These are the facts, nothing here but the facts. I was on the road to Damascus via a street in the West Village in New York City, when, in an instant, barometric pressure had dropped 100 MB. Darkness enveloped an eleven-o’clock-morning sun. It may have been a trick of the mind, or some kind of serious panic disorder. Although I could no longer see, I pictured myself a child on a visit to my great grandmother's house in La Salle, Illinois. In my head I felt as though a tornado was approaching...
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ALWAYS, After Pablo
Neruda
I'm
not concerned about those other men, The
lovers who came before me.
I
could not care less! Forget about it. Your
friends, those guys who had previous claim, Who
boasted title to the blood rush of your heart, They
mean nothing to me. Come
to me carrying an old boyfriend on your shoulders. Show
me that picture, The
one which has a hundred men sniffing your hair. Conjure
up a mother goddess image, A
thousand guys nestling between your breasts, Or
tell me that you have had acolytes adoring your feet. Flood
me over as were your memories A
monsoon river torrent, when in mid-July it empties The
mountain-gully slopes of Goa, And
speeds the great, red earth out into the Sea of Arabia. Roar
into me with the tidal wave of all your mementos. Show
me the wrecked hopes, The
twists and heaps of those tokens which at one time spelled The
bleeding-heart intent of your now-drowned lovers. How
wretchedly long the debris stretch, How
deep and far your keepsakes tear inland over the coastline! What
vanity dreams to withstand the timeless motion of the surf! Yet
here I am. I
wait. I am waiting for you, No
matter what, or who it is, you may bring along. We
are alone, we shall always be alone, We
shall always be you and I.
And
here -- here is the time, The
place, where, through the ages, Through
worlds and worlds, through universes apart, In
a flash out from the cycle of life after life. We
are now at the moment. Our
affection reaches beyond the stint of ordinary dimension. It
has settled in for the term we call immortality.
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HAD I BEEN BORN PERFECT
Remember
I told you how I handled Gregory? He
was a bad case, eh, What
with his doing 8 bags o' dust at a time, And
then visiting local bars, so sick, Upchucking
right on the patrons' jackets, While
they sat there, all innocent, People
on their stools were having a drink!
I
didn't talk to him for years, Refused
all contact, I was afraid, People
had not realized how great my fear. He
occupied my thoughts night and day.
I
thought he might wind up in jail, Or
dead, or a victim hooked up, Like
some medical experiment, Doctors
without options, practicing Last
resort medicine, wires and tubes, And
a parent witness to nightmare, The
nasty ordeal when intervention Takes
place during hospital emergency.
It's
not death, for death is but a word. It
is the way of it. I feared.
I
called it love, my having nothing, Absolutely
nothing to do with him, Until
he went for help, because he seemed Unable
to help himself, and cease The
shit with which he played.
I
did not know what else to do.
Once
he called me and said, 'Dad,
I've got the monkey off my back!' But
I hung up the receiver, Didn't
let him explain. I
couldn't take it, no more rot!, I
knew he was still in the circus.
And
Billy, a surrogate son, You
know the story, I … I treated him the same, The
same cold shoulder, not talking to him Months
on end, until he realized our friendship Depended
on his treating his own two boys, Like
a proper father. I wanted him to put His
children first in life, and I meant it.
Forget
about my smile and easy charm, It's
never smart to test my resolve.
2.
But,
darling, when it comes to dealing with you, I
find no form of human love prevails. No
mere earthly style or mode of affection works!
Oh,
the poetry! Look
to the poetry I write for you. My
heart wells up, the warmest regard, Right
up to the breaking point, In
poem after poem I tried to portray How
great, how utter the abandon, I
declared, were fate to bring us to a terrible juncture, A
crossroad where all choice reduces To
either my life, or yours,
Gladly
would I give up mine, I would die for you.
To
proclaim the veracity of your physical beauty I
wrote, RED ROOF INN.
I
spent a year and wrote, NOW VOYAGER for you.
The
time, when in Brooklyn I found you, That
early, that rainy morning, I
knew you were treasure. You,
the reason, I wrote, SERENDIPITY!
And
that I might attest to your strength of character, Express
my fondest feelings for you, I
wrote, then, over and again, I rewrote, DREAM
CHILDREN, verse which pictured you In
future time the mother of our two children.
How
tender and constant the thoughts! You on my mind Beseeching
you, and ever so softly, so gently I
sought to play upon the strings of your heart.
And
the letters, they are all love letters, And
we have a pile of them.
When
in this correspondence, I said it wrong, Overstepped
the line, wanted propriety, And
for those errors in judgment and phrase, The
anger, when I fell, put my own bruised feelings Before
yours, did not consider your own hurt first, And
failed to acknowledge the great gift, Your
being in my life that day.
I
implore you please forgive.
Whenever
I lacked intellectual power, Whatever
defect of moral character foiled me from Exercising
both the restraint of my tongue And
the rush of my fingers upon the keyboard, Where
had been my even basic sense of compassion? Still
it was you -- your well being foremost in my life. My
intent was proper, though my behavior poor, My
expression amiss, my communications hasty, And
ultimately for my behaviors there are no excuses, However
I had meant the best for you.
Yet
today as well as it had been then, I
wish you forever well.
Still
I doubt all my love allows you any easier a sleep. I
wonder what technique, What
kind of human love might lessen The
pain, the disorder troubling you, And
calm the upset, which at end has us delivered To
this grisly end, the final stages of our romance?
Here
I pray to God.
I
fall to my knees -- such the will to believe -- Ask
that Munificence be granted, The
Almighty do, on earth, All
those things that I had failed to do for you. God's
will be done.
3.
Had
I been born perfect.
How
I now regret, when as a child, I
wasted time playing with crystal sets, And
in the basement of my parents' home, Spent
hours profligately upon Imaginary
laboratory tables with chemistry, Meaningless
experiments with liquids and powders.
Had
I been born a man wise enough, The
kind of guy who might do you real good, I
would have had you in mind right from the start, I
would have abandoned my attempts at writing. I
would have turned about, Learned
the illusionist’s trade, And
trained until I possessed every trick in the book.
Then
I could live within the mirror, Work
the conjurer's art so that when you went to look, When
you fixed a gaze upon your own mirror image, Instead
of you, the reflection staring back, My
picture of you, the way I see you, The
enchantment, my awe, which is you, Whenever
you stand before me, The
image of you so bountiful and pure, You,
the brilliance at center of my sight.
Had
I been able to practice real magic.
There
would be light, love, and just approval, And
it would be my voice ringing through The
reflecting glass, no more whisper of doubt, My
wizardly spell, the timbre of my incantations,
Banishing
any word of fear and sadness, an end to frailty, Now
instead in your head the lyrics to hymns of all courage.
I
would rid the mirror's display of fault and distortion. We
would come to see a world without poverty, And
know only hugs, freedom and peace.
Were
that the case, Had
fate conspired to have me born A
man capable of grand devotion, The
kind of guy who might do you real good, I
would have abandoned my attempts at writing, Wasted
no time upon fruitless experiments I
would have turned about, set myself on right course, Learned
the illusionist’s trade, And
trained until I possessed every trick in the book. Then
I could live within the mirror, I
could dispel all bad images from from its surface, Let
you see how great your love's delight.
YOU TUBE CHANNEL INTRODUCTION, Featuring LOVE HURTS, Love Email, 3 Hello.
I am Stanley Pacion. My written work and videos have received
world-wide recognition and some acclaim. The basis of My YouTube
Channel is the written word, poetry and prose. I read my own poetry,
modern and hip, classical, yet everyday, both lyrical and narrative in
style. My Channel, Stanley Pacion, is a V blog, somewhat
autobiographical, though filed with flights of fancy, and all kinds
of fanciful, romantic imagery. Although My Channel is a series of
video uploads, it represents a literary effort entitled, A BIG BOOK
OF MY OWN. Written text accompanies all my uploads. Also, My
Channel is eclectic, featuring “how-to-do-it” videos, and
informative travelogues from my home base here in India. I have also
included several “love letters.” Those, too, have enjoyed warm
critical response. I am a former history professor. You will find a
few historical essays on ancient Greece and Rome. There is an
account of how Julius Caesar used his marriages to advance his power,
only to find himself undone by bringing the Egyptian Queen,
Cleopatra, as his consort to Rome. Don't shy away; stories about
Sparta and Nero's Roman court might surprise you. There is also an
account of how Julius Caesar used his marriages to advance his power,
only to find himself undone by bringing the Egyptian Queen,
Cleopatra, as his consort to Rome. I would bet that you will find
me interesting and personable, and some fun. Take a look at how I see
the world with my words and through my videos. Subscribe
love
poems, howto do, travelogues, recitations (readings), topical
narrative poems, love letters, sex in history.
Stanley Pacion
is an online poet known and published world over. His YouTube Channel
has recorded 211,000 + Single Page Visits, Video Views! http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/homepage
Tweet As of this date, August 19, 2013, my YOUTUBE Channel has received 211,000 + Single Page Visits, Video Views! A Google Search of the termsStanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 400,000. Please SUBSCRIBE BUTTON
LOVE HURTS, Love Email, 3
Dearest Etta,
I got off the telephone with you about an hour or so ago, and once again a flood of memories and feelings beset me. Our long distance and our long time apart may be the end of me. Poor me! Poor me! Honest, it is very hard for me to pretend I am grown up, a man about this whole separation business. I feel alone. I am more like a child. I suffer terrible separation anxiety. Right this moment I want to scream aloud, and, if it would do me any good at all, I would. I would scream aloud in pain.
Also, I am having a physical reaction. Juices are being released in my stomach, which never happens to me even when I am hungry. This is not just my imagination. No! I am physically afflicted. Longing for you, just to be near to you, causes me ache even in my forearms. My elbows hurt. I swear I feel the ache of this profound longing even in the calves of my legs, in my knee caps. I know you believe me to be exaggerating, but it's true, darling. It is true! I am now in the middle of some devil angst.
Last night I had another bad spell, very bad. I felt an exhaustion overcome me. I lay down in the bed right off my office area, and almost curled up in a ball. I was in the fetal position. I began to swoon. If only I could come up against you. I need only your body warmth. I need only to be up over and against you.
Playing on the TV set at the bottom of the bed was a PBS special, which now had a segment about the Warsaw Ghetto. I did not actually see the video portion, but the mournful sounds, oh, the so sad background music, matched my interior mood. How's that for big-time sacrilege, down right sinful! It is a terrible comparison, I know. I have no right making it. But I try to portray the mood, the dark-cloud mood over me. My pain over missing you tied to the agony of tens of thousands souls living in Hell and then about to be transported to an absolute Hell. Now you know, sweet heart! Now you know! Now you have a glimpse of the pain I am in. I am truly a lost soul.
