"...to enclose the present moment; to make it stay; to fill it fuller and fuller, with the past, the present and the future, until it shone, whole, bright, deep with understanding."

Virgina Woolf, The Years


Chiquitito, soy de chocolate

Soy de chocolate
dulces labios tengo yo
puedes tu besarme
pa que sientas mi sabor

Ahi les dejo a los Centaurus, con El reino del Cacao:

(La pueden bajar acá)


Nothin' but the idea of chocolate. An elegy.

Oh this coffee is really good,
though come to think of it it tastes
like nothing plus the idea of chocolate,
or an acquaintance of chocolate
speaking fondly of certain times
it and chocolate had spoken of nothing,
or nothing remembering a field
in which it once ate the most wondrous
sandwich of ham and rustic chambered cheese
yet still wished for a piece of chocolate
before the lone walk back through
the corn then the darkening forest
to the disappointing village and its super
creepy bed and breakfast.

With secret despair I returned
to the city. Something seemed to be
waiting for me. Maybe the ghost
I keep choosing, even if it's "nothing
better than a wandering cloud" following me
which of course to me and everyone
sounds incredible.

All I follow is my own desire,
sometimes to feel, sometimes to be
at least a little more than intermittently
at ease with being loved. I am never
at ease. Not with hours I can read or walk
and look at the brightly colored
houses filled with lives, not with night
when I lie on my back and listen,
not with the hallway, definitely
not with facebook, definitely
not with time.

Take this cup full of longing and stay as long
as you want and maybe a little longer.

A personal version of Matthew Zapruder's "The Prelude", written in non-secret despair and longing for the food of the gods.


Those who've learnt how to love, have forgotten how to possess.


The thing he loves

Each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.

Fragment of The Ballad of Reading Gaol, by Oscar Wilde.


Fallin' in love with Philip Larkin

Faith Healing

Slowly the women file to where he stands   
Upright in rimless glasses, silver hair,
Dark suit, white collar. Stewards tirelessly   
Persuade them onwards to his voice and hands,   
Within whose warm spring rain of loving care   
Each dwells some twenty seconds. Now, dear child,

What’s wrong, the deep American voice demands,   

And, scarcely pausing, goes into a prayer   
Directing God about this eye, that knee.   
Their heads are clasped abruptly; then, exiled

Like losing thoughts, they go in silence; some   
Sheepishly stray, not back into their lives
Just yet; but some stay stiff, twitching and loud   
With deep hoarse tears, as if a kind of dumb   
And idiot child within them still survives   
To re-awake at kindness, thinking a voice   
At last calls them alone, that hands have come   
To lift and lighten; and such joy arrives
Their thick tongues blort, their eyes squeeze grief, a crowd   
Of huge unheard answers jam and rejoice—

What’s wrong! Moustached in flowered frocks they shake:   
By now, all’s wrong. In everyone there sleeps   
A sense of life lived according to love.
To some it means the difference they could make   
By loving others, but across most it sweeps
As all they might have done had they been loved.   
That nothing cures. An immense slackening ache,   
As when, thawing, the rigid landscape weeps,
Spreads slowly through them—that, and the voice above   
Saying Dear child, and all time has disproved.

If you also love Paul Simon, here's him reading one of his poems, courtesy of the Poetry Foundation, and other poets reading some more poems of Philip's:
Be kind while there's time: The Poetry Society of America Celebrates Philip Larkin

(Do follow the link, you won't regret it. Unless your morals prevent you from doing so, that is, so beware).
(And do navigate around and read other poems by him).


Un'altra preghiera

De todos es sabido que la letra con sangre no entra. Dios debería unirse al movimiento progresista, acabar con su edad oscurantista y entender una cosa: el amor con dolor no entra.

Una preghiera: Permite que mi país despierte en ese paraíso de libertad

Donde la mente no tiene miedo y la cabeza se lleva en alto
Donde el conocimiento es libre
Donde el mundo no ha sido quebrantado
Por estrechos muros domésticos
Donde las palabras surgen de las profundidades de la verdad
Donde el esfuerzo incansable estira sus brazos hacia la perfección
Donde el claro arroyo de la razón no ha perdido su camino
En la arena del desolado desierto del hábito
Donde la mente es guiada por Tí
Hacia la continua expansión del pensamiento y la acción
Permite, Padre, que mi país despierte en ese paraíso de libertad.

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

De Gitanjali de Rabindranath Tagore.