Querencia Lost

Querencia is a metaphysical concept in the Spanish language. It comes from the Spanish verb “querer,” which means “to desire.”

In bullfighting, a bull may stake out his querencia, a certain part of the ring where he feels strong and safe.

Ernest Hemingway describes querencia this way in his 1932 nonfiction book Death in the Afternoon:

“A querencia is a place the bull naturally wants to go to in the ring, a preferred locality… It is a place which develops in the course of the fight where the bull makes his home. It does not usually show at once, but develops in his brain as the fight goes on. In this place he feels that he has his back against the wall and in his querencia he is inestimably more dangerous and almost impossible to kill.”

Thoughts, feelings, and anything and everything to My Love (something that I did not truly share for a time)

For you to hear me

my words

thin themselves out, at times,

like the trails of gulls on the shore.

A necklace of bones, a crazed rattle

for your fingers smooth as grapes.

And I look at my words from a distance.

More than mine they are yours.

Like tendrils they climb my ancient suffering.

They climb, like this, inside damp walls.

It is you the guilty one in this blood-wet round.

They are escaping from my dark covert.

You pervade everything, you, pervade everything.

They live, before you, in the solitude you enter,

and are accustomed, more than you, to my sadnesses.

Now I want them to say what I want them to tell you,

for you to hear as I want you to hear me.

The winds of misery may still bring them down.

Hurricanes of dream may still make them tumble.

You attend other voices, in my voice of pain,

Cries, of ancient mouths: blood, of ancient pleas.

Love me. Don’t leave me, friend. Follow me.

Follow me, friend, in this wave of misery.

They go on being miserly, with your love, my words.

You enter everything, you, enter everything.

I make, out of all this, an infinite necklace,

for your white fingers, smooth as grapes.

-pablo neruda

I walked with her along the river Thames one day. Two men were sitting on the bank with typewrites and a sign offering poems. I asked them to write us something about beauty. These are their words –

Something beautiful, say, a glimpse of green on a grey day.
A shaft of sunlight, A musical phrase heard,
Only once,
Than gone,
But not forgotten,
A picture in a corner,
Almost overlooked,
A hint of perfume lingering in the air of morning.
These things must be caught but not captured,
Relished and released.
-anonymous by Thames

She is beauty

We will be what we could be. Do not say,
“It might have been, had not or that, or this.”
No fate can keep us from the chosen way;
He only might who is.

We will do what we could do. Do not dream
Chance leaves a hero, all uncrowned to grieve.
I hold, all men are greatly what they seem;
He does who could achieve.

We will climb where we could climb. Tell me not
Of adverse storms that kept thee from the height.
What eagle ever missed the peak he sought?
He always climbs who might.

I do not like the phrase, “It might have been!”
It lacks all force, and life’s best truths perverts:
For I believe we have, and reach, and win,
Whatever our deserts.”
-Ella Wheeler Wilcox

“What might have been”, is such a painful part of all of this, because it is my failure that hurt her and chased her away. Had I been the person that I should have been, and faced “my climb” when I should have, it all would be different. I may have been going through abuse at the time, but it was still my cowardice that won, when it should have been my bravery, and more, my love.

Jan 11

The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.

Deserted like the dwarves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!

Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.

You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.

Pilot’s dread, fury of blind driver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.

Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.

Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness.
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in….

-Pablo Neruda

In the beginning we were all just whole—we were sweet oranges, rolling around, content. But all it took was one divine decision—a split—and now we search every wrinkle of the earth for our Media Naranja. But if you were anything but an orange, that’d be okay too. If you were a tree, shocked to the core by a lightning strike, left smoldering and broken—or if you were one half of the grand canyon, yawning and yearning to be reunited. Or even if you were half of a grapefruit—I would just want to be a grapefruit too.

-unknown

Querencia

I Found My Querencia

I Failed Querencia

For you to hear me….

And You

The Words I Imagine She Has For Me

A Walk Of Beauty

Clenched Soul

It Might Have Been

She is more than incredible