Sometimes

Who am I? Sometimes

While magnolia tides shimmer with the smiles of the sea

A scimitar moon sings with the power of wheat;

tiny boats like snowdrops through the ocean drift

cupped in the mighty waves

the sky's eyes breathe fire and my heart's kindling -

jaguar of my spirit stirs 

and leaps

into the running water seams of these twilight weaves

whose wolf howls and owls hoot thrice

wherefore art thou now, oh brother, oh love?

quick, before too long

locking dried petals into a walnut box

redolent of east autumn sunrise

and dizzying honeyed saffron

treasure of memories, gift to the lady of waters

this burden is heavier floating free

Today was Walt Whitman and Pablo Neruda day. I admit a fascination and love for Pablo Neruda, and an indifference towards Walt Whitman. Oh, Whitman definitely possesses a turn of phrase and a knack for vital, almost blood-thirsty writing that lacks in my own. But somehow he manages to make poetry long-winded, almost tedious. There is something impatient in the reading, or too patient in the writing. Maybe I read too nearly to Pablo Neruda, whose writing inspired me greatly.

Some lines I wrote down as I read them:

cold flower heads are raining over my heart

ay, love is a journey through waters and stars, through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain

carnal apple, woman filled, burning moon, dark smell of seaweed, crush of mud and light

full of the voltage of the sea's movements

...to that form that love carved in the guitar

so that the waves can complete themselves in the sky

It seems like every poem is charged with their own "voltage" like the sea's motions.  Again I wish that I could read the original works and understand the nuance of his language. I understand enough Spanish to know that I know too little. 

It's been a day of distance, of separation. I can't remember if I've ever suffered a headache, but what I sometimes experience is strange nauseating "distance vision". Everything, from the pen in my hand to the doorknob only paces away or the book I hold in my hand, everything appears as though it were far, far away, well beyond reach.  That's what today has felt like, as though seeing things, I could not interact with them. Difficult days (S: looking at you), unusual environment, unsolvable problems, confusing imagery, brokenness of people, losing - I can't seem to win, or even compete in the game, sometimes. None of these are my problems, and I can't seem to help with them. It is a devastating separation. This is such a day (when the chinks in my legerdemain make clear the smoke and mirror).

What do I do on such days? I've no solutions. Sometimes, I write until the pages bleed through and, closing my eyes, I wait until my blindness dissipates. Sometimes, I stare at my hands and wonder if they are mine, or if that changes things. Sometimes, I wish. Sometimes I win anyway.