terça-feira, 19 de agosto de 2008

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.

4 comentários:

The tone disse...

Maybe it is about time your grieving was done away with... Although you have all the right and reason to be Penelope, and to plead for the fulfillment of your bitter-sweet dreams, I wish I could see here the she-warrior again Iansan's blood, screaming to terrify the brave's heart...
earth, sweat and love mingling and spreading all around!

Anônimo disse...

It's hard and unfair to comment on your writings, since it's impossible to say where your poetic self ends and where you feminine soul starts, if it's ever possible to separate them. If it's true that we build our poetic selfs on suffering, you must be under the most painful of the last century.
To your poetic self, take Rainer Maria Rilke's fourth letter words:

"But even so, I think that you will not have to remain without a solution if you trust in Things that are like the ones my eyes are now resting upon. If you trust in Nature, in the small Things that hardly anyone sees and that can so suddenly become huge, immeasurable; if you have this love for what is humble and try very simply, as someone who serves, to win the confidence of what seems poor: then everything will become easier for you, more coherent and somehow more reconciling, not in your conscious mind perhaps, which stays behind, astonished, but in your innermost awareness, awakeness, and knowledge. You are so young, so much before all beginning, and I would like to beg you, dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer. Perhaps you do carry within you the possibility of creating and forming, as an especially blessed and pure way of living; train your for that - but take whatever comes, with great trust, and as long as it comes out of your will, out of some need of your innermost self, then take it upon yourself, and don't hate anything. Sex is difficult; yes. But those tasks that have been entrusted to us are difficult; almost everything serious is difficult; and everything is serious. If you just recognize this and manage, out of yourself, out of your own talent and nature, out of your own experience and childhood and strength, to achieve a wholly individual relation to sex (one that is not influenced by convention and custom), then you will no longer have to be afraid of losing yourself and becoming unworthy of your dearest possession. (...) Don't ask for any advice from them and don't expect any understanding; but believe in a love that is being stored up for you like and inheritance, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you can travel as far as you wish without having to step outside it".

To your feminine self, listen to The Tone, and set yourself free from this burden. Read Tristan's letter to Susannah, in Legends Of The Fall, as if it was a letter from you Ulysses, "killing the thing he loves," with no excuses, no blaming, no signature:

Dear Susannah.
l have become a hunter.
Tell Stab there are creatures here that cannot even be found in books.
And l have killed them all.
Susannah, all we had is dead ...
... as l am dead.
Marry another.

Anônimo disse...

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