“Everything Is Illuminated.”  Jorge Luis

 “Any life is made up of a single moment, the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is.”  Jorge Luis Borges    

Flickr photo by Stellablue72

Upon finding a great Author that captures your heart, look further down the rabbit hole to find the writer that captured theirs.   Literature is often a road map of wisdom sending omens and random coincidences to guide you.  I’m always listening and watching for a recurring name or title to seek it out.

I found Jorge Luis Borges in Paulo Coelho’s book Confessions of a Pilgrim.  Paulo shared a story about taking a long bus trip to see Borges in person.  Upon arriving and seeing Borges, he didn’t talk to him or ask him any questions.  He just looked at him and then returned home.  I pondered why he didn’t saying anything to his favorite writer. What stopped him from a hello or hand shake.  Paulo is an avid blogger communicating directly with his fans on a regular basis, so I have a good chance of finding my answer.  I will keep you posted on the results.

In the mean time, I would love to hear your thoughts or theories on why he didn’t say anything. What would you say given the opportunity to meet your favorite writer?

Short Bio on Borges From The Modern Word

Jorge Luis Borges was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina on August 24, 1899. He was always expected to be a writer… He started writing at the age of six, mostly fanciful stories inspired by Cervantes. When he was nine, he translated Oscar Wilde’s “The Happy Prince” into Spanish, an effort which appeared in a local newspaper called El País.”

Poetry Spotlight on Jorge Luis Borges:

“Poetry remembers that it was an oral art before it was a written art.”  Jorge Luis Borges

Flickr photo by kai photography

Flickr photo by Eric Flexyourhead

Instants by Jorge Luis Borges

If I could live again my life,
In the next – I’ll try,
- to make more mistakes,
I won’t try to be so perfect,
I’ll be more relaxed,
I’ll be more full – than I am now,
In fact, I’ll take fewer things seriously,
I’ll be less hygienic,
I’ll take more risks,
I’ll take more trips,
I’ll watch more sunsets,
I’ll climb more mountains,
I’ll swim more rivers,

I’ll go to more places – I’ve never been,
I’ll eat more ice creams and less (lime) beans,
I’ll have more real problems – and less imaginary
ones,
I was one of those people who live
prudent and prolific lives -
each minute of his life,
Off course that I had moments of joy – but,
if I could go back I’ll try to have only good moments,

If you don’t know – that’s what life is made of,
Don’t lose the now!

I was one of those who never goes anywhere
without a thermometer,
without a hot-water bottle,
and without an umbrella and without a parachute,

If I could live again – I will travel light,
If I could live again – I’ll try to work bare feet
at the beginning of spring till
the end of autumn,
I’ll ride more carts,
I’ll watch more sunrises and play with more children,
If I have the life to live – but now I am 85,
- and I know that I am dying …

Flickr photo by xiaming

We are the time. We are the famous by Jorge Luis Borges

We are the time. We are the famous
metaphor from Heraclitus the Obscure.

We are the water, not the hard diamond,
the one that is lost, not the one that stands still.

We are the river and we are that Greek
that looks himself into the river. His reflection
changes into the waters of the changing mirror,
into the crystal that changes like the fire.

We are the vain predetermined river,
in his travel to his sea.

The shadows have surrounded him.
Everything said goodbye to us, everything goes away.
Memory does not stamp his own coin.

Flickr photo by Miceeatcheese

However, there is something that stays
however, there is something that bemoans.

Jorge Luis Borges

In Confessions of a Pilgrim, Paulo Coelho recited one of his favorite poems by Jorge Luis Borges:

I will not be happy now. It may not matter.
There are so many more things in the world.
Any random instant is as crowded
And varied as the sea.  A life is brief, and though
The hours seem long, there is another
Dark mystery that lies in wait for us-
Death, that other sea, that other arrow
That frees us from the sun, the moon, and love.
The happiness you gave me once and later
Took back from me will be obliterated.
That which was everything must turn to nothing.
I only keep the taste of my own sadness
And a vain urge that turns me to the South side,
To a certain corner there, a certain door.

Jorge Luis Borges

Flickr photo by takiostavim 

“To die for a religion is easier than to live it absolutely.” Jorge Luis Borges

Related Posts: My response to Ed Varney’s poem titled Happiness

The beautiful & enchanting wisdom of Hugh Prather

Summer hasn’t arrived, but I’m already horny, but wait…. I’m always horny. So I decided to tap into this never ending abyss of desire and share a collection of erotic poetry with my readers. If this blog in anyway contributes to you having just one more sexual encounter in your life…. Wasn’t it worth the read? So what are you waiting for…. Start reading….. or otherwise…. You know what I mean…

The Sick Rose William Blake

O Rose thou art sick.

The invisible worm.

That flies in the night

In the howling storm: Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy: And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.

Rapture by Karin Schaefer There is a place for us
that no one else can enter.
It is a place that holds no secrets,
only beauty, peace, understanding. A place that we come to,

thinking we are one,only to have our souls fused together for a moment.  And in that moment, I know you; every pore, every pulse,every thought, every fear.

And I love you more. I feel myself laid bare before you,
and I feel content . . .  joyous that you are with me,  loving me in my nakedness.

Passion’s Flames by Jeffrey Carter

A touch, soft and tender.
A whisper, full of desire
A gasp of sweet surrender
As passion fuels the fireNo words spoken between them No promises to be kept
No lies being told tonight No looking back – no regrets Longing to hold each other Such precious little time Both vowed to another - Being lonely their only crime - Tomorrow bringing sorrow – A brief moment of shame – With the memory of this one night – A release from passion’s flames

“What Do Women Want?” by Kim Addonizio

I want a red dress. I want it flimsy and cheap, I want it too tight, I want to wear it until someone tears it off me. I want it sleeveless and backless, this dress, so no one has to guess what’s underneath. I want to walk down the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store with all those keys glittering in the window, past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly, hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders. I want to walk like I’m the only woman on earth and I can have my pick.  I want that red dress bad. I want it to confirm your worst fears about me, to show you how little I care about you or anything except what I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment from its hanger like I’m choosing a body to carry me into this world, through the birth-cries and the love-cries too, and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin, it’ll be the goddamned dress they bury me in.

More! by Michael Anderson

I see myself holding you close to me,
Squeezing your body tight.
But for all I see as I daydream-
I know I’ll get tenfold tonight.

Running my palms across your breast,
As you tremble and bite your lip.
Feeling your hands upon my chest,
The softness of each fingertip.

Tasting your neck so sweet, so soft, And slowly lowering my kiss.
Over pert nipples, across your navel, And finally into pure bliss.

Looking upon your face from below- As you tilt back your head.
Feeling your fountains begin to flow- As you ease back on the bed.

Your “innocent little devil” look- Crying insatiably with the sensation.
Lip to lip lapping up every drip- From the well of your creation.

The way you pull me up by the hair-To the heat of your mouth, on fire.

No other thoughts, no other cares,
Just the quenching of mad desire. Riding the tide of passion,
Pushing my love into you. On the waves of your emotion-In slow motion, so sweet and true.  Pulse pounding in resounding rapture, Taken to the hilt, then just past. Rhythm growing, faces glowing,
The climax coming fast. That heated, illicit look- Of ecstasy across your eyes.
The culmination nearing- Within your undulating thighs.
Echoing throughout the heavens- On overindulgent cries.

The sultry look upon your face- In reaching that gyrating gush.
The way you bite my fingers- When I try to make you hush.

Your arching back, your fingernails, Your perfume mixed with sweat.
The way you keep rubbing against me- With your insides already so wet.
The way when I’m beat dead and ready- To fall face first to the floor,
You put your sweet lips to my ear- And whisper, “I want more!”

Lover’s Dance by Poet deVine

Glistening bodies entwined
in an ageless erotic dance,
seeking pleasures from each other,
seeking wonder and romance.Their lips meet in soft kisses,
their tongues begin passion’s war.
Forgotten now, the outside world.
All is here, behind this door.

He strokes her body tenderly,
she arches up for his caress.
He finds her silken portal
and her womanly wetness.

She moans in fiery desire
and pulls his hand away,
wishing to end this exquisite torture
and get on with passion’s play.

She straddles his waiting body,
eases him into her feminine hollow.
She leads him on a rhythmic dance,
his thrusting hips must follow.

She rides him faster, even then,
to hear his wondrous sighs.
She shows him all the delights
she has between her womanly thighs.

They stare into each other’s eyes
and gasp as ecstasy unreels,
and tangles them in a lover’s knot
that every answer reveals.

Sated, they lie side by side,
spent but hungering still.
She touches him where their passion came
and tastes their lovers spill.

Their mouths meet in passionate need,
hungry animals once more.
This time he rises above her,
her body to explore.

Their ballet begins again,
as he thrusts his manhood in,
vowing not to end the dance
unless her cries he’ll win.

Like beasts of old they become,
riding with desire,
only resting their throbbing bodies
when sated by their fire.

The Subverted Flower

By Robert Frost

She drew back; he was calm:
“It is this that had the power.”
And he lashed his open palm
With the tender-headed flower.
He smiled for her to smile,
But she was either blind
Or willfully unkind.
He eyed her for a while
For a woman and a puzzle.
He flicked and flung the flower,
And another sort of smile
Caught up like fingertips
The corners of his lips
And cracked his ragged muzzle.
She was standing to the waist
In golden rod and brake,
Her shining hair displaced.
He stretched her either arm
As if she made it ache
To clasp her – not to harm;
As if he could not spare
To touch her neck and hair.
“If this has come to us
And not to me alone -”
So she thought she heard him say;
Though with every word he spoke
His lips were sucked and blown
And the effort made him choke
Like a tiger at a bone.
She had to lean away.
She dared not stir a foot,
Lest movement should provoke
The demon of pursuit
That slumbers in a brute.
It was then her mother’s call
From inside the garden wall
Made her steal a look of fear
To see if he could hear
And would pounce to end it all
Before her mother came.
She looked and saw the shame:
A hand hung like a paw,
An arm worked like a saw
As if to be persuasive,
An ingratiating laugh
That cut the snout in half,
And eye become evasive.
A girl could only see
That a flower had marred a man,
But what she could not see
Was that the flower might be
Other than base and fetid:
That the flower had done but part,
And what the flower began
Her own too meager heart
Had terribly completed.
She looked and saw the worst.
And the dog or what it was,
Obeying bestial laws,
A coward save at night,
Turned from the place and ran.
She heard him stumble first
And use his hands in flight.
She heard him bark outright.
And oh, for one so young
The bitter words she spit
Like some tenacious bit
That will not leave the tongue.
She plucked her lips for it,
And still the horror clung.
Her mother wiped the foam
From her chin, picked up her comb,
And drew her backward home.

-Robert Frost (1874-1963)

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time by Robert Herrick

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he’s a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he’s to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry.

Meadow Again by Daniel James Burt

Moon hangs, almost full
pieces of cloud scatter,
glide in soft, summer breeze.
We lay in our meadow
listening to the sound of night
her head nestled on my arm. her breath stirs, awakens.  Hands join in gentle caress exploration shared and renewed oh, so smooth and lovely. We turn, lips meeting slow, softly, delicate
building quickly to demand.  Crying out, beginning and end collapsing, breathing ragged
moon hangs, slightly fuller.”

Hope you enjoyed the selections.  Please feel free to add or share something below in the comment section. Thanks…

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The beauty of photography captured in a kiss

I love a great used bookstore that is filled with the owner’s love and passion for books.  My favorite bookstore is Dark Horse Books in Victory BC.  The owner Robert is straight out of a Kerouac novel: an old time hippie who can tell you real stories about Haight-Ashbury, traveling, and much more.  His shop is filled with exactly what I love to read about.  Books by Artist who were possessed by Love, Magic, Miracles, Travel, Art, Beauty, Freedom, Poetry and much more….

That’s where I found this little poetry book by a Vancouver artist named Ed Varney.  In this book, I found my first piece of literature that I felt compelled to respond to with a poem of my own. I am by no means a poet, far from it to be honest, but his poem made sense to me and I just wanted to write my own version.

Here is Ed Varney’s Poem titled Happiness from his book What the wind said

A man gets up, goes to work, works & goes home.

He gets up, he goes to work, he works & he goes home.

He does this for five days, then he has two days off.

This is called the weekend.

On the weekends he cuts the lawn, washes the car,

plays tennis, does some work around the house & takes the kids to a movie.

This is called Fun.

A man goes through this fifty times in a row.

Then he gets two weeks off to do what wants-

that is, if he can remember what he wanted to do.

The pressures, the decisions, the routines, the boredom,

the obligations, the interruptions, the confusion, the frustration,

the constant appraisal & reappraisal have scrambled who he was &

washed it down the drain of his ambition until

all he can think of is lying in the sand on a beach

drinking gin & tonic

to drown out the last shreds

of his imagination.

This is called happiness.

What the wind said The Caitlin Press

This is my response to Ed’s Poem titled Happiness.

The happy man’s response

Man gets up, Masturbates, then smiles.

Man enjoys both a hot and then cold shower.

He goes to the park for fresh air and sunhine.

He reads, he writes, he paints, he smiles.

He does this for as long as he likes.

This is called the good life.

In the good life he smells the lawn,

Enjoys his health while cruising in the car

Man allows himself to feel good about his accomplishments,

And always seeks entertainment with loved ones.

This is called fun.

If man goes through this infinite times in a row.

Then man’s life is a Vacation to do with what he wants.

He can’t remember the pressures, the rules, the pains of past.

He washes then down the drain of the Now.

He smiles wide, smells the freedom of the Ocean

and feels wonderful beach beneath his toes,

all the while Drunk on love and imagination.

This is called Happiness.”

By JMH

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Yes, I love all things Social Media.

 Poetic Teachings on Life and Death

What, you ask, is the beginning of it all?
And it is this …
Existence that multiplied itself for sheer delight of being
and plunged into numberless trillions of forms
so that it might find itself innumerably.

 Integral yoga - Sri Aurobindo

 Step into the Sunlight
Feel the pain wash away
Enter in the Soul-light
Just BE in today.

Forget all emotion
Put your trust in the day
Let the past rush on by you
Put your Self in THE WAY.

One & Infinite - Lynne Milum - Universal light

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.The Rubaiyat – Omar Khayyam - 11th century

 Silence becomes the Son of a prince,
To be silent but brave in battle:
It befits a man to be merry and glad
Until the day of his death.

The coward believes he will live forever
If he holds back in the battle,
But in old age he shall have no peace
Though spears have spared his limbs.

The Poetic Edda – Nordic Oral Tradition – 6th century

The greatest tragedy in life is not death;
the greatest tragedy takes place
when our talents and capabilities are underutilized
and allowed to rust while we are living.  Amma

This life, you must know
as the tiny splash of a raindrop.

A thing of beauty that disappears as it comes into being.

Therefore, set your goal.
Make use of every day and every night.

Tibetan Buddhist – Tsongkhapa

There is only one time
when it is essential to awaken.

That time is now.

Buddha

 Today, like every other day,
we wake up empty and frightened.
Don’t open the door to the study and begin reading.
Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

Sufi Mystic - Jelaluddin Rumi - 13th century

Write it on your heart
that every day is the best day in the year.
He is rich who owns the day, and no one owns the day
who allows it to be invaded with fret and anxiety.

Finish every day and be done with it.
You have done what you could.
Some blunders and absurdities, no doubt crept in.
Forget them as soon as you can, tomorrow is a new day;
begin it well and serenely, with too high a spirit
to be cumbered with your old nonsense.

This new day is too dear,
with its hopes and invitations,
to waste a moment on the yesterdays.

 Ralph Waldo Emerson

Dance, when you’re broken open.
Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of the fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance, when you’re perfectly free.

 Sufi Mystic - Jelaluddin Rumi - 13th century  

Believe more deeply.

Hold your face up to the light,
even though for the moment you do not see.

Bill Wilson - Co-founder Alcoholics Anonymous

God does not send us despair in order to kill us; he
sends it in order to awaken us to new life.

Reflections - Hermann Hesse

Fearlessness is better than a faint-heart
for any man who puts his nose out of doors.

The length of my life and the day of my death were fated long ago.

For Scirnis – Norse Mythology

 Wealth without work,
Pleasure without conscience,
Knowledge without character,
Commerce without morality,
Science without humanity,
Worship without sacrifice, and
Politics without principle.

The Seven Deadly sins - Mahatma Gandhi

You would know the secret of death.
But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life?
The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day
cannot unveil the mystery of light.
If you would indeed behold the spirit of death,
open your heart wide unto the body of life.
For life and death are one,
even as the river and the sea are one.In the depth of your hopes and desires
lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;
And like the seeds dreaming beneath the snow
your heart dreams of spring.
Trust the dreams,
for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.
Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd
when he stands before the king whose hand
is to be laid upon him in honor.
Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling,
that he shall wear the mark of the king?
Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind
and to melt into the sun?
And what is it to cease breathing,
but to free the breath from its restless tides,
that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?  

On death - Kahlil Gibran

I have lots of things to teach you now,
in case we ever meet,
concerning the message that was transmitted to me
under a pine tree in North Carolina
on a cold winter moonlit night.

It said that Nothing Ever Happened, so don’t worry.
It’s all like a dream.
Everything is ecstasy, inside.
We just don’t know it because of our thinking-minds.
But in our true blissful essence of mind is known
that everything is alright forever and forever and forever.
Close your eyes,
let your hands and nerve-ends drop,
stop breathing for 3 seconds,
listen to the silence inside the illusion of the world,
and you will remember the lesson you forgot,
which was taught in immense milky ways
of cloudy innumerable worlds
long ago and not even at all.
It is all one vast awakened thing.
I call it the golden eternity.
It is perfect.
We were never really born,
we will never really die.
It has nothing to do with the imaginary idea
of a personal self,
other selves,
many selves everywhere,
or one universal self.
Self is only an idea, a mortal idea.
That which passes through everything, is one thing.
It’s a dream already ended.
There’s nothing from staring at mountains months on end.
They never show any expression,
they are like empty space.
Do you think the emptiness of space will ever crumble away.
Mountains will crumble, but the emptiness of space,
which is the one universal essence of mind,
the one vast awakenerhood,
empty and awake,
will never crumble away because it was never born. The world you see is just a movie in your mind.

Letter to Ex-wife - Jack Kerouac 

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Ancient prayers and meditations for peace and love

“Love is trembling happiness”        

Sitting in the meadow, the old man suffered with all his heart; shouting into the wind with these words   “Keep me away from the wisdom which does not cry, the philosophy which does not laugh and the greatness which does not bow before children.”      

 Hearing a desperate cry, a butterfly slowly descended and whispered; “To understand the heart and mind of a person, look not at what he has already acheived, but what he aspires to do”.        “We fear death, yet we long for slumber and beautiful dreams.”   “Just living isn’t enough,” said the butterfly, “one must also have freedom, sunshine, and a little flower.”  “And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.”    

The old man replied; “I prefer to be a dreamer among the humblest, with visions to be realized, than lord among those without dreams and desires.” “In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.” ‘But now; all is lost.’                           

Resting upon his shoulder it whispered in return;”What difference is there between us, save a restless dream that follows my soul but fears to come near you?”    ‘My heart’, he replied, ‘for I have given it long ago to both my true love and my work; now they are gone’.                  

The gentle whisper continued; “The giving and receiving of pleasure is a need and an ecstasy.”  “Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” “Love one another, but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.” To be able to look back upon ones life in satisfaction, is to live twice”  

  The old man went on to say; ‘my saddened heart can no longer dream of a new day.’  “Of life’s two chief prizes, beauty and truth, I found the first in a loving heart and the second in a laborer’s hand.”; ‘now I have neither’.                                                   

And so the butterfly replied: “Yesterday is but today’s memory, tomorrow is today’s dream.”   ”Your living is determined not so much by what life brings to you as by the attitude you bring to life; not so much by what happens to you as by the way your mind looks at what happens.” “Trust in dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.” “… joy and sorrow are inseparable . . . together they come and when one sits alone with you . . . remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.”                                                                                                         

 The old man spoke; “When you work you fulfill a part of earth’s furthest dream, assigned to you when that dream was born. And in keeping yourself with labour you are in truth loving life, And to love life through labour is to be intimate with life’s inmost secret.”  “Wisdom ceases to be wisdom when it becomes too proud to weep, too grave to laugh, and too selfish to seek other than itself.”  ‘My work is now done’.                                                                                

Be happy with yourself old man, for    “It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.”  ’Listen to the sound of my music’; “Music is the language of the spirit. It opens the secret of life bringing peace, abolishing strife.” ‘                                                               

 For me’, said the old man; ‘my sorrow is too much to bare my friend’.  ‘Always remember’, said the butterfly,  “When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.” “All that spirits desire, spirits attain.”     

Reflecting upon time; the old man smiled at his previous delights; looking around the man could no longer see his friend; he could only sense his presence.

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 Click here for a List of books by Kahlil Gibran