In college, lovable, adorable Fr. Nick Cruz let us watch Il Postino. It has been my favorite film ever since. I even have a CD that has Neruda's poems read by actors and actresses such as Madonna and Andy Garcia. That was my first ME purchase in the early days of my first job. I spent many many hours listening to the CD. It takes me back to my college days when love was such a foreign, unreachable star to me. And as I listen to it now, I am saddened once again. Not for a love that was lost, but love that was never given to me.

But life indeed is strange, sometimes. For now that I have found a love that wraps me in its sweet, unconditional embrace, he is still alone.

Labels: pablo neruda, random rambling

Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of you.
I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.

Labels: pablo neruda, poetry