Boxing, poetry and love

"Live the questions now": this is indeed one of the wisest pieces of advice I have ever read in my life. It is as deep as the rain pouring in a Sunday morning or the hand of a clock, tickling the tickler of time. No, this is not an English mistake my darling, I do have the Certificate of Proficient English by Cambridge. Would they approve of my writing? The un and in conscious mass of botch that I make out and of Shakespeare's language. Nevertheless, trying to "win the confidence of what seems poor" I do wish to hinge on a single wasp that has bitten me today: boxing, poetry and love. What do these three instances have in common? What most readily comes to my mind is the theme of hope, of holding a single thought of truth in spite of everything, and mainly, in spite of the lies that are constantly repeated to you through despicable mouths made of blood and crippled souls. Actually, when a fighter punches his fellow it is not for the sake of violence, it is the sake of defence. Defence of movements, of body and of ideals. How about poetry? Indeed a punch: who does not gasp when hears the unexpected surge of energy that stems from lines such as "Oh Lord, how fool these mortals be", or even, "Love is anterior to life and posterior to death". Aren't those hard punches that reach the core of one's stomach and bring back vomits of blood and left overs of food? Indeed, boxing and poetry are connected are intertwined by a single mode of expression: vomit, left overs, things you would rather not mention, or simply expel from your body; but they do come back and demand an answer in return. And what's love has to do with it? Everything my darling, it is the very essence of our existence, the honey the wasp does not produce, the stain of a bee: what punches, what bleeds and what is brought back, everything at once. Withot stop, without break, fast as the sound of the wind all over the moon in the evening. All these to say I do believe in people and I do believe in hope. I do believe the words that have been addressed to me and the music they have provoked: the divine cadence of questions and of looking up to hope, the belief there is somethin better in store not only for me, but for the world. Am I dreaming? Absolutely, but this makes sense - such as a pair of green eyes I have caught a glimpse.

Each man kills the thing he loves

"Yet each man kills the thing he loves... the brave man with a sword!" This is indeed a consolation, my dear Ulysses, thy sweet Penelope stills yells to the awe and the water hidden beneath the recesses of a desolate beach. As the waves disclose an ominous fog of death and despair, I still sing an everlasting song of pain for your loss. Actually, such was never effected, however I do miss you as if we had endured a long battle of Troy and a fool love, I have yet to touch your face, nevertheless you have refused me as a bitter poison, something that would keep you out of your sorts and wits. Forgive me I pray thee, do not know why should I, but I do pray for thy pardon for thy pity even though I am the one who is supposed to be asked for amnesty. Art thou going to read these crooked words? Written in the sahpe of a dream? Or the left overs of an utopian dream? How would I dare to have thy eyes laid on me again (or for the first time). What would I not venture to lose just to have "The Pleasure that abeith for a Moment", I would indded risk to transform "The Sorrow that endureth for Ever" into this single token of thou affection. Do not be s nasty, my dear warrior: disclose thy power to each single dark place of Earth and take me in your arms. Let me sing for thy sleep, softly caress thy lips, fall asleep in the shadow of a cloud, wake up on the dark side of the moon. Survive, drive, jive... more than anything... Let me love thee, I pray thee... Please, do not refuse me.

From Penelope to Ulysses

This is the first time I am going to quote a text in full, and yet, I feel as if I have the moral obligation to come to terms with it. This is for you, my postmodern warrior whose dread outstrips any courage of taking me into your arms, or even any wits to know me. You have yet to take in any of the words I write on this alternative parchment, embroidered with the venturesome enterprise of forging a new soul. A new Penelope should I venture to be? Absolutely, but my compromise is with the entrancement of a dream, crammed with ideologies and misunderstoods, but a promise that once fulfilled could have brought the upmost bliss: a dimention beyond mortal knowledge. However, you have chosen not to, my darling. The blanket in the night, the tea in the backburner, the sibilant sound of silence, you have made up your mind not to accept, not to venture, not to understand. Why? May I, a simple nun of fire and water, ask. I would have liked to tread the shores of Ithaca and had a chat with the gravels to which you stared, bleakly. Or crssing the barriers of time, glared at you in the crowds of the train, at the station of the metro, in the pale reflexion in the eyes of a child. Dearest Ulysses, do not bother to write, come yourself. This is plain, simple and clear, and yet, it comes from another poet, one whose words went beyond the myth itself. Come yourself, should I say, should I utter, if I may. I do, in a despicable act of despair ask for your forgiveness. Love is a passion of anxiety and fear, and just as your fright overlaied one of the most dazzling possibilities of true love, my craving for you prevented me from acting soberly, like a postmodern woman: one that does need neither men, nor love nor lap. Not true. I do, as I sip my hot coffe. I do as I wave my dreams good bye and embrace a screen of a million lights. I do, should I say? No way! If I may, may I ask you to chance your arm, bite the bullet, fill the stars? May I ask you to build another Trojan Horse and defeat the myriad of tears that have been falling from my eyes? Could I make things all right, my dear Ulysses. I beg you, forgive this pretentious amazon. Sometimes I stumble and fall, as I did a few days ago, but do not but me with any buts, just come yourself, without delay.

From Ovid's Heroides

Translated by James M. Hunter (follow link to ongoing e-Text)
by Publius Ovidus Naso [Ovid] (43BC-18AD)

I: Penelope to Ulysses

Your Penelope sends you these words, truant Ulysses; It is of no use to write back to me: come yourself! Troy has certainly fallen, hated by the daughters of the Greeks; But Priam and all of Troy were hardly worth so much to me. Oh would that, when his fleet made for Lacedaemon, The adulterer had been obliterated by the raging sea! I would not have lain, cold, in my lonely bed, Nor, deserted, would I complain of the days' slow passing; Nor would the hanging web weary my widowed hands As I seek to cheat the endless night.
When did I not fear dangers greater than the real ones? Love is a thing which is filled with restless fear. I imagined the violent Trojans rushing upon you;I was always pale at the name of Hector. If someone told of Antilochus* vanquished by the enemy, Antilochus was the cause of my fear; Or if the son of Menoetius* was killed in borrowed armor, I wept that guile could be without success. Tlepolemus* warmed the Lycian's spear with his blood: So Tlepolemus' death renewed my care. In short, whoever was butchered in the Achaean camp, Your lover's heart became colder than ice.
But a favoring god looks after chaste love. Troy is turned to ashes, with my husband safe. The Argive leaders have returned, and the altars smoke; The barbarian spoils are laid before our fathers' gods. The young women bear gifts of thanks for their husbands' safe return; The husbands sing of the fates of Troy defeated by their own. Just-minded old folk and trembling girls admire; The wife hangs on the words of her husband's tale. And someone at the table shows the fierce conflict, And paints all of Pergamum* with a little wine: "Here the Simois* flowed; this is Sigeian land;* Here stood the lofty palace of old Priam.* There Aeacus' grandson was camped, and there Ulysses; Here Hector's mangled corpse terrifies the galloping horses."
For old Nestor told all of this to your son, whom I sent To look for you, and he told it to me. . . . My heart trembled constantly with fear, until it was reported that you rodeVictorious, with the horses of Ismarus,* among friendly troops.But what did it profit me that Ilium lies ruined by your arms,And that what once was a wall is now level ground,If I remain as I remained while Troy stood,And my husband is kept from me to the very end?Pergamum is destroyed for others; for me alone it still remains,Though the victor settles and plows the earth with a captured ox.Now there is grain where Troy was, and crops ripe for the scytheThrive in soil enriched by Phrygian* blood.The half-buried bones of men are struck by the curving plow,And growing plants hide the ruined homes.Although the victor, you are still gone, and I am not allowed to knowThe cause of the delay, or where in the world you hide, cruel one. Whoever turns his wandering ship to these shores,Is asked by me many questions about you before he departs,And he is given the letter written by these fingers,To give to you if he ever even sees you anywhere. . . .It would be better if Phoebus' walls* stood even now -Alas! I am angry with my own inconstant prayers!I would know where you fought, and would fear only war,And my complaint would be joined with many others.What I fear I do not know - nevertheless, half-crazed, I fear all things,And a wide field lies open for my fears.Whatever dangers the ocean has, whatever the land,I suspect to be the cause of your long delay.While I foolishly fear these things, such is your appetiteThat you may be captive to a foreign love.And perhaps you tell what a country wife you have,That only her wool is not coarse.May I be wrong, and may this crime vanish in thin air,And may it not be that, free to return, you wish to remain away.
My father Icarius drives me to leave my widowed bed,And rebukes me continuously for my long delay.Let him rebuke me; I am yours - it behoves me to be called yours:Penelope will always be Ulysses' wife.But he is subdued by my loyalty and my chaste prayers. . . .A dissolute crowd, rush to demand my hand;In your hall they rule, with no one to forbid them.My heart, your wealth they tear apart.Why should I tell you of Pisander, Polybus, and the terrible Medon,*Of the greedy hands of Eurymachus and Antinous,And of others, all of whom, because of your shameful absence,You nourish with the wealth of your blood?Irus the beggar, and Melanthius who drives the flocks to be eaten,Add the final shame to your ruin.
We are three in number, unwarlike: a wife without power,And the old man Laertes and the boy Telemachus.The boy was almost taken from me by ambush not long ago,While he prepared, against all their wishes, to go to Pylos.*I pray that the gods command that, our fates coming in order,He is the one to close my eyes, and to close yours.The keeper of the cattle and the aged nurse aid us,And the faithful caretaker of the foul pig-sty is a third.But Laertes, who is useless in arms,Cannot wield power in the midst of enemies;Telemachus will come, if only he lives, to stronger age,But now he should have the protection of a father's help.Nor do I have the strength to drive the enemies from our halls.Come home quickly, refuge and altar for your own!You have - and will have, I pray - a son, who in his tender yearsShould have been trained in his father's skills.Consider Laertes: he holds off the final day of fateSo that you may be the one to close his eyes.At all events I, who was a girl when you left,Will seem to have become an old woman, even if you come without delay.

Notes
Antilochus - Nestor's eldest son.Menoetius's son - Patroclus, Achilles friend who is slayed in Achilles' armor by Hector. Tlepolemus - a son of Hercules killed in the Iliad by Sarpedon a son of Zeus who comes from Lycia to aid the Trojans.Pergamum - the citadel at Troy.Simois - a river near Troy, the river god with which Achilles battles.Sigeian land- near Troy, possible burial sight of Achilles, although the Odyssey has his ashes returned an urn to his homeland. Priam - King of Troy, father of the Trojan's greatest hero Hector, whose body is dragged around the walls of Troy after he is slain by Achilles.Aeacus - a son of Zeus, grandfather (technically great grandfather?) to Achilles.Ismarus - the land of the Cicones.Phrygian - allies of Troy.Phoebus' walls - Troy, whose wall was said to have been erected by Phoebus Apollo.Pisander, Polybus, and the terrible Medon - Curiously, although Pisander, Polybus, Eurymachus, and Antinuous, lead the fight for the suitors against Odysseus, Medon is generally seen favorably in the Odyssey and is spared.Pylos - where Telemachus sees Nestor.

Icarus

I wouldn't have gone as far as to say that you are a dream come true. Just a simple maze, a as time goes by stuff that stuffs my face with stiff suggestions I am a santified saint in swindler desguises. Leave me alone and pull all the stops to prevent this poisonous venom from reaching the last vain in my vanity valley . Pull all yourself together and shove off. You are an unwanted spirit that have been tormenting my soul and hackneying my mind. The rhythms are still here, the blisters are still here, but the capoeira circle has gone a bit too heavy for me, I have to learn more movements and fend for myself, there comes the ludicrous kick, instead of shunning from it with a boisterous dance, I go right to it, as if the pain would do me good and help me to transcend to another level: spirit level? I have to have a minimal knowledge of a joiner to build my house, out of the fire and out of the woods, out of my indentity. Who is me? I hold sway to the idea I am still a child chancing my arm at living, having a stab at dither and blather about a shadow of a dream once broken. Yes, this is the line of a song, I own up to confessing I am abject in my povery, but I am going to set my heart into constructing the little me, the small me that will grow and become one. Is that possible. Indeed! I am me, you know, Viviane, who writes poetry, who loves piano and classical music. Nice to meet you. Yes, I am Pulga, the flea that has been learning the hidden secrets of capoeira. My pleasure! Yes, I am Miss Annunciação, the one that works like a dog to pay her bills. Enchanted. But, far and more important, I am what I am: love and hate, body and soul, immaculate temple of pleasure and pain. I am me, do you want me? Would you care for me and take me in your arms? Would you understand the tasteless song of the blood mixed with the berimbau tune and rotten gravel? I highly believe you wouldn't. But that is immaterial, you see. Much of a mutchness that munch my stomach and punches my face. It's refreshing being punched. But it is also nice being on top of the hill in the beginning of the fall. Am I going to have wings? Always! I am ICARUS.