“Puedo escribir el poema mas triste ” por Pablo Neruda

[It is meant to be read in Spanish.  It’s translation loses the pain, the beauty, the emotion, the rhythm… such that it does the original no justice.]

Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.

Escribir, por ejemplo: “La noche esta estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos”.

El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.

Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella tambien me quiso.

En las noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La bese tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

Ella me quiso, a veces yo tambien la queria.
Como no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.

Oir la noche inmensa, mas inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocio.

Que importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche esta estrellada y ella no esta conmigo.

Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazon la busca, y ella no esta conmigo.

La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos arboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuanto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oido.

De otro. Sera de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Porque en noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Aunque este sea el ultimo dolor que ella me causa,
y estos sean los ultimos versos que yo le escribo.

“Saddest Poem,” by Pablo Neruda

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: “The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.”

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her.

To hear the immense night, more intense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

Sushi Date

He likes Moulin Rouge.  How many guys do I know like that movie?  Other than me, none… until today.  And, my dear friends, this guy has “the gay.”

Dinner was wonderful.  I haven’t had sushi in quite some time.  So, being able to enjoy such a great dinner with good company was a treat.  He had a Beef Roll dinner plate with the sashimi assortment.  I ordered a Spider Crab hand roll and the Chef’s Special Sashimi Platter (as usual).

We talked movies, career path and background.  He’s a RPCV, Russia ’02-’04.  Got mugged one time just as he got out from the consulate with a fistful of cash.  Being mugged wasn’t the worst part.  The worst part was being chewed out by the Russian police for bringing them a case they couldn’t solve.  (Apparently, the Russian police force are evaluated on how many cases they can successfully solve.  Therefore, they are quite adverse to cases that will most likely go into the “unsolved” pile.)  He went to a higher power.  When he went back to the police station, the Russian police were begging to serve him, all the while trying to cover the new holes their section chief ripped into them.

He’s originally from Tennessee.  Pretty conservative place.  Understandibly, he wanted to go someplace that was a bit more accepting of a Jewish gay man.  So, onwards he went to Minnesota.  Studied Religion as an undergrad and went to the Peace Corps afterwards.  Future?  He doesn’t know.  Do any of us?

I hope I’m not giving him the wrong message.  Although I may have cleared the air early on, he may find it strange that I, too, liked Moulin Rouge.  Maybe he thinks I’m a closet homosexual or that I’m bisexual.  Surely, some of my friends are rootin’ for me to be.  Gawd… such scandal-makers.  Well, this shouldn’t be any different than my situation with Robin other than having the tables turned.  It would be grand to have a friend with a different perspective in life.

Media Incompetence

Why is the media so easy on Bush?  I just don’t get it.  The media is not doing its job.  Continue reading “Media Incompetence”

Over a Billy-Bumbler

I cried over a billy-bumbler.  What a weird situation?  I was hungry.  I was cold even though I was wrapped around a comforter and my sleeping bag.  Then, as Oy was dying in Roland’s arms, my eyes and sinuses got really hot and tears came trickling down my cheeks and the sides of my nose.

     What hurt most was remembering how unpleasantly he hand spoken to Oy the day before.  If’ee wanted to go with her, thee should have gone when thee had thy chance!
     Had he stayed because he knew that Roland would need him?  That when push came down to shove (it was Eddie’s phrase, of course), Patrick would fail?
     Why will’ee cast thy sad houken’s eyes on me now?
     Because he had known it was to be his last day, and his dying would be hard?
     “I think you knew both things,” Roland said, and closed his eyes so he could feel the fur beneath his hands better.  “I’m so sorry I spoke to’ee so — would give the fingers on my good left hand if I could take the words back.  So I would, every one, say true.”

I cried over a the death of a courageous fictitious animal… I mean, I remember crying when Hazel passed away at the end of Watership Down, but at least bunnies are real.  Billy-bumblers, on the other hand, are just creations of Stephen King’s imagination.

Odd.  I really am investing too much into this story.

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