28 dezembro, 2017

Letters to Major (5)

Dear Major,
I'm sorry to read you hurt yourself. Remember you don't break your promises and you promised you'd come back to me. Please take it easy and avoid hurting yourself further.
My friends tell me their men find solace in prostitutes and escorts. I'm sorry for mentioning this but now I can't help but get jealous some other woman, someone who doesn't know you or loves you like I do, gets to be in your arms. Apologies for assuming the worst, I know this is wrong of me, but I am selfish and I don't want to think of another woman being in your arms while you're with War. It's bad enough you were noble enough to sacrifice yourself for War, but I just can't bear the thought... I'm sorry for my jealousy, that is what I fear the most. You are meant to come back to me, you know? And then I'll show you the love of a woman. I count the minutes until War is done with and you come back to me.
I miss your voice. It was my own personal lullaby and your warm body my human blanket. Waking up without your morning kisses is like missing my life nourishment. Your perfume was my coffee; addictive, perfect, awakening happiness.
The more you're away, the harder it is for me. I just... Feel the hole in my chest growing bigger and more painful than ever and I find it hard to breathe at times. You're the brave one and I the coward. I'm just afraid of losing my better self, my better half, my best friend. Please keep writing so I know you are doing well.

Yours, always,
Alexandra

24 dezembro, 2017

Letters to Major (4)

 Dear Major

It’s Christmas and I have two clichés stuck in my head: 1) Home is where the heart is; 2) Christmas is meant to be spent with family.
Number 1 you know my heart is with you. You may be with War, but my heart is with you. My love, I say this to bring you hope too – the hope you come back to me. Either by War finishing it’s dealings with you or by you realizing War is evil, poisonous and treacherous. Without meaning to sound like a broken record; come back home, please.
Now, number 2 is tricky. I am with my family but truth is, you’re my family too. After spending a few Christmas away from my family and welcomed into yours, I’m sure you must find me silly but (and I think you know this, I might have mentioned a couple of times) I have come to see your family as my own.
I can hear you mumble in your breath “Woman, you keep complaining you missed your family at Christmas”, but your family and your Christmas was the closest I had, in the last few years, to my definition of Christmas growing up; your large family and the stacks of presents on the tree is how I remember Christmas. Above all, I enjoyed how your family gathered and was united. I enjoyed your younger sisters and you smiling like children with your presents, I loved how we visited your cousins and their children (and my own little stack of chocolates… never enough chocolate right?)
My Christmas is only me and mum and grandparents. The witch spoils it further by saddening my brother and preventing him from being around. He hasn’t seen me yet and I am unsure he will… So, and adding my heart being with you, I don’t feel the joy of Christmas as much as I did when I spent it with your family. It’s different and I can only wish we get our families together at some point – wouldn’t it be grand?
I’m sorry, I know I am being selfish. You are away as it is… too far away, fighting a War I resolutely don’t think it’s yours; I don’t recognize you in it. Promise me you are warm and safe, as much as you can be, yes? And lets wish next year we are celebrating together once more.

Yours, always,

Alexandra

Ps. I spent all day cooking, chopping potatoes and fruit and making sweets. My wrist is a bit sore, apologies for the trembling handwriting. It’s delicious!

21 dezembro, 2017

I am the fool

I am a queen, sitting on my throne
Judging fairly and ruling fiercely.
A jester, looking acne prone,
Dares to demand my attention

"M'lady", he says
"I have a magic trick to show you"

And steals the heart on my sleeve.
I was in disbelief!
How dare he?

The heart was big and worn
and a bit fragile.
(It fit me a bit tightly but was mine
Made of glass and dreams, you see)
The jester was gentle
Played, swirled it, and was agile.

Played for a while and
sometimes held too tightly.
Until his friends joined him in the fun.
Then it really became dangerous
but  Ah, the fool was I.
His friends mocked and
were treasonous in the jokes
So he boldly smashed my heart the floor,
and stepped on the pieces.

I let him play with it for too long.
Perhaps his friends distracted him
or maybe it was purposeful, because they stepped in it too.
And now, a queen fell on the floor.

But the jester forgot, I am a queen
"Guards, off with their heads!"
And I held my head up high.
Trust no one, I will remember
"But first, guards, you may dismember"




20 dezembro, 2017

Letters to Major (3)

 Dear Major,

The moon has completed a rotation around the Earth since I last saw you. Since I saw you leave, unsure you would return. I can only hope, and pray, you are ok.

My feelings about War have not changed; I am sad you chose War over me. I know the appeal of War manipulated you, and I know it will change you, poison you… I have faith you won’t let it, but I really don’t trust or like War. War has poisoned many good men before, with promises of glory - but War is lies and deceit (both sides always think they are right, don’t they? But only the victorious write history, even if inaccurate). My love, promise me you will remain strong; promise you will return to me, the same Major who charmed my family by making me smile and laugh like the fools in love we were.

I can’t bring myself to tell my family you left. They would judge me, say I can’t hold a man, that I am not a woman. So, when they ask about you, I just say you are doing well and couldn’t come. I think my granddad knows; he said to me “Child, you look sad, what is wrong?” and I happily blamed tiredness instead of admitting I am empty vessel without you. They really care about you, and talk about you constantly. It’s exhausting having this pretend face, it will be easier when we come back together.

Busy Major, tell me about you. I will patiently await your responses, with hopes of your return. I long for a good night sleep in your strong arms, or a good stretch when I have to kiss you.

Yours, always,


Alexandra.

15 dezembro, 2017

Letters to Majors (2)

Dear Major
Thank you, my love, for your letters. I know War makes it hard for you to write to me, but I feel special you have kept me in your life. I wish they would feed you better, but I’m happy to know you find some solace with your companions.
I decided to stay away from Hampshire for a while. I ran home, to have my mother’s food, my grandparents love and my cat’s cuddles. My dog wags his tail at the mention of you, he misses you as much as I do.
As you know, being home isn’t easy. Everything is still upside down, with my brother ignoring the family for that witch. My poor mother has caught me up in all the gossip, and the vast majority is bad news. I didn’t have the heart to tell my family you’re at war; they would say I wasn’t woman enough to keep you from it. It’s hard enough to miss you as it is… So, I just pretend everything is the same. I try to ignore the picture of us with my parents; I must be stronger than I tell you in these letters.
I have something embarrassing to tell you. You’ll laugh but also share the longing. I had a sex dream about you; I dreamt you were back, dropping off your stuff before coming to see me and I happened to be nearby. I saw you and you just swopped me off my feet into your bed… we made love as passionately as ever, and as loudly as when we took our first holiday together (remember the rural hotel and its thick stony walls?). We couldn’t look your neighbours in the eye when we finally decided to leave your room… I woke up and reached for you before remembering I was in my single bed at home.
Do you think of me the same? Or does the War have all of you? Please don’t lose yourself in it, come back to me as the Major I love. In return, I’ll keep being the Alexandra you love. (Much like the Pablo Neruda poem I showed you, “(…) my love feeds on your love, beloved,/ and as long as you live it will be in your arms/ without leaving mine."

I wait for your letters fervently; for the proof you, my Major, lives.

Yours, always,
Alexandra




11 dezembro, 2017

Letters to Major

Dear Major,
My love, I miss you so. It’s been 3 weeks since you left for war and my heart aches for you. I know you write back to me and are well, but I just want you back here.
Some of my friends, who also write to their boyfriends and husbands, have been preparing to move on in case they don’t come back. They go dancing with strange men and drink. They say it’s healthier… they say the heart won’t forget who they love but it helps dull the pain. At least they have a warm body next to them and someone to have fun with. I… can’t.
Men buy me drinks and talk to me. Oh, but Major, they don’t have your spark. They just don’t make me laugh like you do. They try to kiss me and I… just can’t bear their touch, because it’s not your rugged hands across my cheek or your soft lips on mine. They don’t have your adorable smile or your patient eyes; above all, they are not you.
I know you would understand if I did what they do… But I don’t want anyone else but you. Even the idea of it feels dirty and wrong. Like I am disrespecting our memories and our love. Remember when we first called each other boyfriend and girlfriend? We were going to Oxford for the day and I said “How should I introduce you?”, shyly, and you suggested “Well, I don’t know. I know I am not seeing anyone else, so how about boyfriend?”. I liked how certain you were about me… and how your “I love you” surprised me later that day. I wasn’t expecting that.
War is a terrible mistress because she doesn’t share; darling, just come back to me. My bed asks about you, about when you’ll be back to caress my back or when she can listen to your heartbeat again. I want your body next to mine. I want to make love to you. I love how when we make love, you look me in the eye and fervently whisper “Mine”. I am yours and you are mine in that moment, and I am home, safe and warm and loved.
I am certain about you still, even when you are miles away, that I love you too and don’t want to see anyone else. Desert war for me, let’s run away?

Yours, always,
Alexandra.


Ps. I’m sorry about all the tear stains. But I am not sorry to feel the way I feel. See you soon?


27 abril, 2017

There it is, the silence
Of a windless cloudy night
Where everything is pitch-black
And full of scary things.

There is it, the silence
Of an extinguished fire
It knows it won’t ignite Itself, 
anymore.

There it is, the silence
In rooms in Hampshire
Of people sleeping in the dark
But awake in their nightmares.

There is it, the silence
Of a broken heart.
Wanting to take back time

Wishing to be anywhere.


[let's count this as incomplete. I don't know what to make of it]

07 janeiro, 2017

Changes

Hello, old acquaintace
Fancy seeing you here
We both went through change
So much of me has disappeared

Isn’t this strange?
I am not who you remember
(And you’re not a friend)
No, I now am different
I am a woman, old and frail.
Only memories of youth,
Memories of an intact mirror…
Yes, only they prevail.

Yes, turn your back
Forget you ever knew me and sneer
I break mirrors, I don’t recognise myself
Why should you?
See in the shards of glass
My naked skin shine
Let it, let it
This is me now.

They say “this too shall pass”
They don’t understand
Being old sticks with you.
It’s like Death: Crude and bold.


You don’t worry, but I am fine.

14 fevereiro, 2014

To a Russian heart, not with love but with friendship (all that's left, in the end). Happy V's day

If You Forget Me - by Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

10 novembro, 2013

Depression



I’m blind, I’m blind, he often reckons. But no. It is just a very, very dark cave. What to do with a cave this dark? Nothing, except to try and find light. How? Now, that is tricky part.
The floor is very slippery; remember that feeling of fear in your stomach you have when you ice skate and try to slide instead of falling? It’s that kind of floor, but he has no skates and sliding is not an option. Too bad he has always been the clumsy-two-left-feet kind of person, completely incapable of being coordinate enough to slide like a regular human being. The only viable solution is to walk, and walk ever so slowly. This would be easier if he had something to hold on to… even though he stretches out his arms to try and find some equilibrium, as well as a “grabable” thing; it just is not going to happen. There are no rails, no walls, no friendly arms to help him find the way out. No nothing. And he must go on.
From time to time, he finds some stalagmites and stalactites. They are sharp and weird, but they are full of salty water, the only kind of water he can find in this godforsaken place. It does not quench his thirst, but what else can he do but drink it all the same? If only he could find something to help with his raving hunger as well...
He often asks himself these same old questions “How long have I been here? Will I ever find a way out? Will someone come for me? Can I keep on fighting?”. He is terrified of asking the questions as much as he is of finding the matching answers. He knows that being lost for so long will only decrease the chances of being found; but he just cannot help himself. His surviving instincts are working overtime to make sure he keeps on breathing, to make sure he finds salvation. Nature just is not working in his favor; oh, what else can he do but fight?
Is that… is that light I see? A tiny line of light, ever so small and thin, shines on the floor. He begins to hope, beings to feel safe, beings to dream again. As if right on cue, the same nature, that seems to be working against him, kicks in: he steps on the wrong place, loses his balance and is sent sliding down the same hard path he had climbed with such effort.
Somehow he still lives. He is bruised and bloody, but alive. He is, once again, hopeless. It hurts a bit to breathe as he realizes that being alive is a curse, not a miracle. Praying is useless because only an inexistent God would let him rot in this hell, when he had always been good and kind to others, often forgetting about himself. He desperately wants to be found, but is now certain it is only a silly dream. So he lets himself lie on the floor. He is tired, oh, so tired. Please, please, let me sleep.