Love Poetry, Poetry for Love

I have been trying to write poetry since I was about fifteen years old. I found it more difficult to write than short stories, which I have written since I was twelve or so. I wrote most of my poetry out of images that came from inside, like Plato’s view from within the cave. I wrote most of my short stories overnight. I have probably written a couple of hundred poems mostly in Spanish, from which over sixty are still reachable in my drawers and briefcases, but most of which are at risk of getting lost, if not published. Indeed, I have planned to published my best poems under a book that would be entitled Alma Mater One, as part of a series, since the muse usually comes from the mother, even when the on campus thing could create ambiguity to the title. Likewise, my short story book “El Retrato del Fantasma” (The Portrait of the Ghost) still holds a copyright at the US Library of Congress, and remains unpublished, after a dual feedback from Vantage Press send it back to me a few years ago. Perhaps, it sounds awful to say that I had written some other poems that vanished with a misplaced computer hard drive, which contains mostly literary meditations about overnight star watching, that I entitled The Remains of the Constellation, all of which are still misplaced in several literary and technical research mixed boxes. Recently, I restarted writing in French. The following is a poem with an extremely straight but multidimensional literary time, and a Parisian street taste. A friend of mine suggested it was good enough for it to be published.

Rendez-Vous

Je t’attends chaque nuit.

J’attends comme l’enfant sous la pluie,

et je rêve des nuances fardées

par la pluie et la lumière…

Ma belle amie, je t’attends

comme dans mes rêves

l’enfant rêve sous la pluie

et il dort s’amusant avec

des jeux infantiles

dont il ne sait rien…

De l’autre côté, les géants

ne dorment pas, ils bataillent

au regard de l’enfant

qui rêve encore sous la pluie

et auxquels il y voit comme des inconnus.

Voilà, je reviens, je me réveille...

et jusque comme toi, je t’attends aussi

j’attends comme l’enfant sous la pluie

et à nouveau je rêve aussi de tes rêveries.

Nos âges ne comptent plus

nous sommes qui nous sommes

et je t’attends finalement

c’est le rêve accompli.

I enjoyed being able to write in good French, because even many famous writers could not do that, including someone as great as Rilke who complains so in his letters. At times, and quite often, I think in French, and despite my vocabulary concerns, it holds sometimes as my main thinking and analytical language (to write), probably due to some sentimental factor.

Surprisingly, I have also recalled my shortest poem ever written in Spanish:

La Mar

La mar me ama con sus olas y sus besos
que vienen y se van con la resaca.
Es intermitente
como el amor de una mujer.

In English, I heard that I have recently received another Editor’s Choice awards from the International Library of Poetry and poetry.com with the following poems:

Declaration of Love

Your candid rose wet lips

sweeten mine on contact

the night illuminating the bright stars

little dots sparkling the full moon.

Je t'aime.

When I pass by near you I say it each time, whispering

the sound of happiness, the years to come,

first in the new century calendar.

Je t'aime.

The sun wakes us up, unknown

to the present, the past, the future

unknown to our everyday joy

strange to my solitude, our recall.

Je t'aime.

The Gallic voice rises up

under your surrounding path,

straight, feeling your body next to mine,

and the dream wakes up, becomes real.

Perfection

The lovely voices sound inside

as the song of truthful love aligns the awaken souls both

the feeling of the unified heart.

The painter ballyhoos his art

Detained in time is the age

That turned around the page

Aligning each delicate body part.

The floor moved piece-by-piece away the parlor is turned round around

the art fades, skepticism is my way...

The coffee aroma has waken me up

spreading delicious flavor in my room

joyful morning, the labyrinth is my map.

Intellectual Elite

Anthony Noriega Carranza

Symmetric perfection derives the strength

the sharp eyes, the beauty in the heart

the motherly nuance that makes the beat fast

robust feeling reaching the path through the end.

The perfection of shapes is Gestalt without myths

the geometric imagination goes beyond any dimension

the wonders of lines deceive all natural counts

shaping the entangled, the imagined ideas to come.

The matrices of all thoughts convey the new findings

they gather with passion in art and pervasive science

to discover the new facts leading the real world.

They awaken the imagination with celestial aroma

they distinguish the physical rules of love and her chemistry

and in astral dimensions join their hands tightly together.

Anthony De Jesus Noriega
Copyright ©2007 Anthony De Jesus Noriega

I just finish a new poem draft, which I had been writing for a few weeks:

Wandering Soulmates

We talk to each other in the distancelike two wandering souls…
After all, how could I think
without thinking of you
and how could I dream,
without dreaming of you…
How could I love, without loving you…
I could no longer desire when thirsty…
My deer friend, return through the trail
that you missed…
Take my hand into your solitude
and break the crystal transparent to the past.
Take my hand and walk away
and you will find me ubiquitous wherever you go.
Thus, you will see me until you surrender
your destiny to mine
until you discover truthfulness.

And almost finally, meeting a special person’s expectations:

A simple relationship

I see you arrive with the wind waving your hair
I feel your tender voice talking running near me
as my spirit raises to reach you at every instant
where the oriental sounds clear my mind...

And I have no other thoughts but you to be truly you
and no doubts about you being honestly yourself
when your voice talks to me and calls me each time
there are no waits from the past, the present, the future.

And I understand your words as present verses
future bouquet of flowers that open our hearts
to friendship, love, and all beyond our endless dream
as I embrace you with a Parisian kiss at the Arc.

And I listen to you saying what it takes to love me
to render the day-to-day worries and vanish fear
and seriously persuade you that we love each other
not like others, like two lost wanderers in a hill.

Waiting to escape the mountainous wilderness
we shall enter the sky, without limits or circles
and navigate the stateless, etherless sound of words
and timely encounter ourselves at dawn without despair.

In the end, we discover a simple relationship with a rose
to get to know each other where time does not count
where past, present, and future are just uncountable words
uttered from your tender lips that I get to feel again.

Lastly, writing and reading poetry generates a great deal of freedom spiritual peace to the mind, and it elevates one’s soul into unmistaken happiness.