In conversation recently I talked to a guy who shared his frustration about being “ghosted” by a woman with whom he felt he had a perfectly fine date. Theoretically I would have agreed with him that she could have just said at the end of it, when he asked to keep in touch, that she had a nice time but didn’t see it going anywhere. But I know that I have never been able to do this – and I have equally been almost totally unable to disappear from someone’s life completely without any kind of explanation whatsoever. Truth be told, I have mostly been scared of men my entire life – too afraid to disappear completely (what if they then find me and react badly?) but equally too afraid to wound a fragile ego. The point isn’t me, though.
No, it’s the idea that these people (usually men) who insist that they “just” want someone to be honest with them, that it would have been fine to say “thanks, but no thanks” are out of touch with reality. They often, as news stories everywhere all week long have pointed out, take a polite rejection as an invitation to keep trying, keep pestering, push harder, and sometimes, it escalates into outright threats and violence. This is nothing new to most women.
Sure, it might be civilized and polite to be able to say to someone, “Thanks for the drink, but I think we should go our separate ways”, but reality has taught us that we are rarely met with civilized responses.
Ella Mi Fu Rapita! (She abandoned me)
–Gavin Ewart “Die Liebe dauert oder dauert nicht.” –Brecht
Her boredom took her away. So simple.
She just became bored with me. No other rival
experienced the entrancing smile with the dimple
or put down his drink in joy at her arrival
or loved her in taxis that stream like ants
through London, fingers under her pants
caressing her holy of holies. Oh, no,
it wasn’t someone younger, bigger or better.
She went because she had the urge to go,
Without a phone call, telegram or letter.
From our last meeting she just walked out –
a few pretexts perhaps. What were they about?
Nothing too serious. A red bow in her hair,
as she lay naked on the bed, knees-raising,
stays in my mind. I know I had my share.
Love is all programmed, it’s all phasing,
There’s a beginning, a middle and an end.
A lover’s life is not that of a friend,
who by and large is able to take it or leave it.
For love there’s a critical path – it goes on.
It can’t go backwards or sideways, believe it,
That’s all; a dream, a tremendous con,
And when it’s over, you’re out on your own.
Most life, they say, has to be lived alone.
And what can the lover do, when the time’s come,
when THE END goes up on the screen? Yelling,
rush into the street, lamenting her lovely bum?
Get friendly with men in bars, telling
how sweet she was, praising her statistics,
or admiring his own sexual ballistics?
No, that’s no good. Love lasts – or doesn’t last.
And all the pink intimacies and warm kisses
go into Proust’s remembrance of time past.
Lovers must never crumple up like sissies
Or break down and cry about their wrongs
If girls are sugar, God holds the sugar tongs.
Marina of the Rocks
–Odysseus Elytis
You have a taste of tempest on your lips—But where did you wander
All day long in the hard reverie of stone and sea?
An eagle-bearing wind stripped the hills
Stripped your longing to the bone
And the pupils of your eyes received the message of chimera
Spotting memory with foam!
Where is the familiar slope of short September
On the red earth where you played, looking down
At the broad rows of the other girls
The corners where your friends left armfuls of rosemary.
But where did you wander
All night long in the hard reverie of stone and sea?
I told you to count in the naked water its luminous days
On your back to rejoice in the dawn of things
Or again to wander on yellow plains
With a clover of light on your breast, iambic heroine.
You have a taste of tempest on your lips
And a dress red as blood
Deep in the gold of summer
And the perfume of hyacinths—But where did you wander
Descending toward the shores, the pebbled bays?
There was cold salty seaweed there
But deeper a human feeling that bled
And you opened your arms in astonishment naming it
Climbing lightly to the clearness of the depths
Where your own starfish shone.
Listen. Speech is the prudence of the aged
And time is a passionate sculptor of men
And the sun stands over it, a beast of hope
And you, closer to it, embrace a love
With a bitter taste of tempest on your lips.
It is not for you, blue to the bone, to think of another summer,
For the rivers to change their bed
And take you back to their mother
For you to kiss other cherry trees
Or ride on the northwest wind.
Propped on the rocks, without yesterday or tomorrow,
Facing the dangers of the rocks with a hurricane hairstyle
You will say farewell to the riddle that is yours.
Original
Η Μαρίνα των βράχων
-Ο ποιητής
Έχεις μια γεύση τρικυμίας στα χείλη –Μα πού γύριζες
Ολημερίς τη σκληρή ρέμβη της πέτρας και της θάλασσας
Αετοφόρος άνεμος γύμνωσε τους λόφους
Γύμνωσε την επιθυμία σου ως το κόκαλο
Κι οι κόρες των ματιών σου πήρανε τη σκυτάλη της Χίμαιρας
Ριγώνοντας μ’ αφρό τη θύμηση!
Πού είναι η γνώριμη ανηφοριά του μικρού Σεπτεμβρίου
Στο κοκκινόχωμα όπου έπαιζες θωρώντας προς τα κάτω
Τους βαθιούς κυαμώνες των άλλων κοριτσιών
Τις γωνιές όπου οι φίλες σου άφηναν αγκαλιές τα δυοσμαρίνια*
–Μα πού γύριζες;
Ολονυχτίς τη σκληρή ρέμβη της πέτρας και της θάλασσας
Σου ‘λεγα να μετράς μες στο γδυτό νερό τις φωτεινές του μέρες
Ανάσκελη να χαίρεσαι την αυγή των πραγμάτων
Ή πάλι να γυρνάς κίτρινους κάμπους
Μ’ ένα τριφύλλι φως στο στήθος σου ηρωίδα ιάμβου*
Έχεις μια γεύση τρικυμίας στα χείλη
Κι ένα φόρεμα κόκκινο σαν το αίμα
Βαθιά μες στο χρυσάφι του καλοκαιριού
Και τ’ άρωμα των γυακίνθων –Μα πού γύριζες
Κατεβαίνοντας προς τους γιαλούς τους κόλπους με τα βότσαλα
Ήταν εκεί ένα κρύο αρμυρό θαλασσόχορτο
Μα πιο βαθιά ένα ανθρώπινο αίσθημα που μάτωνε
Κι άνοιγες μ’ έκπληξη τα χέρια σου λέγοντας τ’ όνομά του
Ανεβαίνοντας ανάλαφρα ως τη διαύγεια των βυθών
Όπου σελάγιζε ο δικός σου ο αστερίας*.
Άκουσε ο λόγος είναι των στερνών η φρόνηση
Κι ο χρόνος γλύπτης των ανθρώπων παράφορος
Κι ο ήλιος στέκεται από πάνω του θηρίο ελπίδας
Κι εσύ πιο κοντά του σφίγγεις έναν έρωτα
Έχοντας μια πικρή γεύση τρικυμίας στα χείλη.
Δεν είναι για να λογαριάζεις γαλανή ως το κόκαλο
άλλο καλοκαίρι,
Για ν’ αλλάξουνε ρέμα τα ποτάμια
Και να σε πάνε πίσω στη μητέρα τους,
Για να ξαναφιλήσεις άλλες κερασιές
Ή για να πας καβάλα στο μαΐστρο
Στυλωμένη στους βράχους δίχως χτες και αύριο.
Στους κινδύνους των βράχων με τη χτενισιά της θύελλας
Θ’ αποχαιρετήσεις το αίνιγμά σου.
Did I Know You?
–Rolf Jacobsen
Did I know you
really. Things
you never quite said or
we let lie. Half-thought
thoughts. A shadow
that passed over your face.
Something in your eyes. No,
I don’t want to believe that.
But it comes back. Night
has no sounds,
only strange thoughts. Words
that rise up from my sleep:
Did I know you?
Original
Kjente jeg deg?
Kjente jeg deg
egentlig. Noe
du aldri fikk sagt eller
vi lot ligge. Halv-
tenkte tanker. En skygge
som strøk over ansiktet.
Noe i øynene. Nei
jeg vil ikke tro det.
Men det kommer igjen. Natten
har ingen lyd,
bare rare tanker. Ord
som stiger opp av søvnen:
Kjente jeg deg?
Human Geography
–Gloria Fuertes
Look at my continent containing
arms, legs, and an unmeasured torso,
my feet are small, my hands tiny,
my eyes deep, my breasts pretty good,
I have a lake under my forehead
which at times spills over through the sockets
where it batches the pupils of my eyes,
when crying gets into my legs
and my volcanoes quake in dance.
In the north I’m bordered by doubt
in the east by the other
in the west an Open Heart
and Castilian soil in the south.
Inside the continent there is content,
the united states of my body,
the state of pain at night,
the state of laughter in the soul—
state of the spinster all day long.
At noon I have earthquakes
if the wind of a letter doesn’t reach me;
fire is furious and wipes out
the wheat harvest of my chest.
The forest of my poorly combed hair
stiffens when a river of blood
runs through the continent;
and not having sinned it pardons me.
The sea around me changes;
it’s called Great Sea or Sea of People;
at times it shakes my sides,
at times it hugs me gently;
it depends on breezes or weather,
on heaven and cyclones maybe;
the fact is I’m an Island
known to submerge or merge
in the waters of human ocean
vulgarly known as the mob.
I’ve finished my lesson in geography.
Look at my contained continent.
Original
Geografía humana
Mirad mi continente contenido
brazos, piernas y tronco inmesurado,
pequeños son mis pies, chicas mis manos,
hondos mis ojos, bastante bien mis senos.
Tengo un lago debajo de la frente,
a veces se desborda y por las cuencas,
donde se bañan las niñas de mis ojos,
cuando el llanto me llega hasta las piernas
y mis volcanes tiemblan en la danza.
Por el norte limito con la duda,
por el este limito con el otro,
por el oeste Corazón Abierto
y por el sur con tierra castellana.
Dentro del continente hay contenido,
los estados unidos de mi cuerpo,
el estado de pena por la noche,
el estado de risa por el alma
—estado de soltera todo el día—.
Al mediodía tengo terremotos
si el viento de una carta no me llega,
el fuego se enfurece y va y me arrasa
las cosechas de trigo de mi pecho.
El bosque de mis pelos mal peinados
se eriza cuando el río de la sangre
recorre el continente,
y por no haber pecado me perdona.
El mar que me rodea es muy variable,
se llama Mar Mayor o Mar de Gente
a veces me sacude los costados,
a veces me acaricia suavemente;
depende de las brisas o del tiempo,
del ciclo o del ciclón, tal vez depende,
el caso es que mi caso es ser la isla
llamada a sumergirse o sumergerse
en las aguas del océano humano
conocido por vulgo vulgarmente.
Face Lost in the Wilderness
–Fadwa Tuquan
Do not fill postcards with memories
Between my heart and the luxury of passion
stretches a desert where ropes of fire
blaze and smolder, where snakes
coil and recoil, swallowing blossoms
with poison and flame.
No! Don’t ask me to remember. Love’s memory
is dark, the dream clouded;
love is a lost phantom
in a wilderness night.
Friend, the night has slain the moon.
In the mirror of my heart you can find no shelter,
only my country’s disfigured face,
her face, lovely and mutilated,
her precious face …
How did the world revolve in this way?
Our love was young. Did it grow in this horror?
In the night of defeat, black waters
covered my land, blood on the walls
was the only bouquet.
I hallucinated: “Open your breast,
open your mother’s breast for an embrace
priceless are the offerings!”
The jungle beast was toasting in the
tavern of crime; winds of misfortune
howled in the four corners.
He was with me that day.
I didn’t realize morning
would remove him.
Our smiles cheated sorrow
as I raved: “Beloved stranger!
Why did my country become a gateway
to hell? Since when are apples bitter?
When did moonlight stop bathing orchards?
My people used to plant fields and love life
Joyfully they dipped their bread in oil
Fruits and flowers tinted the land
with magnificent hues —
will the seasons ever again
give their gifts to my people?”
Sorrow — Jerusalem’s night is silence and smoke.
They imposed a curfew; now nothing beats in the
heart of the City but their bloodied heels
under which Jerusalem trembles
like a raped girl.
Two shadows from a balcony stared down at the City’s night. In the corner a suitcase of clothes,
souvenirs from the Holy Land —
his blue eyes stretched like sad lakes.
He loved Jerusalem. She was his mystical lover.
On and on I ranted, “Ah, love! Why did God abandon
my country? Imprisoning light, leaving us
in seas of darkness?”
The world was a mythical dragon standing
at her gate. “Who will ever solve this mystery,
beloved, the secret of these words?”
Now twenty moons have passed,
twenty moons, and my life continues.
Your absence too continues. Only one memory remaining:
The face of my stricken country filling my heart.
And my life continues —
the wind merges me with my people
on the terrible road of rocks and thorns.
But behind the river, dark forests of spears
sway and swell; the roaring storm
unravels mystery, giving to dragon-silence
the power of words.
A rush and din, flame and sparks
lighting the road —
one group after another
falls embracing, in one lofty death.
The night, no matter how long, will continue
to give birth to star after star
and my life continues,
my life continues.
