Poem about her

Poem about her

There are a few moments in a man’s life
when he could go insane and he actually does.

The man goes hunting,
he loses his best friend,
the man builds a house
and the house burns in flames.
The man loves. He loves a few times.

There are, however, a few essential moments in a man’s life.

When your beauty struck me
like a soft and heavy hammer made of lead, straight in the face,
that man didn’t believe.
When we stayed up till morning
and, unable to refrain myself, we left together
I didn’t know what to expect,
when love, like a pasty light,
voluptuously seeped into the room
flooding our brains and bodies,
I didn’t know what I could dream of.

When I already knew the next day
that I would never be able to part from you
I didn’t know what to do with all your love.

There are a few terrible moments in every man’s life,
it could be war, it could be madness, it could be that light
that was covering us.

The man, however, knows love, he is a man, he’s used to it
but to your hands he wasn’t.
To the way you looked at him
he wasn’t. To that music
resounding out of us,
more harmonious than Tiersen, sweeter
than the taste of my childhood jam cake,
he wasn’t.

There are very few moments in a man’s life
when he feels as if he could explode.
Back then he actually could.

Once again about her

I want to still write for you when I’m 60,
I want to cook for you,
to write you poems and make you babies,
I want to live for you.
I did not tell you I loved you without knowing whether I did,
I didn’t tell you, I was terribly scared.
I told you I would never cheat on you
although we met cheating on someone.
I told you I couldn’t promise you anything,
I told you it couldn’t happen,
I told you to wait if you wanted to.
I told you: it can’t happen.

I cheated for you, my love,
and I will not cheat again,
I lied for you
and I will no longer lie,
I felt for you
something I had never felt before.

I was scared but I’m not any more
I was lost and then I rediscovered myself.

I want to cook for you, my love,
I want us to talk, to always recognize each other
even in meanness, I want us to fight so you could see we cannot fight,
I want you to yell at me as I stay silent
I want us to change the bedsheets three times a day
I want you to know:
never, ever could such a thing have happened.
You’re my mind, my love, my. A.

The first poem about a little fear, for her

I keep trying to tell you something, my love,
but my fear won’t let me.
I want to tell you that since we last saw each other,
I dreamt of you every night, although I told you I hadn’t,
in every dream we both enter a house
where we find three children
whom none of us recognises
we try to figure out
whether they have anything to do with us.
One of them gets up
from their chair and opens the door to the porch.
Cute animals come in.
You get upset
and the little girl steps knee-deep into the sea,
then waist-deep, so deep that she doesn’t know
if she can come back,
that we don’t know if we can reach her.

The second poem about a little fear, for her

When I first saw you, my love,
I imagined you could be the woman of every man
you’d like.
But that’s not true. Because your mind
moves precisely as my mind does
and the only man you’d want
is one that’s away at sea
in search of a dead island.
I have found one so far.
So when we meet again
I’ll bring you ashes
from it, from its roads,
and you’ll also give me ashes
and from the two ashes put together
we will somehow make one being.

The third poem about a little fear, for her

And what if I’m mistaken, my love?
What if, yet again, I’m nothing but a little monster that enters your life?

I know I love you as if I were walking on railway sleepers
towards a remote train station,
as if I’d burn down the city to find us a place for a home,
as if I didn’t care, as if I’d kill if someone
were to hurt you.
All I know is that I love you as if all this time spent thinking
how I love you
should be spent loving you.

The second poem about a little fear, for her

When I first saw you, my love,
I imagined you could be the woman of every man
you’d like.
But that’s not true. Because your mind
moves precisely as my mind does
and the only man you’d want
is one that’s away at sea
in search of a dead island.
I have found one so far.
So when we meet again
I’ll bring you ashes
from it, from its roads,
and you’ll also give me ashes
and from the two ashes put together
we will somehow make one being.

The third poem about a little fear, for her

And what if I’m mistaken, my love?
What if, yet again, I’m nothing but a little monster that enters your life?

I know I love you as if I were walking on railway sleepers
towards a remote train station,
as if I’d burn down the city to find us a place for a home,
as if I didn’t care, as if I’d kill if someone
were to hurt you.
All I know is that I love you as if all this time spent thinking
how I love you
should be spent loving you.

The fourth poem about a little fear, for her

Our long-distance love is a small world
where people kill each other and then do not die,
where nights pass, but light does not fade.
We could live like this, we say,
although we know we couldn’t bear to for a moment,
we say we could,
although we know that night after night something bends
inside our chests like an almost melted
hot metal ready to be inflated and bell-shaped
by the strong blow of a giant
I’m not far, my love
but all this distance gnaws me like a rat gnaws its cage bars.

Our bodies were made
to be separated by two drops of sweat,
by a thin layer of saliva,
by two microns of air smashed between the thighs.

Still about her

I don’t know if you remember this,
but the first time we made love
the morning sky was cloudy
and I said to myself come what may
never again will you meet such a woman to love.
We don’t know each other that well yet and we haven’t been
through a lot, but I know, my love,
how cloudy that sky was and how complicated
everything was and how quickly we decided
that such a woman and such a man
together could go could see anything through.

Brain map

We all have moments
when we ponder and can clearly see
the depth.

We all feel scared when faced with weakness,
with foreseen failure,
with the thin line between something and nothing.

I drew a brain map as an experiment
and I made notes on small sections of my brain:
this is where I learn to be happy,

this is where I cry, this is where I want to die fast,
this is where I think about survival,
this is where I smoke and drink,

this is where I don’t understand why I write
this is where I’m sorry, this is where I wish
I had been something else,

this is where I have a home, this is where
I have nothing, this is where I remember my first kiss,
this is where I love, this is the place, this is where you are.

You’d better not talk about yourself, you’d better proceed with your projects
in silence. You’d better shut up altogether. You’d better not say anything at all.
You’d better not exist. You’d better do something with your life.

But I didn’t write this on my brain map. And it’s not about
lack of ambition or power. And neither is it about fantasies,
nor unfulfillment,

but about a huge bird whose wings
cover the entire sky above,
about a loud scream that fills your ears early in the morning,
about the feeling of abandonment,

about waking up in a world you can only partially understand,
that you can’t connect with, communicate with,
that’s always waiting for something. Something you can no longer give.

You could never give.
It’s not about you or me, but about hundreds like you and me
not about my shortcomings and my weakness and my inability to understand

and my inadaptation and my frustration and my pain
and my love and my fear and my silence.
But about those who can’t express them.

A long time ago,
somewhere in a train,
someone told me:

When you feel you can’t take it any more
look at the world
as if you were looking through this train’s window.

I made a brain map
and on small sections of my brain I wrote down
all sorts of fears.

On a small portion I made a
tiny, illegible note:

This is where I’ll never go back.

Yet again only about her

We’re so used to unhappiness, my love,
I fear everything that could happen to us,
but I won’t let this fear linger.

I have hurt, I have murdered, I have been ruthless,
out of fear
out of weakness

I have hurt, I have hit, I have left
out of fear
I won’t let this fear linger.

When we went to the seaside and we took that photograph
we were so tired that I was sure we’d die
in each other’s arms. And I was happy.
I fell asleep making love to you,
we were so tired that no sunrise seemed possible
and it needn’t even have been.

We needed that kiss on the mound where the Belgians
made a campfire,
we needed that kiss between a tired man
and a girl scared by water
while in the middle of it. There was nothing that we needed, neither the breeze, nor the sea,
nor the sand that was coming apart
in smothers through the herbs, nor the eagle that was hovering
a few meters above,
your hand would end up in my hand.

I have hurt, I have murdered, I have been ruthless,
out of fear,
out of weakness

I have hurt, I have hit, I have left,
out of fear,
I won’t let this fear linger.

RO