One of the most beautiful testaments to love I’ve ever read — Pip to Estella in Great Expectations:
“…You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read, since I first came here, the rough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been in every prospect I have ever seen since—on the river, on the sails of the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You have been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever become acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London buildings are made, are not more real, or more impossible to be displaced by your hands, than your presence and influence have been to me, there and everywhere, and will be. Estella, to the last hour of my life, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the little good in me, part of the evil. But, in this separation I associate you only with the good, and I will faithfully hold you to that always, for you must have done me far more good than harm, let me feel now what sharp distress I may. O God bless you, God forgive you!”
To get the sound take everything that is not the sound drop it
Down a well, listen.
Then drop the sound. Listen to the difference
Y’know, it’s all so beautiful and perfect while at exactly the same time sad and difficult and never at all what we expected, it’s almost too much to bear sometimes.
What is this life, anyway?
Chocolate pudding, and children with beautiful eyes, and just the right wine with just the right dinner.
from Nightclub, by Billy Collins
. . .We are all so foolish,
my long bebop solo begins by saying,
so damn foolish
we have become beautiful without even knowing it.
I am a total Rafa Nadal fan.
And not just because he has great legs.
He is a true athlete, and warrior. He looks like he’s sneering, but he’s actually just concentrating. He’s dauntless and fearless and completely unflappable.
I want to be him when I grow up.
Except for the Spanish tennis-playing part, of course. That would be weird. And impossible.
A huge red sun would be setting far away in a sulphurous sea, our shadows would already be long: their feet sticking to our soles, they would slide on our right over the surface of the kermes oaks, be slashed in two, in passing, by a pine tree trunk and suddenly loom vertical against a golden rock face. The first hardly perceptible evening breeze flowed towards us from the hilltops. In the sky, a black flight of starlings dived and soared again, changing in size and shape along unexpected curves, like an ant-hill carried away by the wind, and then, amid the resinous silence of the pine-woods, a few lost notes of the angelus of Allauch would evangelize the echoes of the cliffs.
I had not forgotten my love, but my grief took on the tinge of the season: it was a wistful regret, a tender melancholy which recomposed my memories. I had obliterated the humiliating ordeals, the poet on all fours on the road and the devastating last appearance of the Cassignol family. I saw two violet-blue eyes across a sheaf of irises, a bunch of blue grapes before half-open lips, and, on the singing swing, the brown nape of a little girl who was pointing her white sandals towards the quivering boughs of an olive tree . . . Then, in my dreams at night, I would hear distant music and the little red queen would glide away, infinitely sad and lonely, under the gloomy arches of the forests of long ago.
~ Marcel Pagnol
I know it’s not, technically, “poetry,” but anything this lovely, and said this beautifully, is.