“i carry your heart with me ( i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it ( anywhere
i go you go ,my dear ; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing ,my darling)
no fate ( for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world( for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you.”
It began with Pablo Neruda , all wrapped neatly in a pretty floral package with a small green ribbon
( for spring) and it had ended with a sheet of paper upon which e.e cummings was quoted in true
sepia ink , one of many hand written attempts to say something , to convey a message that would surely
awaken even the heart of a stone , assuming stones have hearts…
but do stones have hearts?
and do all beings who claim to have feelings, emotions, tears, feel pain and pleasure are able
to feel when others feel too ?
The world, it seemed during that season of final confrontation of truth versus illusion, is divided into those
who carry the heart and those who squash it, step upon it, toss it, drop it somewhere where they forget to reclaim
it, or simply seem to be missing it..
“Anyone with a heart would look at me
and know that i love you
Anyone who ever dreamed
could look at me
and know i dream of you
knowing i love you so
Anyone who had a heart
would take me in his arms and love me too
you couldn’t really have a heart and hurt me
like you hurt me and be so untrue
what am i to do? ”
Later, much much later, there would be a meeting with someone who would be writing lyrics for Burt Bacharach and would have an older lady with undyed grey hair dancing to his guitar playing on stage nursing a small but concentrated drink ..
Later , much much later, there would be days without pain, there would be other plans, there would be conclusions and there would be no more attempts at purchasing affection or pointing it out with red marker cirlces: SEE ! FEEL! THIS WAY ! to a lost soul so obviously missing , so obviously lacking a heart that can actually love back in return for one or two very good poems.
Later , much much later, there would be happy days spent not thinking, not looking back, not reflecting upon the hours spent wondering why?
Later, much much later, there would not be a need for the confusion involved in receiving mixed messages
Later, much much later, it would be possible to hear French songs and not want to break down and cry
Later, much much later, it would be possible to hear soft music and not want to drown it with loud instrumental
Later, much much later, it would be possible to pass all those dark holes and not fall into them
later, much much later, as the Tibetian parable goes, there would be another street to walk
leading to a forest where flowers bloom and birds sing songs of joy sometimes and not be a constant
reminder of the disappointment spring has been ,is and will be since being the cruelest month of the year
when the snow finally melts and the dead bodies of lost hopes lay there looking so beautiful
but ready to decay slowly into the warm days so not even the cool evening breeze could revive
any of it,
any bit of it