To Love

I want to love, love with abandon!
To love for love’s sake: here, there,
this one, that one, another, and everyone.
To make love, to be in love, and to love no one.

To remember? To Forget? Makes no difference.
To hold on or let go? Neither bad nor good.
But to say you can love one your entire life,
is a lie.

There is one Spring in each life:
You must sing it like Spring, floridly,
For if God gave us voice, it was to sing!

And if one day I must be dust, ashes, and nothing
let my night be a dawn,
let me know how to lose myself . . . to find myself . . .

Florbela Espanca (1894-1930, one of Portugal’s most known and loved poets)


Love Poem

 In your hair’s torrent, your mouth’s river, in
the forest dark as evening
a vain summoning,
a plash in vain.

I’ll enwrap yet in dusk, in night’s rose-flower
and as branch, scrap, or gesture, the world will turn,
then it will mutely stagger,
pass through the eyes like a blur
and I’ll say: not being-I am.

Flowing into you still, and bearing your reflection
in pupils, or like a tear from eyelids hanging,
I’ll hear in you silver seas etched by a dolphin,
like sleep inside the shell of your body ringing.

Or in a grove, where you are
a birch tree, pure white air
and the milk of daylight,
a huge barbarian,
bearing a thousand centuries
I’ll burst with the copse’s noise
into your branches, birdlike.
one day-and a whole age in which to long,
one gesture-and endless storms at once come crashing,
one step-and here you are, and you alone
each time-a spirit waiting in the ashes.-To my darling Basia (his muse)

Krzysztof Baczyński (1921-1944, Polish poet and Home Army soldier)



It seems absurd I did not recognize it at once,
but at first my thoughts were indefinite
and I did not know by what names to call it.
I had always looked upon it as something
so much more personal and individual, and coming this way as it did, it seemed new and strange. It came to me in the subway.
i remember it had been raining and as I entered the train I remarked to myslef hideous smell of damp clothing and dripping umberllas.
At first the crowed so, shrank a little and tried to gain my balance. It was just then the peculiar thing happened…

–  Mercedes de Acosta (1893- 1968, American poet, playwright, and novelist)



Paolo Nutini – Candy –


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