On love: words that take your breath away

Love is not who you were expecting, love is not who you can predict. Maybe love is in New York City, already asleep, and you are in California, Australia, wide awake. Maybe love is always in the wrong time zone, maybe love is not ready for you. Maybe you are not ready for love. Maybe love just isn’t the marrying type. Maybe the next time you see love is twenty years after the divorce, love is older now, but just as beautiful as you remembered. Maybe love is only there for a month. Maybe love is there for every firework, every birthday party, every hospital visit. Maybe love stays- maybe love can’t. Maybe love shouldn’t.

Love arrives exactly when love is supposed to, and love leaves exactly when love must. When love arrives, say, “Welcome. Make yourself comfortable.” If love leaves, ask her to leave the door open behind her. Turn off the music, listen to the quiet, whisper, “Thank you. Thank you for stopping by.”

— From Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye’s presentation of their realistic view of love.

Closure

I am one of those few people who don’t understand the idea of closure as nothing more than when something is done/gone/over, it just is, nothing more.  No need to ask, no need to analyze. It’s gone. Zilch. Nada. Searching for explanations for why things ended, especially if unfavorably, is just an exercise in self-flagellation and no matter how much one tries to process  the events that led to any sad ending is mostly about wanting to come up with a possible explanation to the question, “Why did it happen?” It’s the curious who usually need closures and not the ones who have actually been involved. It is what it is, as the cliche goes.
Closures are better done in private, and the discovery of Ted Hughes’ poem about the last weekend of Sylvia Plath’s life sheds light on his remorse over his former wife’s suicide. Maybe this is the closure that the public has been waiting for all along. I still don’t understand closure.

Paglimot

Paglimot

ni Nino R. Calinao

Pumanaw na kagabi ang aking pagkabalisa
At magdamag na ibinurol ang aking ilusyon.
Kanina tinungo ko ang naglamay na lapis sa mesa,
Habang sumusulat ay ikinukumpas ng aking panghihinayang
Ang kundiman ng aking kalungkutan
At mga titik ng ponebre ang aking nabuo.

Ayoko na sanag ituloy ang pagkatha
Pagkat lapidang marmol ang papel na ito
Kay hirap iukit ng mga salita.
Sa puntong ito
Ay nasa huling hantungan na
Ang aking mga pangarap.
At sa huling tuldok ko itatarak
Ang krus ng aking paghihirap.

This is one of the saddest yet hopeful poems I know. The author was a classmate of mine back at UP School of Journalism, and although I never got to know him personally, it was rather shocking when his death was reported on the  news, and more so for the sheer violence of it.

According to reports, he was killing time with friends at one of the places in uni where many students hung out when two men approached him and shot him point blank. And while his friends still managed to rush him to the hospital, he succumbed to his death due to the number of shots he received from his assailants. Weeks later, it turned out that the bullets that killed him were in fact meant for someone else and he was simply a victim of mistaken identity.

The saddest part about his death was that he was a poor yet promising man who was just a few weeks shy of getting his Bachelors degree and start working in order to support his family, which was the fact about his life that he implied in his poem, if one understood what it was like to be poor and to struggle through life.

Neil Gaiman almost made me cry

waiting for you

Dark Sonnet
Neil Gaiman

I don’t think that I’ve been in love as such
although I liked a few folk pretty well
Love must be vaster than my smiles or touch
for brave men died and empires rose and fell
for love, girls follow boys to foreign lands
and men have followed women into hell
In plays and poems someone understands
there’s something makes us more than blood and bone
And more than biological demands
for me love’s like the wind unseen, unknown
I see the trees are bending where it’s been
I know that it leaves wreckage where it’s blown
I really don’t know what I love you means
I think it means don’t leave me here alone

Photo by Silly Woman {little bug}

You will love again the stranger who was your self










Love After Love

Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.