On Poetry

People label other people, and then put them in little boxes. It is something we do. Those who say that don't do it, are either liars or budhist monks.

But for me this is not a bad thing. It is a human condition. We live in the society of the opinion. We learn to categorise from a very early age, it is our way to keep sane, to protect ourselves, to move forward, to delegate. So it came as a surprise to me when i met a new friend and he said to me "don't label people". It felt like he was telling me not to breathe. He was protesting because without knowing him in person, i labelled him as "type X" out of his web persona.

But what could be more natural than that? We all present what we want to in here..or so i think...

Anyway Saturday was a lovely night out, after a long time of stress and work and house renovation tasks, i met friends i haven't seen for long and we danced and danced like there was no tomorrow. And among the dancing, the vodka and the cheesy music, i got to talk about poetry. So i was thinking about poetry and how difficult it is for me to love it. It has always been difficult for me to love poetry..and i read and read it and i liked it but i couldn't find many poets to love..But a good Argentinian friend (they are so clever these Argentinians) told me once a phrase that proved to be a sweet little talisman for many things in my life.

This Argentinian...i really need to say a few things about him. He was blonde, so there was my first label crushed. A blonde Argentinian..He carried his "mate" , the traditional Argentinian beverage all the way from Argentina to London because he adored it and couldn't live with out it, just like Che Guevara did, like most old Argentinian men do.He wasn't old, not that old anyway. I always begged him to prepare it in front of me, so i could witness the ritual. He boiled the water poured it in the round gourd, i think it was made out of a fruit pit or something like that. And slowly he started sucking it from the bombilla and read poetry for me whilst i was smoking my roll-ups. 

So one night i said to him, "you know Hugo" (i loved his name it reminded me of Victor Hugo. His name was not Spanish because he has European origins like most Argentinians.) 

"Neruda is nice, very emotional, romantic, but i don't love him". And then he would tell me a story about Neruda, an anecdote or something like that and we would sleep. 

And every now and then there was the same conversation all over again for poet a or b.And one day after me complaining again that i don't love such and such he said. "iLi...he didn't write for you".

I always carry this little phrase with me..

I found someone that writes for me. At least it feels like that.

Anne Sexton..i love Anne Sexton.Here is a fragile poem she wrote in the 60s.

Just once

Just once I knew what life was for.
In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood;
walked there along the Charles River,
watched the lights copying themselves,
all neoned and strobe-hearted, opening
their mouths as wide as opera singers;
counted the stars, my little campaigners,
my scar daisies, and knew that I walked my love
on the night green side of it and cried
my heart to the eastbound cars and cried
my heart to the westbound cars and took
my truth across a small humped bridge
and hurried my truth, the charm of it, home
and hoarded these constants into morning
only to find them gone.