Love is apart from all things.
Desire and excitement are nothing beside it.
It is not the body that finds love.
What leads us there is the body.
What is not love provokes it.
What is not love quenches it.
Love lays hold of everything we know.
The passions which are called love
also change everything to a newness
at first. Passion is clearly the path
but does not bring us to love.
It opens the castle of our spirit
so that we might find the love which is
a mystery hidden there.
Love is one of many great fires.
Passion is a fire made of many woods,
each of which gives off its special odor
so we can know the many kinds
that are not love. Passion is the paper
and twigs that kindle the flames
but cannot sustain them. Desire perishes
because it tries to be love.
Love is eaten away by appetite.
Love does not last, but it is different
from the passions that do not last.
Love lasts by not lasting.
Isaiah said each man walks in his own fire
for his sins. Love allows us to walk
in the sweet music of our particular heart.

 

 

Jack Gilbert

Cien sonetos de amor XCII

Amor mío, si muero y tú no mueres,
no demos al dolor más territorio:
amor mío, si mueres y no muero,
no hay extensión como la que vivimos.
Polvo en el trigo, arena en las arenas
el tiempo, el agua errante, el viento vago
nos llevó como grano navegante.
Pudimos no encontrarnos en el tiempo.
Esta pradera en que nos encontramos,
oh pequeño infinito! devolvemos.
Pero este amor, amor, no ha terminado,
y así como no tuvo nacimiento
no tiene muerte, es como un largo río,
sólo cambia de tierras y de labios. 

 

Pablo Neruda

HY one, shy one,

Shy one of my heart,

She moves in the firelight

Pensively apart.

 

She carries in the dishes,

And lays them in a row.

To an isle in the water

With her would I go.

 

She carries in the candles,

And lights the curtained room,

Shy in the doorway

And shy in the gloom;

 

And shy as a rabbit,

Helpful and shy.

To an isle in the water

With her would I fly. 

 

William Butler Yeats

Fumo

 

Longe de ti são ermos os caminhos,
Longe de ti não há luar nem rosas,
Longe de ti há noites silenciosas,
Há dias sem calor, beirais sem ninhos!
Meus olhos são dois velhos pobrezinhos
Perdidos pelas noites invernosas...
Abertos, sonham mãos cariciosas,
Tuas mãos doces, plenas de carinhos!
Os dias são Outonos: choram... choram...
Há crisântemos roxos que descoram...
Há murmúrios dolentes de segredos...
Invoco o nosso sonho! Estendo os braços!
E ele é, ó meu Amor, pelos espaços,
Fumo leve que foge entre os meus dedos!...

 

 

Florbela Espanca

Dos cuerpos

 



Dos cuerpos frente a frente
son a veces dos olas
y la noche es océano.

Dos cuerpos frente a frente
son a veces dos piedras
y la noche desierto.

Dos cuerpos frente a frente
son a veces raíces
en la noche enlazadas.

Dos cuerpos frente a frente
son a veces navajas
y la noche relámpago.

Dos cuerpos frente a frente
son dos astros que caen
en un cielo vacío.   Octavio Paz

Devolve-me..........

 

Devolve-me esse corpo.

Esse que não tive, que não tenho

mais que no fugaz olhar

por cima do meu ombro

Porém não para trás

 

Devolve-me o que não é meu

nem nunca será meu,

tal como o pássaro

que por lá fora canta

fora da minha mão,

fora do meu corpo.

 

Devolve-me esse pássaro

e poisa nesse ramo

que o meu olhar alcança

 

 

Pedro Tamen



Fragile like a child is fragile.

Destined not to be forever.

Destined to become other

To mother. Here I am

Sitting on a chair, thinking

About you. Thinking

About how it was

To talk to you.

How sometimes it was wonderful

And sometimes it was awful.

How drugs when drugs were

Undid the good almost entirely

But not entirely

Because good could always be seen

Glimmering like lame glimmers

In the window of a shop

Called Beautiful

Things Never Last Forever.

I loved you. I love you. You were.

And you are. Life is experience.

It's all so simple. Experience is

The chair we sit on.

The sitting. The thinking

Of you where you are a blank

To be filled

In by missing. I loved you.

I love you like I love

All beautiful things.

True beauty is truly seldom.

You were. You are

In May. May now is looking onto

The June that is coming up.

This is how I measure

The year. Everything Was My Fault

Has been the theme of the song

I've been singing,

Even when you've told me to quiet.

I haven't been quiet.

I've been crying. I think you

Have forgiven me. You keep

Putting your hand on my shoulder

When I'm crying.

Thank you for that. And

For the ineffable sense

Of continuance. You were. You are

The brightest thing in the shop window

And the most beautiful seldom I ever saw.

 

Mary Jo Bang