Monthly Archives: March 2013


Pablo Neruda

If You Forget Me
-Pablo Neruda
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,
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

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


Charles the Great


look at the people: elbows, knees,

earlobes, crotches, feet,

noses, lips, eyes, all the parts

usually clothed, and they are


in whatever they usually do

which is hardly ever


their psyches stuffed with

used matter and propaganda,

advertising propaganda, religious

propaganda, sexual propaganda,

political propaganda, assorted

propagandas, and they

themselves are

dull and vicious.

they are dull because they have been

made dull and they are

vicious because they are

fearful of losing what they have.

the people are the biggest

horror show on earth,

have been for centuries.

you could be sitting in a

room with one of them


or with many of


or you could be one

of them.

every time the phone

rings or there is a knock on

the door

I’m afraid it will be one of

the disgusting,

spiritually destroyed







or worse, on picking up the

phone the voice I hear

might be my


or upon opening the


I will see myself

standing there,

a remnant of the

wasted centuries,

smiling a

false smile,

having learned well,

having forgotten

what I am here


-Charles Bukowski



For St. Patrick’s day weekend, Nobel Laureate Seamus Heaney’s,



Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pin rest; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.