Great Throughts Treasury

"We open the halves of a miracle, and a clotting of acids brims into the starry divisions: creation's original juices, irreducible, changeless, alive: so the freshness lives on."

"We were behind you with our lassoes in our hands, they answered."

"We will never have any memory of dying. We were so patient about our being, noting down numbers, days, years and months, hair, and the mouths we kiss, and that moment of dying we let pass without a note -we leave it to others as memory, or we leave it simply to water, to water, to air, to time. Nor do we even keep the memory of being born, although to come into being was tumultuous and new; and now you don?t remember a single detail and haven?t kept even a trace of your first light. It?s well known that we are born. It?s well known that in the room or in the wood or in the shelter in the fishermen?s quarter or in the rustling cane fields there is a quite unusual silence, a grave and wooden moment as a woman prepares to give birth. It?s well known that we were all born. But if that abrupt translation from not being to existing, to having hands, to seeing, to having eyes, to eating and weeping and overflowing and loving and loving and suffering and suffering, of that transition, that quivering of an electric presence, raising up one body more, like a living cup, and of that woman left empty, the mother who is left there in her blood and her lacerated fullness, and its end and its beginning, and disorder tumbling the pulse, the floor, the cover still everything comes together and add some knot more to the thread of life, nothing, nothing remains in your memory of the savage sea which summoned up a wave and plucked a shrouded apple from the tree. The only thing you remember is your life.-Births"

"What does autumn go on paying for with so much yellow money?"

"What does persist on death row?"

"When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keeps hidden takes over all that I say."

"What's wrong with you, with us, what's happening to us? Ah our love is a harsh cord that binds us wounding us and if we want to leave our wound, to separate, it makes a new knot for us and condemns us to drain our blood and burn together. What's wrong with you? I look at you and I find nothing in you but two eyes like all eyes, a mouth lost among a thousand mouths that I have kissed, more beautiful, a body just like those that have slipped beneath my body without leaving any memory. And how empty you went through the world like a wheat-colored jar without air, without sound, without substance! I vainly sought in you depth for my arms that dig, without cease, beneath the earth: beneath your skin, beneath your eyes, nothing, beneath your double breast scarcely raised a current of crystalline order that does not know why it flows singing. Why, why, why, my love, why?"

"What's wrong with you? I look at you and I find nothing in you but two eyes like all eyes, a mouth lost among a thousand mouths that I have kissed, more beautiful, a body just like those that have slipped beneath my body without leaving any memory."

"When I sleep every night, what am I called or not called? And when I wake, who am I if I was not I while I slept?"

"When I cannot look at your face I look at your feet. Your feet of arched bone, your hard little feet. I know that they support you, and that your sweet weight rises upon them. Your waist and your breasts, the doubled purple of your nipples, the sockets of your eyes that have just flown away, your wide fruit mouth, your red tresses, my little tower. But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me."

"Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?"

"When we are far from home we never remember their winters. The distance erases the pains of winter, homeless populations, barefoot children in the cold. The art of memory only brings green fields, yellow and red flowers, blue sky of the national anthem."

"Who I am in this dead city ... but I do not understand the Ashes."

"Whoever desired each other as we do? Let us look for the ancient ashes of hearts that burned, and let our kisses touch there, one by one, till the flower, disembodied, rises again. Let us love that Desire that consumed its own fruit and went down, aspect and power, into the earth: We are its continuing light, its indestructible, fragile seed."

"Why do I keep the skeleton? And who came to live for me when I was sleeping or sick?"

"Why do the leaves commit suicide when they feel yellow?"

"Where is the child I was, still inside me or gone? Know that not ever wanted And that did not want me? Do we ride so long we grew apart? Do not we die too when my child died? And if the soul fell me why I keep the skeleton?"

"Where were you then? Who else was there? Saying what? Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?"

"Where things go sleep? They are the dream of others?"

"Who dies? slowly dies who becomes the slave of habit, repeating every day the same paths, who does not change brands not risk to wear a new color or does not talk to those unfamiliar. Dies slowly he who does the television his guru. dies slowly who avoids a passion, who prefers black on white and the dots on the is at the expense of a whirlwind of emotions, just those that restore the luster of the eyes, smiles from yawns, hearts from the stumbling and feelings . Dies slowly he who does not overthrow the table when is unhappy at work, who does not risk the certain for the uncertain to go after a dream, who are not permitted at least once in life, flee from sensible advice. Dies slowly he who does not travel, who does not read, who does not listen to music, who does not find grace in himself. dies slowly who destroys his self-love, who do not let themselves be helped. Dies slowly, who spends his days complaining of his bad luck or the incessant rain. Dies slowly he who abandons a project before starting it, no question about a subject that is unknown or does not respond when you ask about something you know. Let's avoid death in mild doses, remembering always that being alive requires an effort much larger than the simple fact of breathing. Only perseverance will we achieve superb stage of happiness."

"White bee, even when you are gone you buzz in my soul you live again in time, slender and silent."

"While I'm writing, I'm far away; and when I come back, I've gone."

"Why wasn't Christopher Columbus able to discover Spain?"

"Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?"

"Wine stirs the spring, happiness bursts through the earth like a plant, walls crumble, and rocky cliffs, chasms close, as song is born."

"With which stars do they go on speaking, the rivers that never reach the sea?"

"With your name on my mouth and a kiss that never broke away from yours."

"Without doubt I praise the wild excellence."

"Woman, I would Have Been your child, to drink the milk of your breasts as from a well, to see and feel you at my side and have you in your laughter and your gold crystal voice. To feel you in my veins like God in the rivers and adore you in the sorrowful bones of dust and lime, to watch you passing painlessly by to emerge in the stanza-cleansed of all evil. How I would love you woman, how I would love you, love you as no one ever did and still die. Love you more and still love you more and more."

"Wondering why his poetry speaks of dreams not of the leaves and the great volcanoes of his native land? Come and see the blood in the streets, come and see the blood in the streets, come and see the blood in the streets!"

"Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom where my dog waits for my arrival waving his fan-like tail in friendship."

"You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs? and the poppy-petalled metaphysics? and the rain repeatedly spattering its words and drilling them full of apertures and birds."

"You are here. Oh, you do not run away. You will answer me to the last cry. Curl round me as though you were frightened. Even so, a strange shadow once 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."

"You are like nobody since I love you."

"You are the daughter of the sea, oregano's first cousin. Swimmer, your body is pure as the water; cook, your blood is quick as the soil. Everything you do is full of flowers, rich with the earth. Your eyes go out toward the water, and the waves rise; your hands go out to the earth and the seeds swell; you know the deep essence of water and the earth, conjoined in you like a formula for clay. Naiad: cut your body into turquoise pieces, they will bloom resurrected in the kitchen. This is how you become everything that lives. And so at last, you sleep, in the circle of my arms that push back the shadows so that you can rest - vegetables, seaweed, herbs: the foam of your dreams."

"You came to my life with what you were bringing, made of light and bread and shadow I expected you, and Like this I need you, Like this I love you, and to those who want to hear tomorrow that which I will not tell them, let them read it here, and let them back off today because it is early for these arguments."

"You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming."

"You keep only darkness, my distant female, from your regard sometimes the coast of dread emerges."

"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."

"You know that nobody streets and into the houses either? There are only eyes in the windows. If you do not have to sleep touching a door will open, you open up to a point and you'll see that it's cold inside, that the house is empty, and wants nothing to you, are worthless your stories, and if you insist with your tenderness you bite the dog and cat."

"You know the streets and no one in either house? Just eyes on the windows. If you do not have to sleep and touches a door will open, you open up to a point and you'll see that it's cold inside, that the house is empty, and wants nothing to you, your stories are worth nothing, and if you insist with your tenderness bite you the dog and cat."

"You made your decision, chestnut, and leaped to earth, burnished and ready, firm and smooth as the small breasts of the islands of America."

"You start dying slowly... If you do not travel, you have not read the book, if you do not listen to the sounds of life, if you do not appreciate yourself, slowly start dying. Killed while confidence in yourself, when you let others help you. they start dying slowly if you're a slave of your habits, you will always go the same way, if you do not change your routines, if you do not wear different colors, or if you do not talk to strangers, slowly you start dying. , if the passion, the feeling rebellious, and the things that make your eyes shine Vamydarnd, and your heart beats faster, they 're far away... slowly start dying. Though when your job or ur not happy, change it unless you know for sure you do not risk the uncertain, beyond the dreams not go after you, you do not allow yourself, at least once in your life... go beyond the expedient today to start living now! 's risk Now! 's working now! Let it slowly die! Happiness does not forget!"

"You swallowed everything, like distance, like the sea, like time ... That was my destiny and I travel in my longing, and in my desire, in you everything sank!"

"You undermine the horizon with your absence. Eternally in flight like the wave."

"You will ask why his poetry speak of dreams not of the leaves and the great volcanoes of his native land? Come and see the blood in the streets, come and see the blood in the streets, come and see the blood by streets!"

"You will ask: And where are the lilacs? And the metaphysical blanket of poppies? And the rain that often struck your words filling them with holes and birds?"

"You will remember that leaping stream where sweet aromas rose and trembled, and sometimes a bird, wearing water and slowness, its winter feathers. You will remember those gifts from the earth: indelible scents, gold clay, weeds in the thicket and crazy roots, magical thorns like swords. You'll remember the bouquet you picked, shadows and silent water, bouquet like a foam-covered stone. That time was like never, and like always. So we go there, where nothing is waiting; we find everything waiting there."

"You pervade everything, you, pervade everything."

"You will ask: why does your poetry not speak to us of sleep, of the leaves, of the great volcanoes of your native land? Come and see the blood in the streets, come and see the blood in the streets, come and see the blood in the streets!"