The oceans that separate you and me are vast,
Realist call it long-distance; while we know it’s easy,
Seconds, Minutes, Hours, Days, and Months slay us,
But we know better; we never feel alone,
You offered to move but I pleaded for you to stay,
Embraces at Charles de Gaulle are glorious,
far more glorious than those who do it vainly.
I can’t take my eyes off of you,
I can’t stop saying how much I love you.
A moment at the café, a moment under the Tour Eiffel,
a moment with your friends,
Moments that waste our ticking time together,
Nothing is the same without everything being about us.
A walk to the park, below summer’s sun,
Walking along the packed park, we display affection for pride’s sake.
Time to spend, to spend our time in mirth,
the time that time apart owes us should be used selfishly.
You read Hemingway while I ponder on Camus and his Stranger,
We share fetid cheese; creamy smoothness, a delicious bitter spread
On torn bread that sheds crispy flakes.
Sipping old wine is far more tasteful in old peach jars,
not a care in our world.
We lie closely, witnessing the sunset we usually see separately,
The peace that is the stream of the Seine is lovely with you.
This is real and will become the images we rely on,
when we are oceans apart.
Jonathan G. Flores, Dec 2011
In the light of a new beginning, many of us search darkness not knowing our future evils. The desire within consumes our sense of conscience decisions and blinds us to the point of self-destruction. This destruction doesn’t end at the demise of one’s soul, it ends when the person is seen for the pity they were while soulful.
My video has now been shown in class and will be posted for the poetry presentation I will be having in a week. Other students in class said that the video did not do the book justice and that I attempted to rhyme too much towards the middle of it. For one, I retorted by saying that no poem could ever do Ulysses the justice it deserves. For such a masterpiece, Joyce would spit on my project and I would be fine with that. Secondly, the poem alone took me over 5 hours to write because I flipped through 800 pages to extract the scenes I liked the most for the poem’s couplets.
I loved doing the project and turning it to a video took me an entire sleepless night for which I found rewarding when I finished it.
I sent the YouTube link to another English professor who is Irish and in whose class we are studying Ulysses. He loved it and said:
Jonathan: Cool! I love the video esp. and you certainly know your _Ulysses_
Can I post it in the Irish class website?
I most certainly gave him permission, and Professor Duffy who I have the utmost respect for, is a literary genius I love and admire.
It is these exact moments in my academic career that encourage me to write more and pushes me to work on challenging things (like poetry).
A woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted,
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;
A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion:
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick’d thee out for women’s pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure.
Shakespeare [early 17th c.]
[A story in 7 parts. ]
He tickles, she tickles
They all tickle,
They slam me down–defenseless
Their bodies on top;
Producing waves of shock
Throughout my body—
Forcefully, head pushed against the mat,
Cold, blue, and roughness presses against my ear,
Built-up sweat comes rushing down my face,
Salty, hot, impure water touches opened lips.
Kick, stroke, breathe—flip turn.
No other personal space like this one,
Thoughts flow, come, and go freely,
No way to analyze their expressions,
I am sad. I am happy. I am laughing—
The dry worn out lane lines are barriers,
Keeping them from touching me.
Splashes and droplets of warm water fly,
Covering every dry spot of the bathroom walls,
Here we bathe; two innocent seven year old boys,
We play submarine and scuba man,
He is more than a friend, a brother to me.
Fingers slide down my goose-bumped skin,
I wonder what game this is.
Who taught him this game I have never played?
Innocence is stolen; now shame consumes me.
They call me pansy and nickname me Fanny,
Insecurities rise and coolness has declined.
Life has gone by, no one on my side.
In darkness my shames hides,
Pushing all hope and joy aside.
Wedding bells chime,
I say I do—she says she will,
‘Till death do us part—
The wedding was the best part,
My inability to be touched troubled her;
Shouting, running, crying—she’s gone.
They say intimacy cures marriages,
A lie that has only given me disparage,
Leave me sitting, waiting, wishing.
God, maybe you’ll take care of this?
Trust no one my head says,
Hugs are electrifying—
love is an old cliché,
Keep your hands to yourself
They used to say,
He never learned this,
His hands were on me,
Innocently, I thought, playing submarine.
Mom tries to hug me,
Dad tries to give me loving kisses,
She wants to snuggle.
My son wants to be carried,
Overwhelming touches –
Why can’t they understand—overwhelming touches.
Music for inspiration…
Treason doth never prosper, what’s the reason?
For if it prosper, none dare call it treason