Love After Love, Romancing the Self

I have have the great chance of meeting Laura Halt and of attending a couple of her amazing talks.

Together with Jennifer Grace, both of them have designed a “magical journey” to free ourselves from being stuck based on some tools and daily practice -awareness, journaling and meditation-.

I am following this path and will write more about it in coming posts!

  • The poem above served as meditation in one of her sessions.

Laura Von Holt



In the mood for Fall

I remember you as you were in the last autumn.
You were the grey beret and the still heart.
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on.
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.

Clasping my arms like a climbing plant
the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace.
Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning.
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.

I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off:
Grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house
Towards which my deep longings migrated
And my kisses fell, happy as embers.

Sky from a ship. Field from the hills:
Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!
Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing.
Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.

TE recuerdo como eras en el último otoño.
Eras la boina gris y el corazón en calma.
En tus ojos peleaban las llamas del crepúsculo.
Y las hojas caían en el agua de tu alma.

Apegada a mis brazos como una enredadera,
las hojas recogían tu voz lenta y en calma.
Hoguera de estupor en que mi sed ardía.
Dulce jacinto azul torcido sobre mi alma.

Siento viajar tus ojos y es distante el otoño:
boina gris, voz de pájaro y corazón de casa
hacia donde emigraban mis profundos anhelos
y caían mis besos alegres como brasas.

Cielo desde un navío. Campo desde los cerros.
Tu recuerdo es de luz, de humo, de estanque en
Más allá de tus ojos ardían los crepúsculos.
Hojas secas de otoño giraban en tu alma.

Pablo Neruda



Tia Pol

Some days start disastrously and end brilliantly.

Yesterday, Tuesday 13th, I woke up with bad news, progressed with a great email related to the publication of my poem, Private Universe, and ended with rebirth, magic and hope!

# soul mate # Tia Pol # Gallery # Love & Art # the Art of Love # Ars amandi


Seize the Day


I woke up today with the terrible news of the death of the mother of one of my best friends in town. I have had trouble to get ready for work and to be focused. Tears and memories of her and the time spent together have accompanied me, and my thoughts have been somewhere else far beyond this time and place.

At lunch time I came to Washington Square Park on a sunny, chilly afternoon. I sat there for some instants and reflected on the fleeting nature of our “material” world.

We should all make life more beautiful, easy, fun, loving and generous to each other. We should all walk freely, without baggage, seizing the day, the minutes… that will never again come back to us, except for our dreams or nostalgic visions.

To Leuconoe, by Horace,

Odes (book 1, number 11) in 23 BC
Inquire not, Leuconoe (it is not fitting you should know), how long a term of life the gods have granted to you or to me: neither consult the Chaldean calculations. How much better is it to bear with patience whatever shall happen! Whether Jupiter have granted us more winters, or [this as] the last, which now breaks the Etrurian waves against the opposing rocks. Be wise; rack off your wines, and abridge your hopes [in proportion] to the shortness of your life. While we are conversing, envious age has been flying; seize the present day, not giving the least credit to the succeeding one.

translated literally into English prose
by Christopher Smart, A.M. of Pembroke College, Cambridge (1756)

Today is an Angel

Osip Mandelstam: 394 (translated with Anne Frydman)

Toward the empty earth
falling, one step faltering–
some sweetness, in this
unwilling hesitance–

she walks, keeping
just ahead of her friends,
the quick-footed woman,
the younger man, one year younger.

A shy freedom draws her, her hobbled step
frees her, fires her, and it seems
the shining riddle in her walk
wants to hold her back:

the riddle, that this spring weather
is for us the first mother:
the mother of the grave.
And this will keep on beginning forever.

There are women,
the damp earth’s flesh and blood:
every step they take, a cry,
a deep steel drum.

It is their calling
to accompany those who have died;
and to be there, the first
to greet the resurrected.

To ask for their tenderness
would be a trespass against them;
but to go off, away from them–
no one has the strength.

Today is an angel; tomorrow
worms, and the grave;
and the day after
only lines in chalk.

The step you took
no longer there to take.

Flowers are deathless. Heaven is round.
And everything to be is only a promise.

–Voronezh. 4 May 1937

— Jean Valentine
Door in the Mountain: New & Collected Poems


Oceans, by Juan Ramón Jiménez

I have started my day with this reading. Juan Ramón Jiménez is one of my favorites poets. This poem is short but full of emotional impact and beauty (simplicity). I also feel like a boat in the quiet ocean sailing into the new life…


By Juan Ramon Jimenez
(1881 – 1958)

English version by Robert Bly

I have a feeling that my boat
has struck, down there in the depths,
against a great thing.
And nothing
happens! Nothing…Silence…Waves…

–Nothing happens? Or has everything happened,
and are we standing now, quietly, in the new life?

Yo sentío que el barco mio
hay encontrada, allá en el fondo
con algo grande.

Y nada sucede!
Nada . . .
Silencio . . . Olas . . .

Nada sucede?
O es que ha sucedido todo,
y estamos ya, tranquilos, en lo nuevo…



“The Rotunda”, by Lea Díaz      

The Rotunda

                                                                In a bucolic rotunda

We admired the distant mountains crowded with pines,

Dark-green spots, minuscule figures

In the fine silver thread between God and humanity.


In a solitary rotunda

We talked, we laughed,

Soft, loving echoes tapped the ancient wood

We dreamed

One dream, the same dream.


The rustic bench we were sitting on

Would be covered with a mantle of spring flowers

After our company.

Creepers would climb the idyllic gallery

As our mellow presence cured its nostalgia.

The sun so warm, rewarding,

Irradiated auras of something pure.


I leaned my head on your shoulder, the eyes closed

Your voice filled with peaceful notes the quiet morning

I need the Beauty´, I whispered

Words from the heart carrying desires for unknown bliss

Inside, you wanted and longed for that rare plenitude


There are tracks in the snow

Precise and neat

We walk hand by hand along imaginary paths

White paths towards rotunda universes

Constellations of pristine Beauty grow in our souls