September 21, 2019

WE stay – our hearts together
in Positano on the Amalfi coast
on top a precious hill –
we can see Le Galli islands

I – with a bottle of wine
you – show me your soul
we drink in praise of love

pastel coloured houses smile
and flowers dance our songs
the stars – in the evening sing

Positano beneath my feet
on the coast clear waters
lay under the sun – pebble and sand

we know this place from another time
our past is found in Grotta la Portal
hidden in cave – two hands embrace

I say we stay and live
among the cliffs of Positano
enjoying lunch at la Cambusa

E P Robles

[You NEVER know when the last time you see a place or a person will be. So make the most of them NOW, boys & girls!]

sweetest moments

September 21, 2019

We knew sex in the sweetest moments and in the harshest moments too. We pressed our bodies together. We peeled them apart. We exchanged our skins. We talked a little then fell silent.

Nizar Qabbani
Attempt to Assassinate a Love Affair
Trans.Paul Weinfield

Rain falling in the garden

September 21, 2019

Rain falling in the garden
I am not sad
we are both there, alone
you’ll light a fire, perhaps –

Wait, I know a story

Once upon a time…
it’s raining in my memory
I’m not crying, I’m certain –
Wait, please, I know stories
but it’s a little cold tonight
and this story is of people who
love each other.

male fantasy

September 21, 2019

Porn is about male fantasy. The fantasy is that women like everything you do to them, as man.

So how does this translate into real life? Women spend a lot of time and energy trying to please men. We learn early on that we are being looked at – that we are to be looked at. That we are performers. It took years before I actually started enjoying sex. YEARS. I think what I enjoyed most about sex, when I was younger, was the feeling of being desired. The actual sex part was super boring for the first while.

We learn, as girls and women, that the performance is more important than the actual feeling.

Megan Murphy
Facials, feminism, and performance: On f**king men in a patriarchy

The story of torment itself

September 21, 2019

For us, eating and being eaten belong to the terrible secret of love. We love only the person we can eat. The person we hate we ‘can’t swallow.’ That one makes us vomit. Even our friends are inedible. If we were asked to dig into our friend’s flesh we would be disgusted. The person we love we dream only of eating. That is, we slide down that razor’s edge of ambivalence. The story of torment itself is a very beautiful one. Because loving is wanting and being able to eat up and yet to stop at the boundary. And there, at the tiniest beat between springing and stopping, in rushes fear. The spring is already in mid-air. The heart stops. The heart takes off again. Everything in love is oriented towards this absorption. At the same time real love is a don’t-touch, yet still an almost-touching. Tact itself: a phantom touching. Eat me up, my love, or else I’m going to eat you up. Fear of eating, fear of the edible, fear on the part of the one of them who feels loved, desired, who wants to be loved, desired, who desires to be desired, who knows there is no greater proof of love than the other’s appetite, who is dying to be eaten up, who says or doesn’t say, but who signifies: I beg you, eat me up. Want me down to the marrow. And yet manage it so as to keep me alive. But I often turn about or compromise, because I know that you won’t eat me up, in the end, and I urge you: bite me. Sign my death with your teeth.

Helene Cixous
The Love of the Wolf

when I finally had the words

September 21, 2019

Poetry as an infinite series of veils. Poetry as gender in transition. Poetry as the years I spent not knowing myself and poetry as the years when I finally had the words. Poetry as the row of palm trees you drive past going anywhere on this coast: to home or school or church, to the border bridge or the island bridge. Poetry as the ocean or the family refusing to wrap its arms around you. Poetry as not knowing how someone will respond upon seeing you, as the moment your voice is heard, how intensely you are interrogated: whether an insult or a question or a gaze. I ask myself often, What have I done? and Have I lived a full life?

Jamie Berrout
Postcard Poems