Ode to the Book

Book,

beautiful

book,

miniscule forest,

leaf

after leaf,

your paper

smells

of the elements,

you are

matutinal and nocturnal,

vegetal,

oceanic,

in your ancient pages

bear hunters,

bonfires

near the Mississippi,

canoes

in the islands,

later

roads

and roads,

revelations,

insurgent

races,

Rimbaud like a wounded

fish bleeding

thumping in the mud,

and the beauty

of fellowship,

stone by stone

the human castle rises,

sorrows intertwined

with strenght,

actions of solidarity,

clandestine

book

from pocket,

hidden

lamp,

red star.

We

the wandering

poets

explored

the world,

at every door

life received us,

we took part

in the earthly struggle.

What was our victory?

A book,

a book full

of human touches,

of shirts,

a book

without loneliness, with men

and tools,

a book

is victory.

It lives and falls

like all fruit,

it doesn't have light,

it doesn't just have

shadow,

it fades,

it sheds its leaves,

it gets lost

in the streets,

it tumbles to earth.

Morning-fresh

book of poetry,

again

hold

snow and moss

on your pages

so that footsteps

and eyes

may keep carving

trails:

once more

describe the world to us,

the springs

in the middle of the forest,

the high woodlands,

the polar

planets,

and man

on the roads,

on the new roads,

advancing

in the jungle,

in the water,

in the sky,

in the naked solitude of the sea,

man

discovering

the ultimate secrets,

man

returning

with a book,

the hunter back again

with a book,

the farmer

plowing

with a book.

        Pablo Neruda

I am not now, nor have I ever been, in the kind of love affair with words that, for example, the poet sampled above claims as his own.  I don't write poetry, I rarely write stories (although I remember well the enthusiasm I had for making up stories as a little girl).  I am an avid reader and occassionally, my frenzy over a good book will lead me into a discussion thereof, sometimes even a journal entry dedicated to its glory. 

Tonight is different.

Tonight I will write a poem that noone will remember for it will not be great, or eloquent, or kind to the tongue.  There will be too much of me revealed in it. Emotional gushing is what I think the proper term would be.  Let it be, then; and maybe the affection I feel right now will be worth its undeserved title of a poem by a non-poetress.

It is over.

Hugging it tightly to my chest,

unable to relinquish its dreams

and weaving my own hopes

as part of its story,

I hold the book

for just a second longer.

I can't stop smiling.

I have never been in love;

or at least not in love that's been returned.

But when I dare to imagine

what that must be like

I'd rather it would be something like this.

Isn't love suppose to be exhilarating at first,

happiness pouring out of lover's mouths

as they try to keep up

with the demands of their flesh?

A touch with a new book is thrilling

and painful

because of its inevitable discourse into the unknown.

Like a lover,

a book opens it's pages

only to make me wonder

why it asked to be read it in the first place.

Was it to teach me how to cry again?

 I can cry really well at this point.

My last lover moved me.

He was gentle and graceful,

a true man.

Positive proof that maturity exists

in the mind as well as the flesh.

Oh, what flesh...!

He still excites me,

drives me to tears with longing.

He is now,

no more than a tale told

for the benefits of upholding my ego.

Books may have been the only reality I've ever known

for that matter.

Every book I've read I've finished.

A full circle,

culminating in a frenzy

of flipping pages

while trying to balance my coffeemug on a pillow

and ignoring the hunger in my cunt,

because I don't have an extra hand

to masturbate with.

Books are the closure I long for,

from my unknown father,

from my abusive mother,

from my son's father,

from myself,

my demons always hovering,

am I good?

am I worthy?

am I deserving of love?

am I a petty, jealous, conniving, insecure, hateful little girl?

There, between the pages of sheets

tales of weakness and strenght,

friendship and loathing,

treachery,

love,

and the inevitable happy ending,

I find myself whole again.

What is love of the written word

but tears shed in sacrifice

for the magical knowledge

of a tale.

It always gives back more than it takes.

Love

makes that promise,

only the outcome is never so certain;

and rarely do we see

the ending of the story

before the book is finished.

No wonder then,

that my perfect fantasy

always seems to end

with my lover and I,

arms entwined,

genitals soft and sore,

commencing our lovemaking

by reading to each other

passages of a book,

repeating out loud

the sensuality of the page

and never once wondering

if our story will end well.