One more time with Feeling

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Rađamo se sami i umiremo sami. Stvar je samo u tome da se na to konačno naviknemo. Samoća je temelj čitave konstrukcije.

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Orange in the middle of a table:

It isn’t enough

to walk around it

at a distance, saying

it’s an orange:

nothing to do

with us, nothing

else: leave it alone

I want to pick it up

in my hand

I want to peel the

skin off; I want

more to be said to me

than just Orange:

want to be told

everything it has to say

And you, sitting across

the table, at a distance, with

your smile contained, and like the orange

in the sun: silent:

Your silence

isn’t enough for me

now, no matter with what

contentment you fold

your hands together; I want

anything you can say

in the sunlight:

stories of your various

childhoods, aimless journeyings,

your loves; your articulate

skeleton; your posturings; your lies.

These orange silences

(sunlight and hidden smile)

make me want to

wrench you into saying;

now I’d crack your skull

like a walnut, split it like a pumpkin

to make you talk, or get

a look inside

But quietly:

if I take the orange

with care enough and hold it

gently

I may find

an egg

a sun

an orange moon

perhaps a skull; center

of all energy

resting in my hand

can change it to

whatever I desire

it to be

and you, man, orange afternoon

lover, wherever

you sit across from me

(tables, trains, buses)

if I watch

quietly enough

and long enough

at last, you will say

(maybe without speaking)

(there are mountains

inside your skull

garden and chaos, ocean

and hurricane; certain

corners of rooms, portraits

of great grandmothers, curtains

of a particular shade;

your deserts; your private

dinosaurs; the first

woman)

all I need to know

tell me

everything

just as it was

from the beginning

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This is a word we use to plug

holes with. It's the right size for those warm

blanks in speech, for those red heart-

shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing like real hearts.

Add lace and you can sell it.

We insert it also in the one empty

space on the printed form

that comes with no instructions.

There are whole

magazines with not much in them

but the word love, you can

rub it all over your body and you

can cook with it too. How do we know

it isn't what goes on at the cool

debaucheries of slugs under damp

pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-

seedlings nosing their tough snouts up

among the lettuces, they shout it.

Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising

their glittering knives in salute.

Then there's the two of us. This word

is far too short for us, it has only

four letters, too sparse to fill those

deep bare vacuums between the stars

that press on us with their deafness.

It's not love we don't wish

to fall into, but that fear.

this word is not enough but it will

have to do. It's a single vowel in this

metallic silence, a mouth that says

O again and again in wonder and pain,

a breath, a finger grip on a cliffside.

You can hold on or let go.

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And then the day came,

when the risk

to remain tight

in a bud

was more painful

than the risk

it took

to blossom.

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I love you

like dipping bread into salt and eating

Like waking up at night with high fever

and drinking water, with the tap in my mouth

Like unwrapping the heavy box from the postman

with no clue what it is

fluttering, happy, doubtful

I love you

like flying over the sea in a plane for the first time

Like something moves inside me

when it gets dark softly in Istanbul

I love you

Like thanking God that we live.

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Water flows from high places to low places. That is the nature of gravity. Emotions also seem to act according to gravity. When in the presence of someone with whom you have a bond, and to whom you have entrusted your feelings, it is hard to lie and get away with it. The truth just wants to come flowing out. This is especially the case when you are trying to hide your sadness or vulnerability. It is much easier to conceal sadness from a stranger, or from someone you don’t trust.

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Late December: my father and I

Are going to New York, to the circus.

He holds me

On his shoulders in the bitter wind:

Scraps of white paper

Blow over the railroad ties.

My father liked

To stand like this, to hold me

So he couldn’t see me.

I remember

Staring straight ahead

Into the world my father saw;

I was learning

To absorb its emptiness,

The heavy snow

Not falling, whirling around us.

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The waitress brought me another drink. She wanted to light my hurricane lamp again. I wouldn't let her. "Can you see anything in the dark, with your sunglasses on?" she asked me. "The big show is inside my head," I said.

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I want to get more familiar with you. I love you. I loved you when you came and sat on the bed--all that second afternoon was like warm mist--and I hear again the way you say my name--with that queer accent of yours. You arouse in me such a mixture of feelings, I don't know how to approach you. Only come to me--get closer and closer to me. It will be beautiful, I promise you.

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Die Mitwirkung von Verstand, Phantasie, romantischen Gefühlen verleiht dem Sexuellen seine erstaunliche Textur, seine subtilen Transformationen, seine aphrodisischen Elemente.

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Reality doesn't impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls.

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#prague #praha #lennonwall