Hunger Satisfied

I found my book,
the stunning compilation
of Neruda's Odes.
Sure enough it's there--
"the bread of her fragrance"--
it's the penultimate line of Ode to Love,
in case you were wondering too.

I decided to peruse the entire volume,
but progress is slow.
The odes to Happiness
and to Love are full and complete
and erupt with such passion
that so far I have managed
to read just those first two
over and over.

"My hands are narrow:
the depths of my eyes, humble
to receive
her treasures,
the unbounded cascade of radiance,
the golden thread,
the bread of her fragrance:
they are simply, Love, my life."

I could move on.
There are, after all,
hundreds of pages that follow.
But the words are rich
as though they themselves possess
the power to sustain.

Perhaps this is what he meant
when he spoke of permanent bread.

Searching for My Bread

I've been tearing my room apart,
searching for a book called
"The Odes of Neruda"

I have this phrase--
"the bread of her fragrance"--
running through my mind,
and it fills me with
such amazement that I must
return to the text and
make certain it is real.

How succinct.
How poetic.
How marvellously Neruda.
The woman's fragrance as bread,
intangible calories to nourish the intangible soul.
If I am remembering this correctly
then this is something everyone should read.

But the book still escapes me
amid this confounded clutter,
and without the words before me
I am slow to say something so perfect
is real.

meus uxor

She'll walk in peace, the envy of the world,
My words will thrive until she lives in fame.
I'll give her names like "might of God unfurled"
And all my verse her wonders will proclaim.
Her beauty won't be that of common themes,
She'll shun cliches which fecklessly will try
To sing her worth, for only in my dreams
Are words of praise her beams will not defy.
My heart will be her garden, there she'll sow
The strongest seeds of love and hope in me,
She'll stare in awe, unblinking, as I grow
Into the finest man that I can be.
And we will never die, through verse and rhyme
Our love will paint the hallowed halls of time.

To Wordsworth (Chicago, 2007)

One-hundred fifty-seven years gone by
Since human ears were graced with your fair voice.
Yet Wordsworth, all our art must still comply
With your fair words--we read them and rejoice!
Your rhythms flowed in song across the page,
Each syllable expressed your human heart.
But more than man--a teacher, friend and sage,
You shared your love so that you might impart
In all the wonder that it is to be,
In all the glory of their inward soul,
Long dead, but still your might lives on in me
And all my verses your proud verse extol.
No more is my truth locked in ivory tower,
Your words bestow me virtue, freedom, power.

Not Touched By Frost

Melancholy but a moment,
Life lunges forward into peace renewed.
At last I cheat despair,
who courts my time with ceaseless chase.
At last, it seems,
The hope of Christ takes root.