On St. Valentine's Day ... to Someone Special

On St. Valentine’s Day
                I went to seek my love,
                                up one street
and down another.
                My heart was heavy
                                Because I had nothing to
                                give her.
What should I say?
                The streets were empty
                                so I met no one.

 

Yet I knew she could not be far

              for the sun was shining
                                merrily!
 

Old though you find me

                and penniless,
                                I said to the silence of
                                the garden,
I shall take courage
                for a snow-drop is about to blossom
                                smiling at me
from my own yard,
                smiling, smiling up at me
                                from my own yard.

 

I love you, I love you!
                I said to the flower
                                knowing my love shall not be
                                lost
knowing that I am not mistaken.


By: William Carlos Williams
Thought about, copied and pasted for someone special
by:  Homeless with a Laptop, that is my Name

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fmpSWlVdKmo

Who is Homeless with a Laptop, that is my Name?

We Are Many

Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,
I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the cover of clothing
They have departed for another city.

When everything seems to be set
to show me off as a man of intelligence,
the fool I keep concealed on my person
takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.

On other occasions, I am dozing in the midst
of people of some distinction,
and when I summon my courageous self,
a coward completely unknown to me
swaddles my poor skeleton
in a thousand tiny reservations.

When a stately home bursts into flames,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and he is I. There is nothing I can do.
What must I do to distinguish myself?
How can I put myself together?

All the books I read
lionize dazzling hero figures,
brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them;
and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,
I am left in envy of the cowboys,
left admiring even the horses.

But when I call upon my DASHING BEING,
out comes the same OLD LAZY SELF,
and so I never know just WHO I AM,
nor how many I am, nor WHO WE WILL BE BEING.
I would like to be able to touch a bell
and call up my real self, the truly me,
because if I really need my proper self,
I must not allow myself to disappear.

While I am writing, I am far away;
and when I come back, I have already left.
I should like to see if the same thing happens
to other people as it does to me,
to see if as many people are as I am,
and if they seem the same way to themselves.
When this problem has been thoroughly explored,
I am going to school myself so well in things
that, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography. 

By: Pablo Neruda

Un camarada, verdad...

Shadows

Shadows cast by the street light
            under the stars,
                        the head is tilted back,
the long shadow of the legs
            presumes a world
                        taken for granted
on which the cricket trills.

            The hollows of the eyes
                        Are unpeopled.
Right and left
            climb the ladders of night
                        as dawn races
to put our the stars.

That

                        Is the poetic figure
But we know
            better: what is not now
                        will never
be.  Sleep secure,
            the little dog in the snapshot
                        keeps his shrewd eyes
pared.  Memory
            is liver than sight.

                        A man

looking out,
            seeing shadows—
                        it is himself
that can be painlessly amputated
            by a mere shifting
                        of the stars.
A comfort so easily not to be
            and to be at once one
                        with every man.
The night blossoms
            with a thousand shadows
                        so long
as there are stars,
            street lights
                        or a moon and
who shall say
            by their shadows
which is different
            from the other
                        fat or lean.
 

                        II

 
Ripped from the concept of our lives
            and from all concept
                        somehow, and plainly,
the sun will come up
            each morning
                        and sink again.
So that we experience
            Violently
                        every day
two worlds
            one of which we share with the
            rose in bloom
                        and one,
by far the greater,
            with the past,
                        the world of memory,
the silly world of history,
            the world
                        of the imagination.
Which leaves only the beasts and trees,
            crystals
                        with their refractive
                        surfaces
and rotting things
            to stir our wonder.
                        Save for the little
central hole
            of the eye itself
                        into which
we dare not stare too hard
            or we are lost.

                        The instant

trivial as it is
            is all we have
                        unless—unless
things the imagination feeds upon,
            the scent of the rose,
                        startle us anew.

By: William Carlos Williams
Copied, pasted and loved by:
Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name

In My Sky At Twilight

In my sky at twilight you are like a cloud
and your form and colour are the way I love them.
You are mine, mine, woman with sweet lips
and in your life my infinite dreams live.

The lamp of my soul dyes your feet,
the sour wine is sweeter on your lips,
oh reaper of my evening song,
how solitary dreams believe you to be mine!

You are mine, mine, I go shouting it to the afternoon's
wind, and the wind hauls on my widowed voice.
Huntress of the depth of my eyes, your plunder
stills your nocturnal regard as though it were water.

You are taken in the net of my music, my love,
and my nets of music are wide as the sky.
My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning.
In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begin. 

By: Pablo Neruda
Copied, pasted and loved by:
Homeless with a Laptop, that is my name

I dreamed of you last night

I dreamed of you last night, Kara.  I saw you walking in a red dress and looking at me…

Remember when you became angry and I laughed.  You asked:  “Are you laughing because I’m angry?”  When I said yes, you also started laughing and said “Don’t make me laugh when I’m angry”… 

Remember when we loved…

Remember when I told that I had reached the end… you told me: “Don’t I get a say in this?”  Then you said…  “Teach me how to let go.”  How could I teach you what I still don’t know… Yet I remember the poem you sent me… Love is two souls in one body…

In a mirror

There is a stranger

Who claims to be me.

“You are not me” said I.

The stranger said nothing

I cannot trust mirrors or pictures.

So I dream of you, Kara mía… I hope that you live a happy life… and that sometimes you think or perhaps dream of a very stupid and solitary man …

As I reflect of my dream of you I remember the words of Federico García Lorca’s sad poem:  “I sing of [your] elegance with words that groan, and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.”

By: Homeless with a Laptop, that is my Name

All Fallen Things

So I declare myself

            queen of the surf,

            queen of the rain,

of all fallen things;

            angels,

                        breasts,

            teeth and leaves.

Glory to the unknown,

to Ecclesiastes,

for in wisdom

is much grief.

Glory to tiki lamps, bikinis,

the intensity of being,

rails on which bladers

have nutted themselves,

Lahaina, all islands,

the power

with which they were formed—

violent earth,

angry soil—

the womb that will swallow

queens, rooks,

            my wooden chess set,

post it notes, refrigerators,

            alligators, coupons,

excuses and dogs.

This is my revelation;

This is my

contribution to dust.

By:  Gabriela Anaya Valdepeña

Typed into Word, copied, pasted and loved by:

Homeless with a Laptop, that is my Name

Бездомные с ноутбуком, это мое имя

Chopin’s Etudes at Midnight

In the beginning understanding

Enters through the ear and eye.

Then when your soul is touched

For the first time like fire and ice

Together at the same time

You know the fullness and eternity of Spring.

In that instant, you know the old life is dull

And offers no kindling for your heat.

There is no turning back now.

An insurgency of music tumbles free

Inviting you to wonder

And to see more than you can ever know

From asking all those puzzling

Whys and hows: when the earth began

And what the future holds,

What will become of man,

His works and praises to an unseen god.

Choreographies of chords remain,

Make us aware that life is but a tattered garden

Of withered seed without your tender rain. 

By:  Barbara Millar

Copied, pasted and loved by:  

Homeless with a Laptop, that is may Name 

Бездомные с ноутбуком, это мое имя