ulookdappertonight

where do i go?

Always, Sweetness ~ Pablo Neruda

Why such harsh machinery?

Why, to write down the stuff and people of everyday,

must poems be dressed up in gold,

or in old and fearful stone?

I want verses of felt or feather

which scarcely weigh, mild verses

with the intimacy of beds

where people have loved and dreamed.

I want poems stained

by hands and everydayness.

Verses of pastry which melt

into milk and sugar in the mouth,

air and water to drink,

the bites and kisses of love.

I long for eatable sonnets,

poems of honey and flour.

Vanity keeps prodding us

to lift ourselves skyward

or to make deep and useless

tunnels underground.

So we forget the joyous

love-needs of our bodies.

We forget about pastries.

We are not feeding the world.

In Madras a long time since,

I saw a sugary pyramid,

a tower of confectionery -

one level after another,

and in the construction, rubies,

and other blushing delights,

medieval and yellow.

Someone dirtied his hands

to cook up so much sweetness.

Brother poets from here

and there, from earth and sky,

from Medellin, from Veracruz,

Abyssinia, Antofagasta,

do you know the recipe for honeycombs?

Let’s forget about all that stone.

Let your poetry fill up

the equinoctial pastry shop

our mouths long to devour -

all the children’s mouths

and the poor adults’ also.

Don’t go on without seeing,

relishing, understanding

all these hearts of sugar.

Don’t be afraid of sweetness.

With or without us,

sweetness will go on living

and is infinitely alive,

forever being revived,

for it’s in a man’s mouth,

whether he’s eating or singing,

that sweetness has its place.

Translated from the Spanish by Alastair Reid

“Like the essence of a song, I understand you
I understood your language right from the beginning
Someone writes your words in your eyes
I understand as soon as your glance flies towards me.
I read you in every verse of the book of emotions
I feel you, I understand you more than I can express.”

Phenomenal Woman, That’s Me [Maya Angelou]

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman,
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
‘Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.