Loves Poems: I've Dreamed of You So Much

I’ve dreamed of you so much you’re losing your reality. Is there still time to reach that living body and kiss on that mouth the birth of the voice that’s dear to me? I’ve dreamed of you so much that my arms, used to crossing on my chest as I hug your shadow, couldn’t fold themselves around the shape of your body, maybe. And faced with the actual appearance of what’s haunted me and ruled me for days and years, I would probably turn into a shadow. O what a sentimental pair of scales. I’ve dreamed of you so much there’s probably no more time for me to wake up. I sleep standing up, my body exposed to all the appearances of life and love and you, the only thing that counts for me today. I’d probably reach for the first lips and face that came along, than your face and your lips. I’ve dreamed of you so much, walked so much, talked, slept with your phantom that maybe there’s nothing left for me to do but be a phantom among the phantoms and a hundred times more shadow than the shadow that strolls and will go on strolling cheerfully over the sundial of your life.

~ Robert Desnos

A Prospect of the Sea

Dylan Thomas, outside the Ashmolean, Oxford c.1946 © Francis Reiss

'Wake up,' she said into his ear; the iron characters were broken in her smile, and Eden sank into the seventh shade.  She told him to look into her eyes.  He had thought that her eyes were brown or green, but they were sea-blue with black lashes, and her thick hair was black.  She rumpled his hair, and put his hand deep in her breast so that he knew the nipple of heart was red. He looked in her eyes, but they made a round glass of the sun, and as he moved sharply away he saw through the transparent trees; she could make a long crystal of each tree, and turn the house wood into gauze.  She told him her age, and it was a new number.  'Look in my eyes,' she said.  It was only an hour to the proper night, the stars were coming out and the moon was ready.  She took his hand and led him racing between trees over the ridge of the dewy hill, over the flowering nettles and the shut grass-flowers, over the silence into sunlight and the noise of a sea breaking on sand and stone." (Dylan Thomas, from "A Prospect of the Sea.")

For Los Angeles...

Hollywood, 1946

Scent of cedar on this Los Angeles evening scent of the new born day arrives at half past magic the glory of the morning sun rising on our broken hearts as they beat three beats in unison The sounds of waves with a triple z cascade below the mountain top down the coast we descend The toke of two pipes made of apples Cherry pies in between virgin thighs with a glance of nostalgia the memory of Remains.... (excerpt of an Untitled Poem by Adarsha Benjamin)

Discovered: 'Black Mirror' Roger Gilbert-Lecomte

"Dark: two perfectly identical human mouths kiss each other to death." R.G-L

"[He] is one of the rare poets of this century to cultivate such a form of violent, tortuous, oppressive lyricism, a lyricism made up pf the screams of a man being flayed alive...," writes Antonin Artaud in a review, and reprinted as an introduction to Black Mirror, a selection of discovered writings by little known, anti-surrealist poet Roger Gilbert-Lecomte.  With a life mired by tragedy and drug addiction (he died from tetanus as he was prone to shooting up morphine through a pair of dirty trousers), Lecompte managed to leave behind a dark and incendiary selection of writings, collected in the book Black Mirror: The Selected Poems of Roger Gilbet-Lecomte.