charlobo-a-go-go

A few weeks ago, there was a call for writers for a poetry reading/collection. I told one of the organizers I was interested. It’s been a while since I’ve done a reading, and it’s been a while since I’ve dedicated myself to any kind of writing other than, well, what I’m doing now.

So some time passes. I think about a poem. I think twice. I don’t write anything. One of the organizers comes up to me and suggests that I write and contribute. Strongly suggests. To the point where it’s pointedly saying, “You should turn some stuff in.”

I think about it more. The deadline passes. I don’t turn anything in.

I am kicking myself.

I hate being lazy, and I hate even more not writing when it’s clear that I need to. It’s that whole hiding your light under a bushel. (It’s Easter Monday, so I’m bustin out the biblical stuff.) Well I guess that means I need to write something. It is poetry month after all.

I’ll post it here when I get to that point.

Peace. 

Sonnet 17

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, 
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. 
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, 
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms 
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; 
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, 
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. 
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; 
so I love you because I know no other way

in which there is no I or you 
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand 
so intimate that when you fall asleep it is my eyes that close

Pablo Neruda