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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