As the wind turned southerly,
the poems sprung like magnolias,
looming larger than life,
below the full moon.
Said one groundling to another,
don’t judge me. We want mystery,
and magic; in the dark
grew exalted and rueful.
All this aura, the luscious scent,
sent me levitating, my love,
vestigial, souls homing toward
you, turning westerly.
The other day I turned my head and there against the night sky was the full moon. It shocked me a little. And you know guys, where the expression “lunatic” comes from. It’s a mystery really. Why madness? Why the moon? Is it that each soul has a path to follow, and that’s where the meaning of one’s life lies? And what about love? Is it a kind of madness that would give us answers? And the answer is: we don’t know; we feel. That’s kind of the stuff that affairs of the heart are made of isn’t it? Said one Englishman in Paris, who had fell hook, line and sinker for a French actress, knowing his comrades too sought out such maidens but thought that “they would return home and marry Englishwomen of good family for whom the practicalities of the heart were no more complicated and mysterious than the practicalities of the kitchen garden.” (Julian Barnes, Levels of Life) Aren’t we all entranced and repelled both?
by Julio Cortozar
I took off your clothes amid trembling and tears
on a bed that was open to infinity,
and if I had no pity on your protests
nor on your begging nor your flushed face,
I was a potter at the dawn of time,
inside the clay I could feel being born
the slow ritual risk of the live flame,
the mythic return to flowers and to the source.
You wove in my arms the rustling locks
of time’s hair linked like a chain
to its eternally recurring fire;
I don’t know what you saw through your complaint,
I saw eagles and moss, I had become
that side of the mirror where the serpent sings.
Of course it all turns to ashes in the end. Englishwoman or Frenchwoman, regardless. Write a moony poem of course.