Moi?
Recently, I don't seem to get the pleasure I usually get from reading.
Have been either reading non-fictions which have something to do with psychology or politics, or fictions which are heavy and only add to my melancholy.
Time for me to go back to poetry.
Poems I typically read are rather short ones.
Yet length certainly doesn't mean poems are light reads.
Short but expressive, play of words and let my imagination runs wild----reasons why I love poetry.
These long quiet nights appear to be the perfect time (when actually anytime could be good) for me to dig out a few poems and enjoy the simple pleasure they bring me.
Make myself a cup of tea, dim the lights a bit, tug in bed, good reads----simple pleasure.
I like the aroma of tea in the air.
Interestingly, a cup of tea before bed has nothing to do with the quality of sleep.
Caffeine is only at the service of my moods; I fall asleep anyway if my mind gives me a break. And if it doesn't, even sleeping pills lose their effect.
Not that I know about many poets and their poems, but there is a certain (type of) poet that I particularly dislike----Xu Zhimo (徐志摩).
I do like Chinese poems as the language itself is poetic and beautiful.
The complexity of the language itself means a single character can carry with it sophisticated or even layers of meanings.
Xu Zhimo is so famous with his poems about Cambridge as well as his romantic love poems.
But it is exactly his 'romantic' love poems that I detest. Or maybe it's his style that repels me.
So exaggerated and so explicit that it is almost vulgar and tawdry to me.
Anyway, I am not a bluestocking nor am I a literary critic, so I'm not giving any more comments.
Dear readers,
Do you have poets or poems that you particularly like? Or do you sometimes write your own poems?
I sometimes do.
Very often I find myself wishing that I was born in the 'good old times', one of the many reasons is that I wish I live in a time when people write poems and give them as gifts---it is simply sweet and meaningful.
I could write simple poems but couldn't really give them out as gifts because I'm afraid it's too much, too emotional and too personal, no matter how close I am with the receiver.
My parents were once separated by distance, but they maintained the love not only through phone calls but also handwritten letters. And many of the times, my dad would write my mum poems and she would write him back.
How romantic!
I wish people still do this now...
Just if the world has more amateur poets and fewer people who complain/curse/talk bullshit/gossip, it would be fantastic.
Tonight, I'm reading some of Pablo Neruda's works.
I share with you this poem which speaks my mind and heart.
Readers, enjoy.
If You Forget Me
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
Frustration, anger and disappointment only mean my yearning for love.
I can be strong and independent but the truth is, I miss you and I miss the way we were...
Love,
N
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