Upon discovering that Pablo Neruda is not in love with me

[Cate]

Poem currently in beauty pagent
though she may not be the most beautiful
she is hopping to receive an honorable mention
for her fantastic hula hoop skills

(will return next month if I remember)

[Geoffrey]

Cate wrote:
>Upon discovering that Pablo Neruda is not in love with me
>
>Barefoot,
>
>I recite Neruda to the moon;
>the moon does not respond
>it is just a rock.
>The stone under my toes
>feels wet.
>I drop my robe, feel the bitter
>move over my skin.
>
>There is no atmosphere on the moon,
>I imagine it's surface, cold, like this.
--------------------
>(bit of a winter/fall version of a poem from last spring)

excellent

[Karren B]

Upon discovering that Pablo Neruda is not in love with me

Barefoot,

I recite Neruda to the moon;
the moon does not respond
. . . it is just a rock.
The stone under my toes
. feels wet.
I drop my robe, feel the bitter
. . move over my skin.

There is no atmosphere on the moon,
I imagine it's surface, cold, like this.

Nice one cate!

He may not be in love with you but he influences you greatly?

‘Under your skin the moon is alive’

[lizzytysh]

... in the moment, so intensely in the moment.

You never gave Pablo a chance to know you... I'm sure he would have.

[fishfishquaileye]

Upon Discovering that Popeye the Sailor Man is not in love with me

Fully shod,

I sing the Popeye the Sailor Man theme tune
then I moon;
the moron does not respond
. . . he is just a sailor.
I'm stoned to my toes
. I feel wet with excitement.
I drop my wardrobe, drink a pint of bitter
. . remove all of my skin.

There is no spinach on the moon,
I imagine its surly face, cold, like Olive Oil.

[fishfishquaileye]

Upon discovering an apostrophe in Cate's last line

"it's" - ahhhhhhhhhh!

Barefoot,

I recite Neruda to the moon;
the moon does not respond
. . . it is just a rock.
The stone under my toes
. feels wet.
I drop my robe, feel the bitter
. . move over my skin.

There is no atmosphere on the moon,
I imagine it's surface, cold, like this.


( bit of a winter/fall version of a poem from last spring)

[imaginary friend]

Hooray Cate! Another beautiful poem.

[Cate]

Hooray Cate!

hehe -thank you I.F. and hooray for Madam Fishes Popeye poem.

Thank you Lizzy, my chance with Pablo may have passed but I think I caught the eye of my elderly neighbor... I don't think he writes poetry though, he seems more like the complaint letter type.

Thank you Geoffrey and Karren xx
I love that line Karren! I don't think that there's much of a direct influence yet but I do love his poetry - perhaps if I keep reading something will filter down.

[Cate]

the apostrophe - after years of apostrophe training, countless
corrections until I could tell you in the blink of an I when
to use it's vs its and when not to use banana's, I've fallen back
to old habits.

the apostrophe has been attended to

[fishfishquaileye]

the apostrophe - after years of apostrophe training, countless
corrections until I could tell you in the blink of an I when
to use it's vs its and when not to use banana's, I've fallen back
to old habits.

the apostrophe has been attended to

Thank you for taking the trouble to make that important correction. I am thrilled to bit's that I am not the only one who cares about grammar. Many posters here are simply lazy shit's who ignore helpful crit's of their work as they fool themselves that they are some kind of literary wit's. Their ignorance sends me into fit's of rage.

[lonndubh]

Many posters here are simply lazy shit's who ignore helpful crit's of their work as they fool themselves that they are some kind of literary wit's. Their ignorance sends me into fit's of rage.

What can I say fishy
But I am thrilled that you may have finally looked in the mirror



Cate this is for your loss

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0zrUlobOsFE

[Cate]

I would think that fish would spend a great deal of time looking in the mirror.

L ... what a delicious reading. At 1:50 - oh carne, carne minha, muslher que amel e perdi/a ti en esta hora húmeda evoco y hago canto. (Oh flesh, my flesh, woman that I loved and lost/It is you that I recall in this damp hour, you of whom I sing).


Madam fish you are much to serious. when you reach your last moments will your thoughts turn to grammar/spelling/odd sentence structures or will you think of your many hoorays/sandwiches/odd vibrators.
I don't want to upset you but I think that you forgot an apostrophe in the word 'posters'

[abby]

This is gorgeous, Cate, meditative, so of the earth and the body. Did you ever read the one he wrote with the line
'I want to do with you what Spring does with the cherry trees'
? If Neruda could've read this he might've fallen in love with you : )

[lizzytysh]

I agree with Abby . I've read this a number of times now and find not a single word out of place, too much, or lacking. It just feels perfect. The poem she mentions sounds intriguing, too.

[Cate]

Thank Abby! and thank you again Lizzy.

That poem Abby was in my first volume of Neruda poems - 20 Love Poems and I like it very much!

here Lizzy

Every Day You Play

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the gray light unwind in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Pablo Neruda