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Lost in the Forest – Pablo Neruda

Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.

Love, I was lost in the woods this week. I went there myself, of course. You came looking for me. Every time You called my name I made myself still and quiet.  I wanted to become like a dryad and pour my sorrows to the Earth.

Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.

I wanted to be secret with my sadness, Love. Growing ever more tired of myself, I still listened with comfort as your patient footsteps crossed the wide forest, searching for me. But I would not reveal myself to You. I wanted to emerge into the bright meadow on my own time.

Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind

Your humming search-song drifted along, deeper into the forest. It lulled me to sleep; after several days and nights I woke up with a start and ran for the light at the edge of the wood, sure You would be waiting there for me.

as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood –
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.

And in the meadow I found your smoldering fire, and your blue coat, and your small shelter, and the pillow for your beautiful cheek, all moist with rain. I know You’re still amongst the trees Love, not looking for me, but claimed for a time by the wild wood and its deep shade. You will find the soft emerald moss by the cyclamen where I laid and hid, and the love I left for You there.

I will tend the fire and dry your things by sunlight, awaiting your return.

"Hidden by the Sleeve of Night" by Edmund Dulac, from Omar Khayyam's Rubaiyat

 

 

Missing the Meteors

by Charles Tennyson-Turner

A hint of rain–a touch of lazy doubt–
Sent me to bedward on that prime of nights,
When the air met and burst the aerolites,
Making the men stare and the children shout:
Why did no beam from all that rout and rush
Of darting meteors, pierce my drowsed head?
Strike on the portals of my sleep? and flush
My spirit through mine eyelids, in the stead
Of that poor vapid dream? My soul was pained,
My very soul, to have slept while others woke,
While little children their delight outspoke,
And in their eyes’ small chambers entertained
Far motions of the Kosmos! I mistook
The purpose of that night–it had not rained.

Miss you on this Leonid evening Xan, especially after my dreams of you,
which burned bright through the atmosphere last night. — Lotte

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My Beloved,

Leaves will fall, winds will blow and be gone, snows will fall and melt away down city streets and yet, there we’ll be, feeling the wind blow past us, and watching the springtime trees budding, hearing the rush of snowmelt down the drains. As the days, weeks and years pass Lotte, we’ll never lose touch with our Love, whether skin to skin in each other’s tight embracing arms or across dark foreign waters and cold mountains.

Together in love.

Xander

Time goes by so slowly…

A Poem in Each Book -- Birds by Georges Braque

A Poem in Each Book -- Birds by Georges Braque

A Song of Eternity in Time

by Sidney Lanier

Once, at night, in the manor wood
My Love and I long silent stood,
Amazed that any heavens could
Decree to part us, bitterly repining.
My Love, in aimless love and grief,
Reached forth and drew aside a leaf
That just above us played the thief
And stole our starlight that for us was shining.

A star that had remarked her pain
Shone straightway down that leafy lane,
And wrought his image, mirror-plain,
Within a tear that on her lash hung gleaming.
“Thus Time,” I cried, “is but a tear
Some one hath wept ‘twixt hope and fear,
Yet in his little lucent sphere
Our star of stars, Eternity, is beaming.”

Missing you terribly, Xander —

Lotte

Received from Xander a few days ago

Received from Xander a few days ago

...along with a few survival supplies for an upcoming trip.

...along with a few survival supplies for an upcoming trip.

My dearest Xander —

There were eleven threads in that swatch from your yellow pants. Each one made precious for every time it brushed against your sweet, warm body!

Soft-eyed, Yours,

Lotte

Bliss! Received in today's mail from Xander

Bliss! Received in today's mail from Xander

Xan's Ginseng haiku

Xan's Ginseng haiku

For you on this sixth day of August, Xander:

Lovers beside a freestanding screen, Ukiyo-e woodblock by Utamaro, c. 1797

Lovers beside a freestanding screen, Ukiyo-e woodblock by Utamaro, c. 1797

Untitled
by  Izumi Shikibu

Even if I now saw you
Only once,
I would long for you
Through worlds,
Worlds.

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073009text

Bouquet aux Amoureux Volants, Marc Chagall, ca, 1934-1947

Bouquet aux Amoureux Volants by Marc Chagall, ca. 1934-1947

“Painting by Chagall” by The Weepies

My Dearest Xander —

Last night when your message awakened me just before 2 a.m. my eyes opened to see the moon shining hazily from the skylight onto my bed.

I answered you — of course — and said, “Go back to sleep; however will we meet if we do not sleep at the same time?”

And I dreamed that you were here, but you shimmered in and out, and I couldn’t touch you, and sometimes we had to write to each other as we do.

At some point I sensed someone in the room. Somewhere between sleeping and waking, I listened closely as the door clicked open and closed. And I slid under the light sheet, still writing to you, my hand making characters of its own accord, receiving some signal from my brain, not breaking the reception, while the rest of me listened and held my breath in the dark.

When it was safe, you were here again, and we flipped through the Dhammapada, and I asked you what you knew of its translator (“But which Maitreya is it?”), and we looked at the sections on Flowers and Elephant.

This seemed to go on until morning, and I awoke just after 6 a.m.

I readied myself for work and put on that skirt that holds flowers.

And just before leaving, I picked up the little Dhammapada you gave me which sits at my bedside. I opened it — to “Flowers,” of course — and a subtle, faint, yet distinctive scent rose up to delight me.

“What is that?” I asked and immediately put my face in the leaves of scripture.

Gardenia. No question.

This must have been where you pressed and carried the flower all those miles before you gifted it to me, before I gave it its new home in those love poems for Maud.

Isn’t it?

Hopeless Romantics

Thousand Mile Music

A Loaf of Bread, A Jug of Wine and Thou

"Lotte and Gyre" banner illustration by Edmund Dulac from Omar Khayyam's "Rubaiyat," translated by Edward Fitzgerald, 1909.