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Eros has entered my room, still dressed impossible, but I've seen near my bed. My mind has cleared the doubts and has lit a fire in my belly. All my life makes sense now. His voice is soft and seductive. His smile the promise of infinite joy. God, I think I love! Although these are still promises ... I was carried away by its clarity, the music that are his words, the possibility of a kiss. Does not everyone want to love and be loved like that? And wake up one morning to side of being that devours me in dreams ...

ENTRY May 4
You rise out of sleep like a growing thing rises
out of the garden soil.
Two leaves part to be your mouth, two tender seedleaves---
and your eyes are wonderfully starlike,
your eyes are luminous and soft as the velvet of pansies.
Darling, good morning.
Our arms are empty of each other for a moment only.
How beautifully you turn --- your mouth tilts to let my kisses in.
Lie still - - - we shall be longer.
We need so little room, we two --- thus on a single pillow ---
as we move nearer,
nearer heaven --- until I burst inside you like a screaming rocket.
Then we are quietly apart - - - returning to this earth.
De Walter Benton extracto de his diary in verse "This is my Beloved"

About Benton, it is known who was born in Austria, but was of Russian descent and lived most of his life in the United States. Worked on a farm, a mill, such as window washer and seller, and other works ... but finally came to the University of Ohio in 1931. After graduating he spent five years as a social researcher in New York. In World War II participated in the Signal Corps until he was promoted to captain. Returning to New York, turned to writing. "This is My Beloved" is a diary in verse, become one of the most popular books of poetry, was published for the first time in 1948. Walter Benton died in 1976.

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Lux in Tenebris

Awake

Shake dreams from your hair

My pretty child, my sweet one

Choose the day and choose the sign of your day

The day's divinity First thing

you see.

on a vast radiant beach in a cool jeweled moon Couples

naked race down by ITS quiet side And

we laugh like soft, mad children

Smug in the wooly cotton brains of infancy

The music and voices are all aroundus.

Choose, they croon, the Ancient Ones

The time has come again.

Choose now, they croon,

Beneath the moon

Beside an ancient lake.

Enter again the sweet forest,

Enter the hot dream,

Come with us

Everything is broken up and dances.

-Jim Morrison.

Hope, which is strange ... sometimes seems to be entangled in our soul like a secret. Others are disguised as star and guide us in our moonless nights. Some say that hope is foolish thing, but is in its origin, as primary as existence itself. This is what was on the bottom of the trunk of Pandora, where all evil came into the world, and she remained Esperanza. Now, with the face of the poem, I wake up one hundred years of lethargy, a kiss of true love, Eros that gives the Soul, as in "Sleeping Beauty." So it's a true "Awakening" comes to light a small fairy disguised as a possibility.

Santi Thanks for the poem ...

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The value shut

Sometimes life gives us lessons strange, that are difficult to assimilate. To me, the most difficult of all is to respond honorably to cynics and liars. Perhaps I too fall into one of these categories, sometimes ... But it is harder for me to respond to aggression. It is almost always unexpected, abrupt and murderer with a taste almost like hemlock for the soul. The first thing that came to mind was Sylvia Plath's poem, "The Courage of Shutting-up." Says it all and more:

The value shut

value mouth shut, despite the artillery! / The pink line and silent a worm, basking in the sun. / H ay black circles behind him the indignity circles, / and indignity of the sky, its crumpled brain. / The circles turn, ask to be heard -

full, as they are reporting falsehoods. / Falsehoods, routines, desertions and ambiguities, / the needle traveling its groove, / silver beast between two dark canyons, / a great surgeon, now does tattoos,

tattooing again and again and repeated the sad injustice, / snakes, children, breast / of sirens and dreamers with its two legs. / The surgeon is quiet, not talking. / has seen too much death, has his hands full of it.

So brain circles revolve, like the mouths of cannons, / and there is the old trimmer, language, tireless violet. Should we cut? / has nine tails, is dangerous. / His voice to flay the air, when put in motion!

No, the language, too, has been cornered, / hanging in the library next to the prints of Rangoon / and the heads of fox, otter heads, the heads of dead rabbits. / is a wonderful object - / the things that has crossed over its lifetime. More

what about the eyes, eyes, eyes? / Mirrors can kill, and speaking are terrible rooms / where torture never stops and one can only look at. / The face that lived in this mirror is the face of a corpse. / not worry about the eyes -

may be white and scary, are not decoys, / their death rays were folded like flags / of a country that no longer have news and / a stubborn independence / useless amidst the mountains.

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Nostalgia, or the art of losing

Nostalgia ... what a feeling so hard, when all that remains is idealized memory of what was, or what might have been. I often wonder "what if ... now maybe if ...". But it makes no sense to cling to an idea, because while the wake body memory, when an old desire again runs through the blood, miss the presence of an alien who is now his absence is . Occasionally receive a letter, call or visit, but that does not give corporeality, is not present but the return of missed. Borrowed words can take to become a poem, image, text. Experiences drawn from the letters tattooed on the skin did not return, but become nostalgia, desire and affection to be grasped now is illusion. Thanks anyway ... I do not want to forget, because something comes an overwhelming nostalgia, I re-emerge.

Still, we must learn to lose, we are reminded by Elizabeth Bishop, and will not be a disaster. Of course not, but sometimes feel like one.

Elizabeth Bishop was born in Massachusetts in 1911. His father died before she turned one year old and her mother was taken to a hospital when she was 5. Bishop never see again. She was raised by his grandparents. He lived about 17 years in Brazil, after finishing his college education. He received numerous awards, and in 1956 received the Pulitzer. His poetry exhibits a tendency to combine the factual and the imaginary, creating visual effects, both realistic and surreal. His poems are rooted in precise and unambiguous acts of observation, with purity and precision in his language, which in turn are unpredictable. Compared with the poet Marianne Moore.

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
So Many Things seem filled with the intent to Be Lost That
Their loss is no disaster.

Lose Something Every
day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (The joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't Have Lied. It's Evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
May Though it look like (Write it!) Like disaster.

From: The Complete Poems 1927-1979 by Elizabeth Bishop, published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc.

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To the tune of "Soaring Clouds" I like my body

Poem O. Huang

Your

held my lotus flower

Your lips and played with

The pistil. We use a piece of Magic

rhino horn

And we could not sleep even a moment.

Throughout the night, the Precious

rooster crest stood erect

. Throughout the

Night, bee clung, trembling,

the stamens of flowers.

Oh, my sweet scented jewel! Only my Lord

have let my

Sacred lotus pond and all

nights I will let you

Whatever flowers sprout in my fire.

This beautiful poem by Chinese poet, Huang O, the sixteenth century (1498-1569), reveals beautifully lovemaking. One of my favorite erotic poems with images suggestive both seductive. Yesterday I found him, I had copied into a notebook for a month. I found virtually no information on Huang W, and the publication of his poems in Women Poets of China, you can not find here, but the full version of the book in English is http://www.questia.com / PM.qst? a = o & d = 78684120 # .

He recalled a similar experience, those who are lucky more than once in life and are constantly being sought, that repetition is the spice. But if not, at least it is recorded in memory and body ... is harder when the heart does not forget.

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When it is with your

I want your words are so seductive, intoxicating and indulgent, so that the private passions burn our hard centers, steel melting, Urging our hearts to reach the heights of ecstasy and depths of love.

Surrender yourself, if you dare. Express your wishes unpublished forbidden unspeakable ...

What better way to express our wishes in that metaphorical poetry mean? Which reveals the dark and hides the common, leading to the conquest of the impossible. Erotic, sensual, seductive, poetic language rises and exhorts us to dare to look again, to look for truth, to feel, to let ourselves be affected by the words ... to me are like caresses the soul.

Edward Estlin Cummings was born in Massachusetts in 1894. He studied at Harvard. During World War Served as a member of the Ambulance Corps. Spent three months in a French dentención camp due to a clerical error. He lived at times in Paris and others in New York, working in two cities in his paintings and poetry. While his poetry is known for its experimental extructura and language, has an unconventional punctuation and grammar ingenious. Is adept at satire and a lyrical way'll be pleased, especially in his love poetry.

i like my body when to it is with your

i like my body when to it is with your

body. It is so quite new a thing.

Muscles better and nerves more.

i like your body.- i like what is does,

i like its hows.- i like to feel the spine

of your body and its bones, and the trembling

-firm-smooth ness and which i will

again and again and again

kiss,- i like kissing this and that of you,

i like, slowing stroking the, shocking fuzz

of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes

over parting flesh.... And eyes big love-crumbs,

and Possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so remove new

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I love you



Love, this set of feelings that bring us closer to the divine. Many as you seek. I'd marry him, Eros, and I imagine that others will seek the goddesses of love of their choice ... but an encounter with another, small, absurd, everyday, familiar and disconcerting, that's another thing. That's the "thing" in reality, or perhaps reality ...

For me, the greatest romantic fantasy among many, is to be painted with colored ink, with words, drawings, poems and texts throughout the body. Realizable fantasy, why not? At Body-art style meets "the pillow book", for an album cover like Joss Stone ... and hear how to rip a silk dress, which is the image that "Shanghai Baby" left impregnated in my impressionable mind.

and endlessly repeating "I love you" in all languages, but really feeling it.

to as, poetry ... The poem is written here is by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. More popular than literary poet U.S. (b. 1850 - m.1919), I was struck by the conjunction of passion unveiled, naked, in the early s. XX! His poetry is based more on simple rhymes, which in a complex and important literary production, yet this poem I like.

I LOVE YOU I love your lips When They're wet with wine And
network with a wild desire;
I love your eyes When the Lovelight
lies Lit with a passionate fire .
I love your arms When the warm white flesh Touches mine
in a fond embrace;
I love your hair When the strands ENMESH
Your kisses against my face.
Not for me the cold, calm kiss
Of a virgin's bloodless love;
Not for me the saint's white bliss,
Nor the heart of a spotless dove.
But give me the love that so freely gives
And laughs at the whole world's blame,
With your body so young and warm in my arms,
It sets my poor heart aflame.
So kiss me sweet with your warm wet mouth,
Still fragrant with ruby wine,
And say with a fervor born of the South
That your body and soul are mine.
Clasp me close in your warm young arms,
While the pale stars shine above,
And we'll live our whole young lives away
In the joys of a living love.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox in The Best Loved Poems of the American People by Hazel Felleman New York: Doubleday, 1936. p. 56