Sinister: Sweet angel gone..........................

[Wojcik, John]

SADDEST POEM
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

- Pablo Neruda

5 years is a long time to be holding a torch for someone. Somewhere, in
France or in upstate New York is a girl named Esther with little ears
and a big heart. And she has my green mohair cardigan with the silver
buttons, among more ephemeral things. I'm shaking just thinking about
her. So, if anyone knows anything about someone named Esther from up
around Cooperstown, tell her I said Hi.

To Ryan: I hope you find someone like her, or better. Cause I know, as
they say on the pizza boxes, once you've tried the best, you'll forget
the rest. Its unfortunate how found happiness becomes the yardstick by
which all future girlies are measured. Unfortunate, for all involved. I
wish I had something more reassuring to say.

To Kyla: Neruda, as discussed at the picnic or at the show. The quickest
way down some literate indie girls pants.

John

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