that sort of feeling

I have this strange feeling that I’m not myself anymore. It’s hard to put into words, but I guess it’s like I was fast asleep, and someone came, disassembled me, and hurriedly put me back together again. That sort of feeling.

— Haruki Murakami (Sputnik Sweetheart)

Insomnia

The wind is singing outside
its summer song.

I have been laying here
drugged by your smell of warm skin.

I can feel the rhythmic pumping of our blood,
yours precise like my swiss watch,
mine stumbling like a jazz syncopation

I want to be outside
singing with the win.

Flying   getting tangled in the branches   flying
running mad
untamed.

I will miss

Shopie Calle, Les Dormeurs

Wrapped in the sheets
I follow with my fingers the shape of the wrinkles
drawing the traces of your missing body.

In this bed of the size of two oceans
something is missing...
your bones lay in other shores,
your smell imprinted in some other's pillow,
         only time traveling I may be able to reach your warm.

I miss your flemish hands around my waist...
cold feet and giggling good nights...
your smile under the covers...
our fingers touching

Tonight the sound of the wind on my window
will put me to sleep
I listen, then I feel your fingers running down my spine,
as real as the branches caressed by the wind
singing a loving song.

Is that time again

Packing home again.... How to fit in all that little details that don't fit on my suitcase...

Her kind

I have gone out, a possessed witch,

haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

- Anne Sexton

The optimist bias

On average they expect things to turn better.
We are more accurate predicting reality.

They live longer, make diets, take vitamin pills,
and have children.
We drink bitter coffee and have chocolate cake 
for breakfast while predicting bad weather

Sure of finding better fields
their ancestors ventured to the unknown.
We are an evolution error,
deep in our brains the amigdala is the one to be blame.

If they lose their flight
it is because the love of their lives is somewhere
in the waiting room...
waiting.
For us the glass of wine is always empty,
reality is always broken.

Language

panorama with grass, beautifully  arranged by the wind
image © daniel korzhonov

if after the unthinkable
language is the only thing that remains
what I am doing writing in this alien tongue,
entangled  deeper and deeper in sounds I can barely pronounce
closing myself into the sweetness of silence?

Why this necessity of turning my back to
the beauty of reciting my favorite poets by heart?

After the catastrophe... after the massacre
after the horror...
language might be the only thing that remains
but how to convey the unspeakable?
This pain without limits
this pain without body
this excess of words... telling telling telling
one....two... onehundred times the infinite grief

I turn my back
and run away from language...

Thanks for the beauty

Polish poet and Nobel laureate Wislawa Szymborska

I do not dare to say her name aloud. There are not words to say good bye to an old beloved friend,
whose existence has taken place in a faraway universe, and at the same time is the only one who can speak to your inner self.

A "Thank You" Note

There is much I owe

to those I do not love.

The relief in accepting

they are closer to another.

Joy that I am not

the wolf to their sheep.

My peace be with them

for with them I am free,

and this, love can neither give,

nor know how to take.

I don't wait for them

from window to door.

Almost as patient

as a sun dial,

I understand

what love does not understand.

I forgive

what love would never have forgiven.

Between rendezvous and letter

no eternity passes,

only a few days or weeks.

My trips with them always turn out well.

Concerts are heard.

Cathedrals are toured.

Landscapes are distinct.

And when seven rivers and mountains

come between us,

they are rivers and mountains

well known from any map.

It is thanks to them

that I live in three dimensions,

in a non-lyrical and non-rhetorical space,

with a shifting, thus real, horizon.

They don't even know

how much they carry in their empty hands.

"I don't owe them anything",

love would have said

on this open topic.

...

Language... that foreign country
where I am a stranger,
always in transit,
always lost.

The lips curled...
mirroring  a line of bitterness and frustration.

Lacking words to give me meaning
I hold on to the sound of the wind entwined
in the bare branches of the trees,
I hold on to my abandoned body,
cooling like a cake in the edge of a window,
I hold on to your smile ....
on to the feeling of the sun on my face,
I hold on to this other language made
of little gestures, sounds, images ...
I hold on to the beauty of the unspeakable

Winter sun

The ragged light struggles to find its way
nesting shadows
are growing,
stronger... darker... in my chest
language has left me behind

Raised under a strong light
I was a shadow plant longing for the dark
Winter sun, winter sun,
In my dreams I am always lost
I raise my hands towards your opal light
and start my walk through the darkest day