Poor Fellows

What it takes on this planet,
to make love to each other in peace.
Everyone pries under your sheets,
everyone interferes with your loving.
They say terrible things about a man and a woman,
who after much milling about,
all sorts of compunctions,
do something unique,
they both lie with each other in one bed.
I ask myself whether frogs are so furtive,
or sneeze as they please.
Whether they whisper to each other in swamps about illegitimate frogs,
or the joys of amphibious living.
I ask myself if birds single out enemy birds,
or bulls gossip with bullocks before they go out in public with cows.
Even the roads have eyes and the parks their police.
Hotels spy on their guests,
windows name names,
canons and squadrons debark on missions to liquidate love.
All those ears and those jaws working incessantly,
till a man and his girl
have to raise their climax,
full tilt,
on a bicycle.

P. Neruda

Water

These last days, well actually it is the last couple of months, an abundance of water, in form of snow, has been getting on my nerves. Every day I have to drag myself through mountains of unploughed snowy streets and forests, well only one but still, to get to where ever I need to be at a certain time. This is, if nothing else, time consuming, hard work, slippery, cold, annoying, wet after getting inside, as well as demanding since one needs to get dressed up in far too heavy boots and clothing to even attempt to form the thought of opening the door to get out for the mail.

The good thing about having snow is the amusement of having to sit afront of the tv watching facinating shows on themes one knows nothing about, or reading the books that either should have been read for a very long time ago, or books that have been postponed to just such an evening, whilst drinking anything that will help keep the spirit(s) to a maximum. Luckily for me I have an abundance of all of the afore mentioned items and have been craving more and more the last few days. Hopefully it will all go away soon, as I should, by all reckonings, be doing something useful such as writing my dissertation on Renaissance law, drama and cognitive linguistics.

All day I hear the noise of waters
Making moan,
Sad as the sea-bird is when, going
Forth alone,
He hears the winds cry to the water's
Monotone.

The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing
Where I go.
I hear the noise of many waters
Far below.
All day, all night, I hear them flowing
To and fro.

J. Joyce