyes glancing at your smile,
Your eyes looking at my untidy hair,
My hair floating and dancing too
Following your steps,
Urgently.

I do not think.
I cannot think.
I have no time to think.
I am rushing to follow you.

Our minds have stayed behind
Staring at us on the dance floor
Staring at our bodies
Which just enjoy the dizziness
Without thinking.

Your mind tells mine with a sigh:
‘How soothing it must be
To just let go off things
And let oneself be free from worries...’
My mind replies:
‘Worries are there to show us that we are experiencing
Something extraordinary;
Because worries come from fears that we could lose what we value’
Then, with a smile, your mind sips at its cocktail
Takes the hand of mine
And they join the dance floor.
We watch them dance, with this sensuality they have
And I look at your face,
At your lips,
Which you join to mine
In a delicious kiss.
Tongues are dancing, too.

As the song comes to an end,
Our minds get closer to our bodies
And ask timidly:
‘May we share the next dance?’

[PrinceMyshkin]

Let’s share this dance
And as our bodies are whirling
Our thoughts will get blurred
And only fleshy sensations will remain

Your hand holding my waist firmly
As if you refused that we ever stopped dancing
My heart beating against yours,
Drumming
My eyes glancing at your smile,
Your eyes looking at my untidy hair,
My hair floating and dancing too
Following your steps,
Urgently.

I do not think.
I cannot think.
I have no time to think.
I am rushing to follow you.

Our minds have stayed behind
Staring at us on the dance floor
Staring at our bodies
Which just enjoy the dizziness
Without thinking.

Your mind tells mine with a sigh:
‘How soothing it must be
To just let go off things
And let oneself be free from worries...’
My mind replies:
‘Worries are there to show us that we are experiencing
Something extraordinary;
Because worries come from fears that we could lose what we value’
Then, with a smile, your mind sips at its cocktail
Takes the hand of mine
And they join the dance floor.
We watch them dance, with this sensuality they have
And I look at your face,
At your lips,
Which you join to mine
In a delicious kiss.
Tongues are dancing, too.

As the song comes to an end,
Our minds get closer to our bodies
And ask timidly:
‘May we share the next dance?’



The next dance, lover,
will always, I think, be the one
that began with the dance before,

[PrinceMyshkin]

Happiness is not for the faint of heart.
I have seen strong men buckle
under the unmitigated weight of it
and Olympic athletes
have hung up their cleats, put away
their shot-putts and cabers
and asked for a mug
of milky hot chocolate.

Happiness is not for those
who have looked too directly
at the horrors of this world
and who have traded their smiles
for bitter, anxious frowns.

Happiness is not for those
engaged in increasing their share
of the wealth of the world.
They will end up with much
of nothing much worth having.

But happiness, for me,
is in your name
and in the privilege of saying it
to you,
Sophie...

[Sweets America]

Happiness is not for the faint of heart.
I have seen strong men buckle
under the unmitigated weight of it
and Olympic athletes
have hung up their cleats, put away
their shot-putts and cabers
and asked for a mug
of milky hot chocolate.

Happiness is not for those
who have looked too directly
at the horrors of this world
and who have traded their smiles
for bitter, anxious frowns.

Happiness is not for those
engaged in increasing their share
of the wealth of the world.
They will end up with much
of nothing much worth having.

But happiness, for me,
is in your name
and in the privilege of saying it
to you,
Sophie...



Happiness is in this smile of yours
That I perceive only by hearing your voice
Which fills up and purifies the air in my room.

Happiness lies in the knowledge
That I will always find safety in your arms.

Happiness is my heart growing wider
When I think of all the ‘I love you’ that are to come my way
And that I will send back to you,
After I have sprayed some of my perfume on them.

Happiness is looking at myself through the wisdom in your eyes
And seeing a reflection of all I ever dreamt to see.

Happiness is what I feel
When I hear that saying my name
Provides you with
As much joy
As my heart can bear when I say Jerry.

[PrinceMyshkin]

It is a born-again love
that I feel for you, my child,
my bride, an ever-
being-born again love.

Each night I crawl back
into the cocoon of sleep
and every morning
the crysalis re-emerges
winging its way eagerly
to France, to you!

[Sweets America]

There is a place
In Canada
Where the child in me
Baby-Sophie, as you call her
Has been born again.

This child that you hold
Tenderly,
And that you watch as she sleeps,
Dreaming with her.

She is away, in her dreamland,
But!
She surely feels your gentleness
As you pull the duvet
Up to her chin
Keeping her safe
From any nightmare.

There is a place,
In Canada,
Where the child in me
Has found a home.

[PrinceMyshkin]

There is a place
In Canada
Where the child in me
Baby-Sophie, as you call her
Has been born again.

This child that you hold
Tenderly,
And that you watch as she sleeps,
Dreaming with her.

She is away, in her dreamland,
But!
She surely feels your gentleness
As you pull the duvet
Up to her chin
Keeping her safe
From any nightmare.

There is a place,
In Canada,
Where the child in me
Has found a home.


But will you be at home
in that home? Here in my heart,
forever, but in the world
that is so painfully actual,
where seventy two and twenty-two
might as well belong
in separate mathematical systems,
there will be no home for us together!

In not very many years
I will go to a home for the elderly
and you to one that is filled
with those who are as brilliantly young
as you are. My love,
the question is not
whether you will suffer for this love
(because you will) but how
you will bear that suffering and whether
our love, or any love, is worth all that?

To me it is not. I will bear
the suffering of being without you
because of the immeasurable happiness
I have and will continue to have
for a while, but I will not tolerate
the thought of your suffering, I cannot tolerate
the thought of growing infirm
while you become my nursemaid.

No. We will be together
for a while longer
as lovers, and then
forever as the loving friends we are...

[PrinceMyshkin]

I walk the streets,
where there are lovers,
would-be lovers, adulterers
and sundry folk.

I walk the streets,
where there are Khassidim
in long back coats
and pale, 18th century faces
and single parents
holding the hands of their
precious little ones.

I walk the streets,
where some move at a swift,
brisk pace and others
dawdle in the summer sunlight.

I walk the streets,
but you are nowhere to be seen.
I walk the streets.
I walk the streets.

[Sweets America]

You walk the streets
Searching for me...
You fool yourself
For you know I am not there.

Where is Sophie?
You ask.
You won’t find the answer till
You look towards the right direction.

Pale faces on the streets
My even paler face on your mind,
Pale, but looking somewhat healthier than the others.

On your mind...

You search for the answer ―

Where is Sophie?

You walk the streets,
You glance around,
You find dark hair, glasses, pretty smiles, slender figures
But they are only pale imitations.

Disappointed,
You walk the streets,
You glance around...

Where is Sophie?

I am confident that
You will find the answer.
The clue is
To look within
Instead of without.

Sophie is not in those streets
But she is still here,
Closer to you than you might think.
Sophie is every thought you have,
Every breath you inhale,
Every tear that resists to come out.
Sophie is not to be seen
Unless you look inside.

[PrinceMyshkin]

[B]You walk the streets
Searching for me...
You fool yourself
For you know I am not there.

There is another "knowing,"
as certain as elementary math.
We call it "fantasy"
but it is more powerful
than 2+2=4...


Where is Sophie?
You ask.
You won’t find the answer till
You look towards the right direction.

But I do!
I look for you
in every direction.


Pale faces on the streets
My even paler face on your mind,
Pale, but looking somewhat healthier than the others.

On your mind...

You search for the answer ―

Where is Sophie?

She is here
in my imaginary hand
laid so softly on her cheek.


You walk the streets,
You glance around,
You find dark hair, glasses, pretty smiles, slender figures
But they are only pale imitations.

Disappointed,
You walk the streets,
You glance around...

Where is Sophie?

Count the times
I've asked myself that question...


I am confident that
You will find the answer.
The clue is
To look within
Instead of without.

Sophie is not in those streets
But she is still here,
Closer to you than you might think.
Sophie is every thought you have,
Every breath you inhale,
Every tear that resists to come out.
Sophie is not to be seen
Unless you look inside.

I will! I do!

[PrinceMyshkin]

Je veux t’exprimer mon amour
dans une autre langue!
En éffet, dans tous les langues de monde,
les vivantes ét même celui qui sont mortes
depuis longue temps! Ét je peux le faire
par-ce-que dans n’importe quelle langue,
le seul mot que j’ai besoin
c’est toi, toi, toi ét toi!

[Sweets America]

But will you be at home
in that home? Here in my heart,
forever, but in the world
that is so painfully actual,
where seventy two and twenty-two
might as well belong
in separate mathematical systems,
there will be no home for us together!

In not very many years
I will go to a home for the elderly
and you to one that is filled
with those who are as brilliantly young
as you are. My love,
the question is not
whether you will suffer for this love
(because you will) but how
you will bear that suffering and whether
our love, or any love, is worth all that?

To me it is not. I will bear
the suffering of being without you
because of the immeasurable happiness
I have and will continue to have
for a while, but I will not tolerate
the thought of your suffering, I cannot tolerate
the thought of growing infirm
while you become my nursemaid.

No. We will be together
for a while longer
as lovers, and then
forever as the loving friends we are...



As long as we feel at home in each other’s hearts,
Do we need to feel at home in the cold external world?
Do we really wish to feel at home in a world
Which makes us feel judged and rejected?

Who said that 72 couldn’t be found in the 22 year old?
Since you talk about mathematical systems,
Let’s calculate something...

Let’s take my name, one of the deep symbols of our love...
Let’s take each letter of it, as corresponding to a certain rank in the alphabet.

S is the 19th letter,
O is the 15th
P is the 16th
H is the 8th
I is the 9th
E is the 5th

Now, when all those sweet numbers make love together, we obtain:
19+15+16+8+9+5=72.

Conclusion: You, Jerry Newman, have a home in my name.

[PrinceMyshkin]

As long as we feel at home in each other’s hearts,
Do we need to feel at home in the cold external world?
Do we really wish to feel at home in a world
Which makes us feel judged and rejected?

Who said that 72 couldn’t be found in the 22 year old?
Since you talk about mathematical systems,
Let’s calculate something...

Let’s take my name, one of the deep symbols of our love...
Let’s take each letter of it, as corresponding to a certain rank in the alphabet.

S is the 19th letter,
O is the 15th
P is the 16th
H is the 8th
I is the 9th
E is the 5th

Now, when all those sweet numbers make love together, we obtain:
19+15+16+8+9+5=72.

Conclusion: You, Jerry Newman, have a home in my name.


And there is another way to think of your name:

Such happiness you bring me that I am sometimes
Overwhelmed. My
Pleasure in your love grows daily, sometimes
Hourly! You bring me both
Intensity and calm
Every contact I have with you...

[Sweets America]

You know you read my mind once again? I was thinking of writing such a poem.

Joy and
Elation
Run through my heart, painting it with the passionate
Red of my love for
You.

[PrinceMyshkin]

You know you read my mind once again? I was thinking of writing such a poem.

Joy and
Elation
Run through my heart, painting it with the passionate
Red of my love for
You.

My Princess! My buddy! My joy! My baby! My favourite comedian! My mystery! My light! My
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Sophie!

[quasimodo1]

To PrinceMyshkin: This isn't a poem, it's poetic metamorphasis so I will wait until the butterfly escapes it's shell and spreads wings before commenting. quasimodo1

[PrinceMyshkin]

To PrinceMyshkin: This isn't a poem, it's poetic metamorphasis so I will wait until the butterfly escapes it's shell and spreads wings before commenting. quasimodo1

Okay, wait - but please do not, on my account, hold your breath while doing so.


Note my love, a certain lepidopterist
visited our garden, sniffed at some of the flowers here
and found at least one of them wanting!
But while we show our blossoms proudly
to this beloved community
we grow them, essentially,
for ourselves alone!

[quasimodo1]

To PrinceMyshkin: I think you have it; stop there. It's great and doubt you can improve it. That's not to say you couldn't lengthen it but you have your own liscence, poetic wise. quasi

[PrinceMyshkin]

To PrinceMyshkin: I think you have it; stop there. It's great and doubt you can improve it. That's not to say you couldn't lengthen it but you have your own liscence, poetic wise. quasi

Yeh, I was thinking of making it somewhat longer and even had the lines in readiness, something like


Who, if I cried out, would hear me
among the heirarchy of angels?
Every other angel is hideous...

but it lacked a certain je ne sais pas quoi...

[PrinceMyshkin]

s X e = H

where “s” is the sum of the
units of happiness (or Sophies)
you were born with,

“e” is your encounter
with someone singularly
composed to love you

and “H” is the totality
of happiness you experience now.

[Pendragon]

We call it "love," but
it might be nothing more
than heightened friendship

just as the sun
might be nothing
but an over-ambitious candle.





and there was once a man so wise
he said with earnest tones
"faint heart n'er won fair lady."

another sage whose wisdom lay elsewhere replied:
"it is better to light a single candle,
than to sit and curse the darkness..."

perhaps they both were right,
the dreidel spins
none know which side it will land upon...

Pendragon
9/2/07[/QUOTE]

[PrinceMyshkin]

and there was once a man so wise
he said with earnest tones
"faint heart n'er won fair lady."

another sage whose wisdom lay elsewhere replied:
"it is better to light a single candle,
than to sit and curse the darkness..."

perhaps they both were right,
the dreidel spins
none know which side it will land upon...

Pendragon
9/2/07[/QUOTE]

Many thanks, Godfather. Continuing with your theme & with aplogies to to Wm Blake:


Candle! Candle! burning bright
In the cold and loveless night
That seems at times to surround us.
Love is all we have to ground us.

In what distant deeps or skies
Burns the flame of your surprise?
On what wings may we aspire
To fly high and higher?

What candlemaker’s art
Could fashion flames that dart
And flash as if in manic dance
That renders certainty from chance?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And cast us into love’s arrears
Did they see me all alone?
And send you here to be my own?

Candle! Candle! burning bright
In the cold and loveless night
That seems at times to surround us.
Love is all we have to ground us.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Somewhere
between July and September
we fell in love! It must have been
an extra-long month
or an extra-blessed one!

It might have taken a lifetime
for me to find a love like yours
--and it did!
I’ve loved before
and deeply, and
I’ve been loved before

but, Sophie! I’m still shaking
my grey-haired head
at what this is all about
and yet it seems quite simple:

Sophie in Francois,
Jerry in Montreal
and August, 2007...

[Sweets America]

August, 2007...
Rain was dropping on my country
While your words were dropping in my heart.
Has the sun disappeared?
Were asking the French, desperate...
A little embarrassed, I was
For I knew I was hiding the burning star,
Selfishingly, underneath my ribs.
While my compatriots were drenched to the skin
With the rain
I was drenched with sweat
For the heat of our sun was making my beating organ glow.
Sweet September has come our way, and other months will follow.
I have the feeling
That the rain
Is going to fall, fall, fall...
On the French.
And as the stubborn child that I am,
I won’t give them back their sun.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Do others, I wonder,
see you as I do
in your every word,
even the commas?

How you could not,
even if you wanted to,
hide your beauty
of mind and soul?

I recognized you,
you know, even from the beginning,
in posts that had nothing
to do with me but have found,

since then, that you are even
more yourself
than I could have dared to hope!

[Sweets America]

When,
In the beginning,
The first words from you reached my screen,
My heart missed a beat,
And I allowed myself to hope.

You do know that hope is a great part of me.
I hoped that, maybe, this PrinceMyshkin man
Could be interested in sharing more with me.

He wrote such beautiful poems,
Had some wise comments
And, as I was timidly arriving,
He took my hand firmly
And with immense tenderness at the same time.
He was a stranger still,
But his touch felt familiar.

A part of myself,
The part that you are helping me to fight
Was telling me that Jerry Newman could not possibly
Find all this beauty in me.

What a surprise!
What a delight!
When I realized he did!

You teach me all that you know
You inspire me to write poems
You love me wholeheartedly
You make me want to open myself and to give you everything I find in me...

You make the baby and the woman in me
Shake hands!

How could I not be myself
When this myself is adored
And celebrated?
When I see this wonderful myself in your eyes and in your smile?

Jerry?
Jerry!
Jerry...
How sweet that this name
Which, before I met you,
Was only the one of a cute little mouse,
Became my happiness!

[PrinceMyshkin]

Hey!!

[PrinceMyshkin]

Wait! Wait! We exclaim at each other
over the intermittent fidelity
of our voice connection with each other.

Wait! Wait! We bid each other silently
as time and the passport office
withhold each other from each other’s
arms. Time is a liar and a cheat!

Time is a murderer as I repeat
to you over and over again
Wait! Wait! I will be there!
I will certainly be there
and there will be here

and here will be everywhere,
but meanwhile, Wait! Wait!
Wait... for me!

[Sweets America]

First, allow me to quote the great poem by Galway Kinnel, entitled ‘Wait’.

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven't they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.
Don't go too early.
You're tired. But everyone's tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair,
Music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear,
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.


Now, in your last poem, I love this:

I will certainly be there
and there will be here

and here will be everywhere,


Beautifully written, lover!

~~~~

While we are waiting
Desire grows
Computer files are nourished
With more words.

While we are waiting
Feelings are experienced:
Patience, longing, despair...
What ifs...

While we are waiting
Each little syllable
From each other’s voice
Is welcomed
Into open arms

Wait!
Record!
Listen!
Read!
Write!
Love!
Be loved!

When my skin
Reaches out to yours,
Minds will be overwhelmed;
Words will caress ears;
Hands will stroke secret places;
Smiles will melt into kisses;
Prolonged, passionate sharing.

No more waiting.
Or
Maybe

Wait!
Rest inside ―
Of me.
Let my hand
Learn every inch
Of your skin
By heart.

Wait!
Till our breath slows down
Till the covers of our eyelids put our pupils to sleep
Till a reassuring darkness envelops us
Till all that you feel
Is my hand in yours,
Here, or there, but always
At home.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Would you believe
my lover berates herself
for not knowing this or that
which, she believes, everyone else
in the entire world knows and so
she must be an inadequate, inferior person!

She who has already explored
the geography and geometry
of her own heart and mind,
the Amazons, the Orinocos, the
cloud-splitting Himalayas,
the black, black-holes,
the super-novas and white dwarf
stars, the entire swirling
never-to-be entirely comprehended
multiverse out-there
and in her beautiful, capacious mind!

Everybody knows something different
from everybody else!
You know yourself and
you know me...

[Pendragon]

Would you believe
my lover berates herself
for not knowing this or that
which, she believes, everyone else
in the entire world knows and so
she must be an inadequate, inferior person!

She who has already explored
the geography and geometry
of her own heart and mind,
the Amazons, the Orinocos, the
cloud-splitting Himalayas,
the black, black-holes,
the super-novas and white dwarf
stars, the entire swirling
never-to-be entirely comprehended
multiverse out-there
and in her beautiful, capacious mind!

Everybody knows something different
from everybody else!
You know yourself and
you know me...


Sounds like a good time to lower the lights and put on Jim Croce:



Time In a Bottle

If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that Id like to do
Is to save every day
Till eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you

If I could make days last forever
If words could make wishes come true
Id save every day like a treasure and then,
Again, I would spend them with you

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
Ive looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with

If I had a box just for wishes
And dreams that had never come true
The box would be empty
Except for the memory
Of how they were answered by you

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
Ive looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with

Jim Croce - 1972

[PrinceMyshkin]

Sounds like a good time to lower the lights and put on Jim Croce:



Time In a Bottle

WHAT! Are you telling me that that so-and-so was writing songs to my sweetheart!!!!

Lovely song, thanks...

[Sweets America]

Sounds like a good time to lower the lights and put on Jim Croce:



Time In a Bottle

If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that Id like to do
Is to save every day
Till eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you

If I could make days last forever
If words could make wishes come true
Id save every day like a treasure and then,
Again, I would spend them with you

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
Ive looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with

If I had a box just for wishes
And dreams that had never come true
The box would be empty
Except for the memory
Of how they were answered by you

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
Ive looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with

Jim Croce - 1972



Thank you, dear guardian of our love, you're always there to put some sweet words in here... you warm up our hearts!

[Sweets America]

I’ve studied the black-holes,
And I know every inch of my own darkness
Some of which you have brightened
With a mere brush of your hand

I know the complexity
Of my mind
Where the virgin princess
Curiously stares at the nasty girl,
Wondering...
While the baby, weeping,
Searches for the woman.

Your hands, again, reach out to my inside
Brush away the wetness
Of the tears,
Hold the baby tight
And rock it, while you are singing:
Hush, little Sophie, don’t say a word,
Jerry’s going to buy you a mockingbird...
And if that mockingbird don’t sing
Jerry’s going to buy you a diamond ring...

Yes...I know You, Jerry,
― Mein man, mein geliebteh ―
And I’ve learnt more about Sophie
Since I’ve been looking at her through your eyes;
I know this ‘us’ that we are creating.
The baby-love we have given birth to.

Look at how it smiles at us, its innocent face
Holding one of those mysteries
That is never to be fathomed out!

[PrinceMyshkin]

Imagine! If you and I were reading these exchanges between two other people here, what would we think of them, of this? That we are two besotted souls who have fallen in love with their own fantasy? An old man flattered by the attentions of a much, much younger woman - or girl, rather? A girl with a father-fixation, flattered by an older men, a former professor, published author with a facility for words and all the time in the world to court her and fill her otherwise somewhat lonely hours?

You know my pessimism! As I know your stubborn hopefulness!

But let the world look on at us, however it will... some with suspicion; some even with derision; and one or two who themselves have risked everything for love, with comradeship!

How happy I am! Scared? Of course! AND happy...

[Sweets America]

If I was reading these exchanges between two other people? I would think ‘how lucky they are! How I would love to be loved that way, to count that much in the eyes of another!’. This is magical to me. This is beautiful. Love is so precious and should never be judged. So, I would not judge those two people.
As I told you, yes I do find a father in you, and that does not disturb me because love has no boundaries. I am not scared of feeling that way. My love for you is multiple. People might want to try to find reasons behind this love, reasons that would make it an immoral love, but, for my part, I just wish to experience this love because it makes me happy, and it has the same effect on you. You are a wonderful man, with a great intelligence, and I am happy to be the one who brings you happiness.
Your pessimism will have to deal with my hopefulness. When we ignore what the future will bring, why choose to wait for catastrophes? Wonderful events have equal chances to happen! What if a wonderful event happens and you have wasted time in expecting something bad? And if things turn wrong, at least you will have spent some time filled with hope before having to deal with problems, eh?
Love is worth the risks, always... Of course we can be scared, but whenever we feel that way, we will have each other’s arms where we can find protection and reassurance.

How I love you, Jerry!

[Pendragon]

As you both know, I read the exchanges between the two of you with that outsider's point of view. Love is like a river, it will follow the path that it must. Among my mountains is a place well known worldwide, about two hours drive: The New River Gorge Bridge. Bungee jumpers and base jumpers come from everywhere to take that plunge. And The New River does something odd. It flows North, instead of South, even though that meant cutting through a mountain. Had it turned South, it would have quickly come to flat sandy soil.

Love is that way. One word love doesn't know is "impossible". Once you understand that, there are no barriers that cannot be breached.

So I find nothing unusual about the two of you, except that you expect people to find you unusual. People who look for something always find it, even if they have to invent it. If they cannot see the beauty of your dreams and desires, allow them to sit in the darkness and gripe. They will anyway.

Go on with the blessings of one who knows himself what it means to have people not always understand. But I'm fortunate enough to understand love.

Pen

[Sweets America]

As you both know, I read the exchanges between the two of you with that outsider's point of view. Love is like a river, it will follow the path that it must. Among my mountains is a place well known worldwide, about two hours drive: The New River Gorge Bridge. Bungee jumpers and base jumpers come from everywhere to take that plunge. And The New River does something odd. It flows North, instead of South, even though that meant cutting through a mountain. Had it turned South, it would have quickly come to flat sandy soil.

Love is that way. One word love doesn't know is "impossible". Once you understand that, there are no barriers that cannot be breached.

So I find nothing unusual about the two of you, except that you expect people to find you unusual. People who look for something always find it, even if they have to invent it. If they cannot see the beauty of your dreams and desires, allow them to sit in the darkness and gripe. They will anyway.

Go on with the blessings of one who knows himself what it means to have people not always understand. But I'm fortunate enough to understand love.

Pen

Thank you for your kind words. That is true, that love does not know what 'impossible' means.
I like your 'People who look for something always find it, even if they have to invent it.', this might be true! And in several ways. This might be the case for people who want to criticize and judge us, BUT this might also work for Jer and I, if we expect people to judge! This could nourish paranoid thoughts! :alien: :p

Thanks again, Pen, for your wise words.

[PrinceMyshkin]

“The road to true love
never does run smooth,”
they say, but they say
anything to cover up the pause
in the conversation of the wise.

It’s not the road
but those who walk on it
with unsteady legs, tottering
from scandal to shame,
stumbling or worse,
needing to stumble.

But love will smooth the way.
Love will point out the boulders,
the pot-holes, the brambles
extending over the path.
Love is the extended hand
at once gentle and strong.

[Sweets America]

Over the path of our love,
Were friendly branches
Gently holding us as we were walking;
I knew those branches would prevent us
From falling too hard to the ground.
―Just in case―
But
I never thought we could really fall.
―Not this way―

With a violent brush of your hand
The branches were broken
And we fell.
So unexpectedly!
So hard!
In the fall, my heart made a cracking sound;
I injured myself
And lost some blood
Along with part of my trust in you.

In the fall,
I desperatly tried to reach out to your hand
Even knowing that this was the very hand that had slapped me
With the violence of your confession.
Tempest, storm, hurricane
Destroying part of our castle.
––Damaged communication
––Chaos in letters
When, with your shameful desire, teachers became cheaters.

I woke up today, and it was still raining.
On our world, in my eyes.
But,
The acid rain is being replaced by a cleansing one
As my tears are washing away anger and hurt.

Tomorrow,
When I meet you,
There will be no words.
Only a silent hug
And the anxious hope of feeling
Love
Holding us, too, and still there, as it
Waters the trees
To make new branches grow.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Do not forgive me. Do not forget
that I betrayed you, once,
but know that all my future fidelities
will come, not so much from a guilty heart,
but one that is still somewhat in shock
over that incident and more than
somewhat in shock at your beauty
of heart and mind, and at your fragility.

[PrinceMyshkin]

The wonder of loving you is such
that I often search for a deeper silence
in which to acknowledge it.

There is the silence with which
we greet the dawn
or the first glimpse of one’s new-born
child! The silence before
the Sistine Chapel, the Last Supper,
the Mayan pyramids or Angkor Wat.

But when I think of you
I am struck more profoundly
mute.

[PrinceMyshkin]

If there were no love
you’d have invented it
out of starlight, chanterelles, strawberries
and the longing of your young,
young heart.

The chanterelles in the moist, dark earth
are something of the cousins
of your love. They cannot be cultivated
and yet they grow.
And yet they grow.

If there were no love
you and I would have found ourselves
with nothing but an immense
fascination with each other,
deep-seated friendship, laughter

--and, oh yes, lust.

[PrinceMyshkin]

When I am there with you, my love, at last
it will be as if it was in lives long past.

Before my fingers come to rest
on your beloved breast

they’ll be shaped for coming home.

[Sweets America]

My Baby,
Press your lips
Against my beloved breast
And as you close your eyes
Quench your thirst
With my milky love
Till your tongue meets
The taste of peace.

[PrinceMyshkin]

XXVIII
I love
the mother in you
and the child,
the goof
and the woman in-the-becoming.
I will love your breasts, God willing,
as I already love your questing mind.
I love the turmoil
you create in me
and the peace you command
when you snap out
Jerry! Jerry!

I wait to lose myself
in your eyes
and to find myself again
inside of you.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Ah, my baby heart!
The time draws near.
Time, that once moved
like the Himalayas,
now races like a frisky
Gibraltar!

16:11, Oct. 1 at the Gare
in Poitiers, while elsewhere
people will be plotting revenge,
babies will be conceived,
politicians will smooth out
the truth, the grass will push up
a little further towards the sun,

and we will see each other at last.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Sept 29, 2007, 10:00 am EDT

In 48 hours and 11 minutes...

Fenelon, Pierre Elliott Trudeau,
Charles de Gaulle, Poitiers,
Sophie!!!!!

Fenelon, Pierre Elliott Trudeau,
Charles de Gaulle, Poitiers,
Sophie!!!!!

In 48 hours and 11 minutes...

the future will begin.

[PrinceMyshkin]

And yet
another day will come
another hour.

This day
these next eight hours
until I begin the long long journey
that will end when we
are in each other’s arms,
this day seems hard enough.

And yet
another day will come
another hour...

[CdnReader]

Sept 29, 2007, 10:00 am EDT

In 48 hours and 11 minutes...

Fenelon, Pierre Elliott Trudeau,
Charles de Gaulle, Poitiers,
Sophie!!!!!

Fenelon, Pierre Elliott Trudeau,
Charles de Gaulle, Poitiers,
Sophie!!!!!

In 48 hours and 11 minutes...

the future will begin.


I like this one very very much, my dear friend. Hugs!!

[PrinceMyshkin]

I did not come
to leave you.
I did not leave
to find you
but left love there
on rue des Terres Noire.

[PrinceMyshkin]

How wise is my beloved
when her heart speaks through her eyes.

There is no deceit in her.

Merriment and truth are her side sisters

and to linger between her thighs
is my delight.

[PrinceMyshkin]

My love for you
is as if my left hand,
after flailing about in the empty air,
came finally to rest
in my other hand.

[PrinceMyshkin]

What age and geography
and your love for C.
had promised me
was heartbreak
and I embraced it
as every tender word from you
made it more than worthwhile.

Those ten or eleven days
in Poitiers, how can I
adequately describe them
except to say that every bitter promise
that life holds out to us
was stood on its head.

But now it has been stood
back up again!

[PrinceMyshkin]

Flesh
hungers for flesh and mind
for mind, tongue for tongue
tummy for tummy
and genitalia as if
they were twins who had been separated
an intolerable time.

I miss your verbs,
your nouns, your little
chortles, would kill
for one of your prepositions
and as for your breasts...

Well, we won’t speak of them here!

[PrinceMyshkin]

It is the morning of a new day.
That is, 24 more blessed hours
in which to long for you.
I had not imagined you
quite so lovely, quite
so full of fun
and mischief
and ardour!

I am tempted to say
that I am in love with you
and that I am in love
with being in love with you!

[PrinceMyshkin]

A time may come when,
turning the pages of some magazine
in a doctor’s waiting-room
you will come across a poem
or such by your lover
or former lover in which you encounter
a hitherto unrevealed bitter side
of her and you will wonder
Was it I who caused those feelings in her
or (God forbid) some other love?

[Virgil]

Wow, i guess I missed this whole Lit Net love affair going on. ;) I didn't have time to read it all, but wow. :eek2: Not sure what else to say. :)

[Sweets America]

Wow, i guess I missed this whole Lit Net love affair going on. ;) I didn't have time to read it all, but wow. :eek2: Not sure what else to say. :)

:D I knew you would look like that::eek:
Personally, when I love someone, I do not ask myself whether the love is right or wrong, normal or not, I just give love and enjoy the one I am given. :)

[PrinceMyshkin]

Flowers die and empires die.
Old men and women die
and young ones, too.

Then why wouldn't our love die?

Or transmute, become some more soft,
more tender thing, instead
of the rage that it once was?

[PrinceMyshkin]

And so we've had another night
Of poetry and poses
And each man knows he'll be alone
When the sacred gin mill closes.

And so we'll drink the final glass
Each to his joy or sorrow
And hope the numbing drunk will last
'Til opening tomorrow.

And when we stumble back again
Like paralytic dancers
Each knows the questions he will ask
And each man knows the answers.

And so we'll drink the final drink
That cuts the brain in sections
Where answers never signify
And there aren't any questions.

Ah, she broke my heart the other day
It'll mend again tomorrow
If I'd been drunk when I was born
I'd be ignorant of sorrow.

And so we'll drink the final toast
That never can be spoken:
Here's to the heart that's wise enough
To know when it’s better off broken!





Dave van Ronk

[PrinceMyshkin]

Love broken then mended
is sometimes twice as strong
as when it was new and
hot of the press, when
it was the joy of the new,
the Christmas present
with the bright wrapping paper
hastily removed

but the second time around
it is the love of familiars,
the love of rediscovery,
America with all the despoliation
restored.

[PrinceMyshkin]

But am I in love with him,
she nags at herself,
really and truly, deeply,
everlastingly
in love with him?

She cannot be sure.
Not absolutely sure, not
as sure as she believes
he deserves to have her be.

She confesses it to him.
He laughs and takes her
tenderly in his arms, as if
she were a child since he,
perforce, must be the ‘grown-up’
and he is enough in love with her
for the two of them.

They make love together.
She is comfortable in his arms.
She looks up lovingly at him.
He stares back into her eyes
in wonder. There is nothing
to be seen in them
but wonder...

But am I in love with him,
she wonders.

They marry.
They travel the world together.
He has little habits
that annoy her
(to put it mildly!). But would they
bother her so much if she
were really and truly, deeply,
everlastingly in love with him?

The question sometimes
eat her alive. Is she being fair to him?
Does he not deserve someone
who never needs to ask herself
such questions?
(Or, for that matter, is she
being fair to herself?)

They separate for a time
--actually, several times, but each time
they come back together with a whomp
of refreshed desire (or is it just habit,
she wonders, need, or the fear
of being alone?).

He dies. And at last she knows,
Oh God, God yes!
But questioning her love for him
was the essence of that love!




Jerry Newman © 13Nov07

[Sweets America]

This is so wonderful, my Prince! So beautifully written! I wondered about the last two lines, yes, but the rest, the rest!!! Wonderful!!

[PrinceMyshkin]

This is so wonderful, my Prince! So beautifully written! I wondered about the last two lines, yes, but the rest, the rest!!! Wonderful!!

I don't know the nature of the doubt you have about those lines because they seemed to me to be a recognition of both the anguish the heroine had been through and of the integrity of her emotional life.

She doubted the veracity of her love for him, and once one begins doing that it is very hard to stop and there are no objective ways to prove it either way; and yet, as I see it, her behaviour was unfailingly loving.

And ultimately, perhaps, behaviour is all we have.

[Sweets America]

I don't know the nature of the doubt you have about those lines because they seemed to me to be a recognition of both the anguish the heroine had been through and of the integrity of her emotional life.

She doubted the veracity of her love for him, and once one begins doing that it is very hard to stop and there are no objective ways to prove it either way; and yet, as I see it, her behaviour was unfailingly loving.

And ultimately, perhaps, behaviour is all we have.

Actually, as I told you, I think those last two lines are perfect in their meaning. They are neither too positive nor too negative, they are in the middle, which is perfect. I love the idea in those lines, it is just something about the way you have translated them into words which bugs me. I don't know why. :alien:
I love what you say about 'behavior is all we have'. I love you.:)

[PrinceMyshkin]

Actually, as I told you, I think those last two lines are perfect in their meaning. They are neither too positive nor too negative, they are in the middle, which is perfect. I love the idea in those lines, it is just something about the way you have translated them into words which bugs me. I don't know why. :alien:
I love what you say about 'behavior is all we have'. I love you.:)

I cherish your every comment on anything I write and would do so, I believe, even if it were out and out negative. But as for the last three words in your reply, I am tongue-tied! I could say the same, but I prefer to keep it for your eyes and ears alone. Sophie!

[SleepyWitch]

Actually, as I told you, I think those last two lines are perfect in their meaning. They are neither too positive nor too negative, they are in the middle, which is perfect. I love the idea in those lines, it is just something about the way you have translated them into words which bugs me. I don't know why. :alien:
I

I agree with Sweets about the last two lines.

[PrinceMyshkin]

My darling, my love,
my sweet turtle-dove,
my resident heart,
my angel sublime.
The whole of my part,
the rhyme of my rhyme.

Whither thou goest, sang Ruth
to Naomi, I will go.
When you rejoice,
I am happy too.





Jerry Newman © 14Nov07

[PrinceMyshkin]

I love the delta
and the soft, warm hills,
the bony promontory
of your shoulders,
your knees, your knuckles, your
derriere, but above all

it is the product of that grey,
spongy mass
behind your clear, intelligent eyes,
underneath your luxuriant, dark brown hair
that I am in love with.





Jerry Newman © 13Nov07

[PrinceMyshkin]

My Sophie, I sing
like a half-naked Italian tenor
called in on very short notice
to replace the great Pavarotti!
It is my opportunity at last
to succeed that pasta-loving fatso
and make a name for myself!

My Sophie! I sing,
over and over again, having forgotten the words
of my principal aria,
but I can wring such changes
on those two beautiful words
that the audience quite forgets the rest of the plot,
the cheating, suspicious lover
disguised as his mistress’ handmaiden
as he attempts to seduce her
into a lesbian affair!


Bellisima! Bellisima!
Matona, mia cara, Mi follere canzon,
Cantar sotto finestra, Lantze bon compagnon.
Don don don, diri diri, don don don don.
*

[PrinceMyshkin]

I hear your voice
for some time after you call.
I hear in it the chime
and charm
of life itself,
the excited, intelligent burble
of a child-woman
whose lover is also her protector,
fan and greatest friend,
and who knows
that in his heart
is the home
that it will always
be safe for her to come home to.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I love the delta
and the soft, warm hills,
the bony promontory
of your shoulders
but above all
it is the product of that grey,
spongy mass behind
your clear, intelligent eyes,
underneath your luxuriant hair
that I am in love with.



Jerry Newman © 13Nov07

[PrinceMyshkin]

My baby, my love,
I want to invent other ways of loving you.
Not that there’s anything wrong
with the old ways. They do nicely
to fill the 24 quotidian hours,
but what about those other 24
when I love you just as much
or more?

For instance, I would wave
a jaunty bread-stick at you
which would mean
–for heavens’ sake, a bread-stick!
What else could it mean?

Or I might recite any three columns
from the telephone directory,
my love, softly and tenderly
in your beloved ears...

Oh yes, I have not yet exhausted
or even begun to exhaust
the ways of loving you
or of telling you so!





Jerry Newman © 13Dec07

[Sweets America]

You are such a sweetie. :) :)
I have googled the bread sticks. That was what I thought it was. (please people do NOT ask any question about that). :D

[PrinceMyshkin]

You are such a sweetie. :) :)
I have googled the bread sticks. That was what I thought it was. (please people do NOT ask any question about that). :D

Sophie! I dare NOT imagine what you thought it was, but might I remind you that we are here in a community of HIGH-MINDED people, to whom the reference to a bread-stick most likely suggested a fine Cuban cigar or the baton in the hands of the estimable Wilhelm Furtwängler!

[PrinceMyshkin]

I will love you
till my wheels fall off,
till the grass lies down
under the snow
never to return again,
till the last of my breath
cries achingly your name.

I will love you
till I have forgotten
the meaning of love
or of life itself.

[PrinceMyshkin]

There is a falling in love that, somehow,
goes beyond falling in love. It’s like
when my grandson, at age 4, said to his father:
“I love you more than I love you.”

It’s like... joining a church
for the Sunday bake-sales, the close company,
the singing together, the something,
for want of a better word, that one might call “religion”
-–and finding God!

It’s like looking for sex
--raw, tender and moist
-–and finding that it comes
marbled through and through with love.

It’s like falling to the mattress
--to borrow an image you once used
--only to feel the mattress
and you
go through the floor.

[quasimodo1]

To PrinceMyshkin: This last one really jumped out; a beautiful poem. Besides that I'm guessing you're really smitten or at least not married. Always the wise guy, sorry. Press on. quasimodo1

[Sweets America]

There is a falling in love that, somehow,
goes beyond falling in love. It’s like
when my grandson, at age 4, said to his father:
“I love you more than I love you.”
(A year or two afterwards, when I reminded him of that and asked him what he might have meant, he smiled awkwardly and shrugged his shoulders - but you and I, I think, can conjecture what he might have meant by that. At very least he meant that he loved him quite a lot!)

It’s like... joining a church
for the Sunday bake-sales, the close company,
the singing together, the something
(for want of a better word) that one might call “religion”
-–and finding God!

It’s like looking for sex
--raw, tender and moist
-–and finding that it comes
marbled through and through with love.

It’s like falling to the mattress
(to borrow an image you once used)
only to feel the mattress
and you
go through the floor.


There are beautiful images in this poem, I love it. I would however remove all the explanation between brackets, I don't like how it interrupts the poems with a conversational tone. And it's best to leave the mystery as it is I think. But, after this passage, I was rejoiced by all the rest of your poem! You are a sweetheart. You are MY sweetheart.

[Sweets America]

There is a falling in love that, somehow,
goes beyond falling in love. It’s like
when my grandson, at age 4, said to his father:
“I love you more than I love you.”

It’s like... joining a church
for the Sunday bake-sales, the close company,
the singing together, the something,
for want of a better word, that one might call “religion”
-–and finding God!

It’s like looking for sex
--raw, tender and moist
-–and finding that it comes
marbled through and through with love.

It’s like falling to the mattress
--to borrow an image you once used
--only to feel the mattress
and you
go through the floor.


Thanks. :) The dragon-lady loves you. :)

[PrinceMyshkin]

When you and I are naked again
together, my love, when we have put aside
the rough cloak of the Atlantic
and all the other accursed miles
that lie between us, when we
are naked again together,

belly to belly and thigh
entwined with thigh,
your warm soft breasts
against my hungry chest,

even the air around us
will melt and dissolve
rather than come between us,

my love, for nothing should come
between us, my love, except
the sweat of our gratified desire.

[Sweets America]

When you and I are naked again
together, my love, when we have put aside
the rough cloak of the Atlantic
and all the other accursed miles
that lie between us, when we
are naked again together,

belly to belly and thigh
entwined with thigh,
your warm soft breasts
against my hungry chest,

even the air around us
will melt and dissolve
rather than come between us,

my love, for nothing should come
between us, my love, except
the sweat of our gratified love.


I love it!!!! :D :D :D :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush:

Sweetheart! :)

[PrinceMyshkin]

When you say “I love you,”
what do you mean, exactly?
It cannot, I assume, mean,
exactly what I mean when I say
“I love you.”

Does it mean perhaps
I hunger for bread and cheese?
That wonderful freshly baked
pain paysan we shared once
with a generous smear of Bel Paese?

Or does it mean perhaps
I am restless in my skin
and only you can fit me back
in it?

When I say it I mean
I remember you in every cell
of my being, I remember
the sweet scent of your soul.

[Sweets America]

Sweetheart, this is a beautiful poem!!:)

I like how the verbs follow one another here:

It cannot, I assume, mean,
exactly what I mean when I say
“I love you.”

I love the two last stanzas, and especially the 's' alliteration in the last one.

Sweetheart! :D

[PrinceMyshkin]

Lovers strive
to tell each other
how much they love
but it takes time:
a year to say

I
A decade to form

love
and the rest of one’s life to say

YOU!

[Sweets America]

Lovers strive
to tell each other
how much they love
but it takes time:
a year to say

I
A decade to form

love
and the rest of one’s life to say

YOU!


This is sooooo sweet!!:) :) :)
I love the idea of it!
Thank you!!

[PrinceMyshkin]

My love is my love.
Everything else about her
––the open-eyed way she takes me in
when we make love, the warmth
of her small, small breasts,
her frequent gasps of laughter
–– is embroidery. But embroidery
is sometimes inseparable from the cloth
it adorns. There are a thousand,
thousand other things
I cherish about her, that
are her: her deliciously
not quite perfect English, the way her tears
are never very far away, her love
for food that cannot possibly nourish her, but

my love is my love.






Jerry Newman © 18Jan08

[Sweets America]

My love is my love.
Everything else about her
––the open-eyed way she takes me in
when we make love, the warmth
of her small, small breasts,
her frequent gasps of laughter
–– is embroidery. But embroidery
is sometimes inseparable from the cloth
it adorns. There are a thousand,
thousand other things
I cherish about her, that
are her: her deliciously
not quite perfect English, the way her tears
are never very far away, her love
for food that cannot possibly nourish her, but

my love is my love.






Jerry Newman © 18Jan08

Ah, here it is!:p Thank you, this is very beautiful.:) I love the way you know me so well.:)

[PrinceMyshkin]

The next time I hold you, love,
I won’t soon let go!
How often I have imagined
your contours within my arms!
And in that outward shape of you
I always feel your heart, your soul...

[Sweets America]

The next time I hold you, love,
I won’t soon let go!
How often I have imagined
your contours within my arms!
And in that outward shape of you
I always feel your heart, your soul...


How I love the whisper of your heart which is inside of this ellipsis...

[PrinceMyshkin]

You who are so funny,
whose sense of humour
somehow throws into sharp relief
how intelligent, serious and caring
you are, you who might one day
give the core of your heart away
to someone else, will nevertheless
always hold, safe and warm
in your tender hands,
a piece of my own.

[Sweets America]

You who are so funny,
whose sense of humour
somehow throws into sharp relief
how intelligent, serious and caring
you are, you who might one day
give the core of your heart away
to someone else, will nevertheless
always hold, safe and warm
in your tender hands,
a piece of my own.


Oh shouuuu!!! This is so sweet, you are so sweet! :)

[Umbilical]

Thank you, once again, for making me even more f_cking gay.

[Umbilical]

"It’s like looking for sex
--raw, tender and moist"

what if you're looking for sex with only the middle compartment,
Tender.
is that like a child?

Just wondering the... difference.

[PrinceMyshkin]

You will always be the Princess
I want to slip into now and then
but cannot, other than your lovely heart,
your lively mind, your laughter!

[Sweets America]

You will always be the Princess
I want to slip into now and then
but cannot, other than your lovely heart,
your lively mind, your laughter!


I love you, Shou. :)