Thursday, January 12, 2017

Michael Marrotti writes

'The Master Of Brevity'

Your nipples
are erect
after the
first stanza

By the time
the second
one comes

Those silk
white panties
are on the
floor next
to your

The third stanza
is so moving
that I've moved
on inside you

I've released
my seed before
the poem has
reached its end 

my rank
I'm the master
of brevity 
 I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees. ~Pablo Neruda, Love Poem XIV:
"I Want to do with You What Spring Does wit the Cherry Trees" -- Raising Ecstasy

1 comment:

  1. Love Poem XIV

    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, tr. W. S. Merwin


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