the poetry of the untamed

a poem should be motionless in time as the moon climbs

[thepoetryoftheuntamed]

Out of the Rolling Ocean the Crowd Walt Whitman

Out of the rolling ocean, the crowd, came a drop gently to me, Whispering I love you, before long I die, I have travel'd a long way, merely to look on you to touch you, For I could not die till I once look'd on you, For I fear'd I might afterward lose you.

Now we have met, we have look'd, we are safe, Return in peace to the ocean my love, I too am part of that ocean, my love, we are not so much separated, Behold the great rondure, the cohesion of all, how perfect! But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us, As for an hour carrying us diverse, yet cannot carry us diverse forever; Be not impatient—a little space—know you I salute the air, the ocean and the land, Every day at sundown for your dear sake my love.

[thepoetryoftheuntamed]

《离思五首·其四》 Parting Thoughts #4 元稹 Yuan Zhen

曾经沧海难为水，除却巫山不是云。

Having once seen the ocean, no other waters move me; Apart from the clouds of Mount Wu, none seem real.

取次花丛懒回顾，半缘修道半缘君。

I pass by flowers without a glance; Half for the Way, half because of you.

[thepoetryoftheuntamed]

Ontem à noite, eu conheci uma guria. Last night, I met a girl. Já era tarde, era quase dia. It was already late, almost dawn. Era o princípio de um precipício. It was the beginning of the abyss. Era o meu corpo que caía. It was my body falling. Ontem à noite, a noite tava fria. Last night, the night was cold. Tudo queimava, nada aquecia. Everything burned, yet nothing could keep me warm. Ela apareceu, parecia tão sozinha. Then she appeared, looking so lonely. Parecia que era minha aquela solidão. It felt like that loneliness belonged to me.

Piano Bar Engenheiros do Hawaii

[thepoetryoftheuntamed]

Remember Christina Rossetti

Remember me when I am gone away,          Gone far away into the silent land;          When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day          You tell me of our future that you plann'd:          Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while          And afterwards remember, do not grieve:          For if the darkness and corruption leave          A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile          Than that you should remember and be sad.

[thepoetryoftheuntamed]

To a Friend Mary Carolyn Davies

I love you not for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you.

I love you not for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me.

I love you for the part of me that you bring out.

I love you for putting your hand into my heaped-up heart and passing over all the foolish and frivolous and weak things that you can't help dimly seeing there, and for drawing out into the light all the beautiful radiant belongings that no one else had looked quite far enough to find.

I love you for ignoring the possibilities of the fool and the weakling in me, and for laying firm hold on the possibilities of the good in me.

I love you for not seeing the glaring uglinesses in me, and for multiplying the beauties by the admiration of them in your eyes.

I love you for closing your ears to the discords in me, and for adding to the music in me by worshipful listening.

I love you for not noticing the rough places in my heart, but putting your cheek up close against its softness.

I love you because you are helping me to make of the lumber of my life not a tavern, but a temple; and of the words of my every day not a reproach, but a song.

I love you because you have done more than any creed could have done to make me good, and more than any fate could have done to make me happy.

You have done it without a touch, without a word, without a sign.

You have done it just by being yourself.

Perhaps that is what being a friend means, after all.

[thepoetryoftheuntamed]

To a Friend Mary Carolyn Davies

I love you not for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you.

I love you not for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me.

I love you for the part of me that you bring out.

I love you for putting your hand into my heaped-up heart and passing over all the foolish and frivolous and weak things that you can't help dimly seeing there, and for drawing out into the light all the beautiful radiant belongings that no one else had looked quite far enough to find.

I love you for ignoring the possibilities of the fool and the weakling in me, and for laying firm hold on the possibilities of the good in me.

I love you for not seeing the glaring uglinesses in me, and for multiplying the beauties by the admiration of them in your eyes.

I love you for closing your ears to the discords in me, and for adding to the music in me by worshipful listening.

I love you for not noticing the rough places in my heart, but putting your cheek up close against its softness.

I love you because you are helping me to make of the lumber of my life not a tavern, but a temple; and of the words of my every day not a reproach, but a song.

I love you because you have done more than any creed could have done to make me good, and more than any fate could have done to make me happy.

You have done it without a touch, without a word, without a sign.

You have done it just by being yourself.

Perhaps that is what being a friend means, after all.

[thepoetryoftheuntamed]

To a Friend Mary Carolyn Davies

I love you not for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you.

I love you not for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me.

I love you for the part of me that you bring out.

I love you for putting your hand into my heaped-up heart and passing over all the foolish and frivolous and weak things that you can't help dimly seeing there, and for drawing out into the light all the beautiful radiant belongings that no one else had looked quite far enough to find.

I love you for ignoring the possibilities of the fool and the weakling in me, and for laying firm hold on the possibilities of the good in me.

I love you for not seeing the glaring uglinesses in me, and for multiplying the beauties by the admiration of them in your eyes.

I love you for closing your ears to the discords in me, and for adding to the music in me by worshipful listening.

I love you for not noticing the rough places in my heart, but putting your cheek up close against its softness.

I love you because you are helping me to make of the lumber of my life not a tavern, but a temple; and of the words of my every day not a reproach, but a song.

I love you because you have done more than any creed could have done to make me good, and more than any fate could have done to make me happy.

You have done it without a touch, without a word, without a sign.

You have done it just by being yourself.

Perhaps that is what being a friend means, after all.

[thepoetryoftheuntamed]

To a Friend Mary Carolyn Davies

I love you not for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you.

I love you not for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me.

I love you for the part of me that you bring out.

I love you for putting your hand into my heaped-up heart and passing over all the foolish and frivolous and weak things that you can't help dimly seeing there, and for drawing out into the light all the beautiful radiant belongings that no one else had looked quite far enough to find.

I love you for ignoring the possibilities of the fool and the weakling in me, and for laying firm hold on the possibilities of the good in me.

I love you for not seeing the glaring uglinesses in me, and for multiplying the beauties by the admiration of them in your eyes.

I love you for closing your ears to the discords in me, and for adding to the music in me by worshipful listening.

I love you for not noticing the rough places in my heart, but putting your cheek up close against its softness.

I love you because you are helping me to make of the lumber of my life not a tavern, but a temple; and of the words of my every day not a reproach, but a song.

I love you because you have done more than any creed could have done to make me good, and more than any fate could have done to make me happy.

You have done it without a touch, without a word, without a sign.

You have done it just by being yourself.

Perhaps that is what being a friend means, after all.

[thepoetryoftheuntamed]

To a Friend Mary Carolyn Davies

I love you not for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you.

I love you not for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me.

I love you for the part of me that you bring out.

I love you for putting your hand into my heaped-up heart and passing over all the foolish and frivolous and weak things that you can't help dimly seeing there, and for drawing out into the light all the beautiful radiant belongings that no one else had looked quite far enough to find.

I love you for ignoring the possibilities of the fool and the weakling in me, and for laying firm hold on the possibilities of the good in me.

I love you for not seeing the glaring uglinesses in me, and for multiplying the beauties by the admiration of them in your eyes.

I love you for closing your ears to the discords in me, and for adding to the music in me by worshipful listening.

I love you for not noticing the rough places in my heart, but putting your cheek up close against its softness.

I love you because you are helping me to make of the lumber of my life not a tavern, but a temple; and of the words of my every day not a reproach, but a song.

I love you because you have done more than any creed could have done to make me good, and more than any fate could have done to make me happy.

You have done it without a touch, without a word, without a sign.

You have done it just by being yourself.

Perhaps that is what being a friend means, after all.

[thepoetryoftheuntamed]

I Love Your Dear Eyes Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev

I love your dear eyes, my friend, With their play so bright and wondrous, When you promptly rise them, and, Like with a lightning in the wildness, Embrace at once the whole land.

But there's more fabulous attraction: The eyes directed to the floor During the crazy osculation, And through the lashes, set before, The dusk and gloomy flame of passion.

[thepoetryoftheuntamed]

《千秋岁·数声鶗鴂》 Qianqiu Sui: A Few Cries of the Cuckoo 张先 Zhang Xian

A few cries of the cuckoo announce once more that spring's splendor has faded. Reluctant to let spring depart, I pluck the last crimson blossoms.

The rain falls softly, yet the wind is fierce— it is the season when the plums are turning green.

The willows of Yongfeng stand alone; all day long, with no one there, their catkin blossoms drift like snow.

Do not touch the highest string of the zither; at the height of grief, the strings will speak what words cannot.

As long as heaven endures, love is hard to sever. My heart is like a silken net of yearning; within it are thousands upon thousands of knots.

The night has passed, yet beyond the eastern window dawn has not broken; only the lingering moon remains, dim with the fading night.

[thepoetryoftheuntamed]

Dear [ ], Nick Lantz

I wrote your name at the top of a letter I never finished. I wrote your name on the back of my hand with permanent marker, and every time I washed the dishes, a little bit of your name drained down with the soapy water. I wrote your name in my childhood diary, over and over and over and over and over and over. I spray-painted your name on the floor of an abandoned factory in Pennsylvania. In cramped letters, I wrote your name on a strip of plastic and tied it to the leg of a bird that migrates across entire oceans. I dialed random numbers, and when someone answered, I said your name. With a stick, I wrote your name in the sand just above the tide line. I wrote your name on the backs of photographs of people who were not you. Inside the cover of my high school yearbook, I signed your name. I pissed your name into the freshly fallen snow. I painted your name on a canvas, and over it I painted an empty stretch of highway. I made up a fairy tale about a lost child with no name. At the end of the story, the child receives a golden box containing your name. I trained a parrot to say your name, and every time it repeated your name, I fed it a single grape from my palm. I wrote your name on a bottle rocket and lit the fuse. I wrote your name on a stone and threw it in a lake. In the woods at night, I wrote your name on the ground with a flashlight. I wrote your name on the tongues of sneakers. Then I tied the laces together and threw them over a telephone line. Every time I wrote your name, I lied. Every time I wrote your name, it was the truth. Into the echo of a canyon, I called your name your name your name.

[thepoetryoftheuntamed]

Identification Wisława Szymborska

It’s good you came—she says. You heard a plane crashed on Thursday? Well so they came to see me about it. The story is he was on the passenger list. So what, he might have changed his mind. They gave me some pills so I wouldn’t fall apart. Then they showed me I don’t know who. All black, burned except one hand. A scrap of shirt, a watch, a wedding ring. I got furious, that can’t be him. He wouldn’t do that to me, look like that. The stores are bursting with those shirts. The watch is just a regular old watch. And our names on that ring, they’re only the most ordinary names. It’s good you came. Sit here beside me. He really was supposed to get back Thursday. But we’ve got so many Thursdays left this year. I’ll put the kettle on for tea. I’ll wash my hair, then what, try to wake up from all this. It’s good you came, since it was cold there, and him just in some rubber sleeping bag, him, I mean, you know, that unlucky man. I’ll put the Thursday on, wash the tea, since our names are completely ordinary—

[thepoetryoftheuntamed]

Love at First Sight Wisława Szymborska

They’re both convinced that a sudden passion joined them. Such certainty is beautiful, but uncertainty is more beautiful still.

Since they’d never met before, they’re sure that there’d been nothing between them. But what’s the word from the streets, staircases, hallways— perhaps they’ve passed by each other a million times?

I want to ask them if they don’t remember— a moment face to face in some revolving door? perhaps a “sorry” muttered in a crowd? a curt “wrong number” caught in the receiver?— but I know the answer. No, they don’t remember.

They’d be amazed to hear that Chance has been toying with them now for years.

Not quite ready yet to become their Destiny, it pushed them close, drove them apart, it barred their path, stifling a laugh, and then leaped aside.

There were signs and signals, even if they couldn’t read them yet. Perhaps three years ago or just last Tuesday a certain leaf fluttered from one shoulder to another? Something was dropped and then picked up. Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished into childhood’s thicket?

There were doorknobs and doorbells where one touch had covered another beforehand. Suitcases checked and standing side by side. One night, perhaps, the same dream, grown hazy by morning.

Every beginning is only a sequel, after all, and the book of events is always open halfway through.

[thepoetryoftheuntamed]

“He is more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. If all else perished and he remained, I should still continue to be. And if all else remained, and we were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger. He’s always, always in my mind; not as a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.”

Wuthering Heights Emily Brontë

[thepoetryoftheuntamed]

To you, I am (너에게 나는) Kang Jaehyun 강재현

I hope that, to you, I will be the person you think of on a rainy day.

Quietly sitting beside your loneliness until the rain has passed, boiling warm water and sharing a cup with you—

I hope I will be that person.

I hope that, to you, I will be the person you think of on a snowy day.

Standing beside your solitude until every trace of snow has melted, becoming a silent snowman by your side—

I hope I will be that person.

I hope that, to you, I will be the person you think of on a day filled with brilliant sunshine.

If the dazzling sunlight scorches your heart, I hope I will be the one who can give you shade.

[thepoetryoftheuntamed]

"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. (...) All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die."

Blade Runner — Roy Batty