The Questiona poem by Pablo Neruda

Love, a question
has destroyed you.

I have come back to you
from thorny uncertainty.

I want you straight as
the sword or the road.

But you insist
on keeping a nook
of shadow that I do not want.

My love,
understand me,
I love all of you,
from eyes to feet, to toenails,
inside,
all the brightness, which you kept.

It is I, my love,
who knocks at your door.
It is not the ghost, it is not
the one who once stopped
at your window.
I knock down the door:
I enter all your life:
I come to live in your soul:
you can not cope with me.

You must open door to door,
you must obey me,
you must open your eyes
so that I may search in them,

you must see how I walk
with heavy steps
along all the roads
that, blind, were waiting for me.

Do not fear,
I am yours,
but
I am not the passenger or the beggar,
I am your master,
the one you were waiting for,
and now I enter
your life,
no more to leave it,
love, love, love,
but to stay.

Laughter

Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.

Do not take away the rose,
the lanceflower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in your joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.

My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.

My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.

Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter ilke
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.

Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.

Pablo Neruda

lonely anticipation

my
face
and
this single tear
fall
silently
as
this hope
that
bloomed
now
wans
from
neglect

Upcoming CD - sneak preview

Perfect Girl Productions

will soon** be releasing its first ever CD titled:

The Perfect Girl First Ever CD

(yes very original name)

Tracks will include:

1.

Perfect Girl

(yes we know still very original)
2.

Crunchy Lips

3.

Everything Tastes Like Chicken

4.

What are You Gonna Do?

4.

Lee Lee Zombie Girl

and others

So stay tuned!

[this message has been brought to you by

Perfect Girl Productions]

(who else did you think it would be from????)

** soon is a relative term.

[photo credit to Willy]

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house,
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
Empty of its furniture,
Still, treat each guest honorably,
He may be cleaning you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Poem by Rumi

The Lady's Yes a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

"Yes!" I answered you last night;
"No!" this morning, Sir, I say!
Colours, seen by candle-light,
Will not look the same by day.

When the tabors played their best,
Lamps above, and laughs below --
Love me sounded like a jest,
Fit for Yes or fit for No!

Call me false, or call me free --
Vow, whatever light may shine,
No man on your face shall see
Any grief for change on mine.

Yet the sin is on us both --
Time to dance is not to woo --
Wooer light makes fickle troth --
Scorn of me recoils on you !

Learn to win a lady's faith
Nobly, as the thing is high;
Bravely, as for life and death --
With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards,
Point her to the starry skies,
Guard her, by your truthful words,
Pure from courtship's flatteries.

By your truth she shall be true --
Ever true, as wives of yore --
And her Yes, once said to you,
SHALL be Yes for evermore.

Outside the Minnesota State Line PART 3 Recipes for disaster and all that jazz, as performed on a rusty tin whistle

It was a difficult few months, finding himself outside the minnesota state line with nothing to show for himself. I mean, whilst within the borders of that hospitable state, he felt lulled into a quazi comfort zone. What prompted that delusion to rear itself from his soul to sustain that reaction, we will never know.

Be that as it may, now, at his peril, the lulling had terminated, abruptly, or so it seemed.

He found himself in the midst of a storm without hope of a door upon which one dare dream of collapse. The poor dear.

Instead, he found himself wondering the byways and straitways of life outside the minnesota state line, with only his collection of recipes, and a rusty tin whistle, to keep him company.

(yes, let us pause here to reflect upon the crafty hilar perfectly tangled into that last run on sentence.)

northern saskatchewan, july 2005, road trip

Epipsychidion

lines 174-189, Percy Bysshe Shelley

Mind from its object differs most in this;
Evil from good; misery from happiness;
The baser from the nobler; the impure
And frail, from what is clear and must
endure;
If you divide suffering and dross, you
may
Diminish till it is consumed away;
If you divide pleasure and love and thought,
Each part exceeds the whole; and we know
not
How much, while any yet remains unshared,
Of pleasure may be gained, of sorrow
spared.
This truth is that deep well, whence sages
draw
The unenvied light of hope; the eternal law
By which those live, to whom this world of
life
Is as a garden ravaged, and whose strife
Tills for the promise of a later birth
The wilderness of this Elysian earth.

Well: Millstone and Cistern Under Trees (Meule et citerne sous bois), Paul Cezanne 1892

"The Well"
written by Pablo Neruda

At times you sink, you fall
into your hole of silence,
into your abyss of proud anger,
and you can scarcely
return, still bearing remnants
of what you found
in the depth of your existence.

My love, what do you find
in your closed well?
Seaweed, swamps, rocks?
What do you see with blind eyes,
bitter and wounded?

Darling, you will not find
in the well into which you fall
what I keep for you on the heights:
a bouquet of dewy jasmines,
a kiss deeper than your abyss.

Do not fear me, do not fall
into your rancor again.
Shake off my word that came to wound you
and let if fly through the open window.
It will return to wound me
without your guiding it
since it was laden with a harsh instant
and that instant will be disarmed in my breast.

Smile at me radiant
if my mouth wounds you.
I am not a gentle shepherd
like the ones in fairy tales,
but a good woodsman who shares with you
earth, wind, and mountain thorns.

Love me, you, smile at me,
help me to be good.
Do not wound yourself in me, for it will be useless,
do not wound me because you wound yourself.

Salmon Chowda

Wild Salmon Chowder

NB. The salmon must be wild or else you’re not allowed to use this recipe!

Recipe was created on January 3, 2004 w/ Huck as salmon skin advice-helper and consumer.

photo does not represent how the chowda in the recipe will look like, it's just the most recent chowda I made and was silly enough to take a photo of, ok? Geesh.

2 tablespoons of good olive oil – Portuguese was used for this recipe
Four garlic gloves crushed or chopped, your choice
One big onion chopped in small pieces
One tablespoon of fresh chopped ginger
Sauté these ingredients together for 7 minutes

One half of a side of roughly chopped wind dried salmon from Lil’Wat
One cup roughly chopped smoked salmon by Grace Kelly from Lak’lahamen
One commercial can sockeye salmon (in a pinch) or better yet two cups chopped fresh salmon - for the fresh salmon, add in the last 15 minutes before serving – yes use a timer!
Two and a half celery sticks and the leafy heart of celery too, all chopped nice and small
Two thirds of a cup of dried mushrooms – in fridge weeks for drying, or get dried ones, or use one and one third cup of chopped fresh mushrooms.
Two litres of good filtered water
“Major” brand fish base one and a half tablespoons
Two cups of small yellow potatoes chopped in two
Tablespoon of fresh dried dill or fresh dill
French dried herb mix – marjoram, oregano, basil, thyme
One big yam chopped small
One big sweet potato chopped small
Three medium sized carrots chopped small
One medium leek chopped in rings – soaked in water for five minutes and drained before adding to the slop – I didn’t do that but my mum would be disappointed in me as a result. But this evening it was only discussed.
One third cup of dried barley
Skin of one side of wind dried salmon for flavouring… no you don’t eat it – think bay leaf…

Leave all the above to boil then to do its simmering thing for 40 minutes at least, maybe 50

Then add
One and a half cups of roughly chopped organic kale
One green onion chopped nicely
Juice of one lemon squeezed in

Let it all cook together for five or seven minutes

Put in serving bowls
Finish with one big dollop of sour cream, with one teaspoon of dried sumac stirred in haphazardly.
Done
Let the eater mix that in
And enjoy!

Wine to accompany such as, Stoneleigh Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand, 2004 Marlborough or if you are really lucky you could drink a Oyster Bay Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand (Aotearoa), alternatively a Stein Lager (or a Heineken in a pinch)

non alcoholic post chowda beverage recommendation: rooiboss w/ wiggiskwa (wild mint)from northern saskatchewan

bannock or baguette or irish soda bread are ideal breads to sop up the juices

If...

Two Poems by Rumi

THE ALLURE OF LOVE

Someone who does not run
toward the allure of love walks
a road where nothing lives.

But this dove here senses
the love-hawk floating above
and waits and will not be driven
or scared to safety.

SKY CIRCLES

The way of love is not
a subtle argument.

The door there is devastation.

Birds make great sky-circles
of their freedom.

How do they learn that?
They fall, and falling,
they're given wings.

Untitled Poem by Rumi (photo by Willy)

If you want what visible reality
can give, you're an employee.

If you want the unseen world,
you're not living your truth.

Both wishes are foolish,
but you'll be forgiven for forgetting
that what you really want is
love's confusing joy.

Gamble everything for love,
if you're a true human being.

If not, leave
this gathering.

Half-heartedness doesn't reach
into majesty. You set out
to find God, but then you keep
stopping for long periods
at mean-spirited roadhouses.

In a boat down a fast-running creek,
it feels like trees on the bank
are rushing by. What seems

to be changing around us
is rather the speed of our craft
leaving this world.

Withdrawal

What would I say to you if you were here with me?
Now? This very night?

Would my eyes betray my confusion?
Or would they be smoky with hurt?

My head, tilted to one side,
would it feel unsure and heavy,
upon my tense shoulder blades?

My hands, would they be nervous,
twisting my rings non-stop
around my fingers?

Would I frown in concentration,
in silent agony, of how, or whether,
to begin?

Would I want to bury my head in your neck,
your arms wrapped around me, snugly?

My cheek, would it soon rest upon your chest,
breathing in your scent, content to be in your embrace?

Or would my wet salty tears appear
cool my burning face,
and soak through to your skin?

Birch Bark Biting

Birch bark bitings are thin layers of birch bark with a design bitten into the bark with the eye tooth. The designs were originally used to create patterns for decorative work applied to traditional leather clothing. Now the art of birch bark biting is being learned by young people interested in reviving what could have become a lost tradition.
Sally McKenzie from Grandmothers Bay Indian Reserve (Kohkominanihk in Cree) on the Churchill River in northern Saskatchewan learned the art of biting from her mother about ten years ago. Mattilda Roberts was taking a break from making birch bark baskets. She took a small piece of birch bark and began tearing it until it was the right thickness. Then she traced a pattern on the bark with her fingernail, folded the bark as you would to make a paper snowflake and began biting.

Sally was curious to learn how to do this, so her mother showed her how to select the bark, how to make the right thickness, and how to use her eye tooth to create the pattern.

Sally is now teaching her young daughter, Valerie.

The Almond

The almond tree announced
your secret softness
which had been hiding
behind the garden wall.

Your scent is subtle, yet heady
as jasmine on a hot humid night.
Or lavender, once crushed between my fingers,
announces its presence.

Laughter, unbidden,
bubbles and tumbles
out of my mouth, my belly, my heart,
in answer to your desire.

The warmth of the sun
is like your smile, dear one.
It melts into me and nurtures me.

Robin Red Breast

Poems by Rumi

Each Note

Advice doesn't help lovers!
They're not the kind of mountain stream
you can build a dam across.

An intellectual doesn't know
what a drunk is feeling!

Don't try to figure
what those lost inside love
will do next!

Someone in charge would give up all his power,
if he caught one whiff of the wine-musk
from the room where the lovers
are doing who-knows-what!

One of them tries to dige a hole through a mountain.
One flees from academic honours.
One laughs at famous mustaches!

Life freezes if it doesn't get a taste
of this almond cake.
The stars come up spinning
every night, bewildered in love.
They'd grow tired
with that revolving, if they weren't.
They'd say,
"How long do we have to do this?"

God picks up the reed-flute world and blows.
Each note is a need coming through one of us,
a passion, a longing-pain.
Remember the lips
where the wind-breath originated,
and let your note be clear.
Don't try to end it.
Be your note.
I'll show you how it's enough.

Go up on the roof at night
in this city of the soul.

Let everyone climb on their roofs
and sing their notes!

Sing loud!


Granite and Wineglass

You are granite.
I am an empty wineglass.

You know what happens when we touch!
You laugh like the sun coming up laughs
at a star that disappears into it.

Love opens my chest, and thought
returns to its confines.

Patience and rational considerations leave.
Only passion stays, whimpering and feverish.

Some men fall down in the road like dregs thrown out.
Then, totally reckless, the next morning

they gallop out with new purposes. Love
is the reality, and poetry is the drum

that calls us to that. Don't keep complaining
about loneliness! Let the fear-language of that theme

crack open and float away. Let the priest come down
from his tower, and not go back up!


The Shape of My Tongue

This mirror inside me shows...
I can't say what, but I can't not know!

I run from body. I run from spirit.
I do not belong anywhere.

I'm not alive!
You smell the decay?

You talk about my craziness.
Listen rather to the honed-blade sanity I say.

This gourd head on top of a dervish robe,
do I look like someone you know?

This dipper gourd full of liquid,
upsidedown and not spilling a drop!

I form a cloud over that ocean
and gather spillings.

When Shams is here,
I rain.

After a day or two, lilies sprout,
the shape of my tongue.

Night on the Island, a poem by Pablo Neruda

All night I have slept with you
next to the sea, on the island.
Wild and sweet you were between pleasure and sleep,
between fire and water.

Perhaps very late
our dreams joined
at the top or at the bottom,
up above like branches moved by a common wind,
down below like red roots that touch.

Perhaps your dream
drifted from mine
and through the dark sea
was seeking me
as before,
when you did not yet exist,
when without sighting you
I sailed by your side,
and your eyes sought
what now -
bread, wine,love, and anger -
I heap upon you
because you are the cup
that was waiting for the gifts of my life.

I have slept with you
all night long while
the dark earth spins
with the living and the dead,
and on waking suddenly
in the midst of the shadow
my arm encircled your waist.

Neither night nor sleep
could separate us.

I have slept with you
and on waking, your mouth,
come from your dream,
gave me the taste of earth,
of sea water, of seaweed,
of the depths of your life,
and I received your kiss
moistened by the dawn
as if it came to me
from the sea that surrounds us.

My Birthday Shoe

Outside the Minnesota State Line PART 2 unpaused by "Axwy"

She came back toting two wine glasses made of blue glass, the wine and opener. Handing the bottle to him, she smiled as she looked away, krinkly eyes and upturned lips. He realized she had been made shy by his unspoken offer to open the wine.

"Axwy" is a fine descriptor for this self-conscious phenomena women tend to indulge in! he thought to himself. Perhaps he would begin to use it: "Axwy". Yes, in his next text message! To see what response might result. If pressed to define it, he would. Only on occasion would he use it. A rare occurrence, no doubt. Unless he were to make it a practice, even a ritual to have occasion to use the "Axwy" expression at least one time per day. No, make that one time per week, instead. For how could he ever guarantee finding a woman exhibiting just that shyness on a weekly basis? That task alone would occupy his thoughts and his actions rather completely, let alone thinking up something which might elicit just such a response in her. He squinted into the glass, his mind taken by the thread.

So did I ever tell you the story of the resourceful Albanian? she asked, pouring the wine into his glass and offering him a taste.

Yes, I believe you did. He replied. Slighty smirking, he opened his eyes wide with mischief. He nodded to affirm that the wine was tasty, so she filled their glasses.

You really are unfair! she giggled, and she began the story...

Outside the Minnesota state line PART 1

Outside the Minnesota state line there lived a man called Tinterelli. He used to collect fortune cookie affirmations, and even tape them onto his laptop. Some called him strange, but they would be kind anyway. Our man Tinterelli didn't actually hail from outside the Minnesota state line, but that was where he found himself. In fact, his people could be found most commonly in the Tinterama region of south western Italy. But we won't quibble here.

"Hang on." she said, "I believe a glass of wine is in order."

Of course, the wine shall be from the Tinter varietal grape vines tended lovingly by the Tinterelli clan, one and all. Excepting of course, the Gipini's, a wandering tribe, who also invariably worked to bring in the grapes, in season. And we mustn't forget the hard-working travelling labourers from Bulgaria, nor the inventive light-spirited pixie from Albania.

Chip, the unfair story writer smiled, and waited patiently for her return, with the prized bottle in hand.

[PAUSED]

Butterfly Touch

There is a stillness
that surrounds and is within him
I recognize the peace
like the sigh of coming home

I find I must look away
for my gaze must surely be too intent
for such pleasant greetings
and my swift fall will be discovered

Ah but there is a gentleness on him
it gathers upon his features
its silence melts my heart
with every gesture expressed

In concentration
concern passes across his brow
interest at the ideas that flow
across the space of this small table
between us

I feign participation
I can even nod with candor or smile in tune,
yet the words rush past my burning ears
and I strain to comprehend

I grasp at innane rememberances
my attempt at normalcy
to add to the flow of words
the memory of a sunny day
with song and laughter shared

I am struck by features I cannot escape
instead I catalogue their colour,
soft sweetened sage
wet with the last of the dew.
They are the windows I want to enter

It must be transparent
in my dazzled features
this now palpable feeling, once forgotten
like the touch of a butterfly.

Coming Soon: Butterflies versus Moths; No Contest?

caveat...

limitation clause
term of use
explanation...

I will not re-write, edit, revise, correct, or critique what I post on this blog...
so pleassssseee do not hold my impulsive words, my stray thoughts, my sappy phraseology, my timid ramblings or my spelling errors against me for future use!

I will simply not allow it. They will be ignored, rebuffed, sniffed upon with disgust, if you will...

For the purpose of this forum, if there is one.. is naught but to express myself...

surely you will agree that expression is sometimes silly, crass, immature and embarrassing...when looked at too minutely, with too much intent or judgement.

I wish to be kind to myself, is all.

play along!

...will you?

the wind

entreats me
a spell is cast
I am torn and lifted
into its hands, its arms
invisible

always so swiftly I am taken by its greeting!
in silence or with a roar
I am delighted anew
the freshness splashes onto my cheek
and lifts me out of my stupor
alive it moves beside, inside, and through me

I run to meet it
I spiral my arms and dance
with abandon, with joy
oh yes I laugh, I giggle, I roll with delight

so sweetly it rushes through the green grass
upon which I stumble and prance
my hair flashes in flight
around my face now moist with dew and tears
and spit from the heavens

what lustiness this wind possesses!

misty spring day

don't you just love misty spring days? a little bit of melancholy, a little bit of reflection, a little bit of a chill, a little bit of rain...

I always like to go for walks on afternoons like this... it is a great time to talk and walk and dream... a quiet time that puts everything in perspective.

Often on sunny days I feel like I have to get going, doing, being, activity central, if you know what I mean... I must be outside moving about and feeling exuberant and alive...

Yet on misty spring days I give myself the pleasure of my own company.... to slow down a bit, ponder, plan, laze about... whatever.

Pressure seems to be lowered somehow. There is a soberness to the air, the quality of the light, and the expressions on people's faces as they saunter by... some with umbrellas, prepared for the rain, others with newspaper ready to hide the head from a bit of water, and others just sauntering around the place ~ a bit like me... with a bemused expression on their faces.. or alternatively, with deep thought or concern showing upon their features...

funny how misty spring days bring about these phenomena...

I mean, what better day to create a blog, really? hmmmm.....