De Noche (part I)

As of now I have a new alter ego – he is dark-eyed and heartfelt, flowing-haired and romantic. He is in a struggle of constant contrast with my dominant persona, who is sarcastic, unsympathetic, punny, and slightly offensive (maybe very offensive depending on your PoV). But this isn’t about JG, this is the inception of my new self, this is the first post for James Steven. Did I mention he likes to cuddle? But before the first installment of my romance, De Noche, a couple reviews from JG (he always has to get the last word).

Sappy, melodramatic, and self-indulgent, this poor attempt at a romantic gesture manages to stumble on the simplest, most common clichés.

                                                                                                                         – JG 

Heartfelt and tragic, James Steven has managed to turn our understanding of romantic perfection on its head. A must read, we’re looking forward to the next installment!

                                                                     – Writers and Housewives Official Review

De Noche

            Even the deepest nights in Sevilla are cast in the regal glow of the city. It’s a town touched by Midas, and as I look out my window at the silent port on the Guadalquivir, I think of a Spanish phrase I learned many years ago – de noche, todos los gatos son pardos. At night, all of the cats are brown. In Sevilla I prefer to say oros because it seems like they’re all bathed in gold. In my hand is a poem I wrote when I first arrived in Spain almost thirty years ago. It was written for a girl I loved unequivocally, and I had to lock it away to keep her from consuming my thoughts. But now that I have returned my old wounds won’t be staunched any longer. It is our ultimate paradox to have such great intelligence and not be able to harness it. The more I travel the world in search of answers, any remedy to quell the pounding in my chest – the more I curl back into myself and lose my reality in contemplation. She is a mystery I can never explain, a pain I will not soothe.

I look down at the yellowed page, wrinkled by the years like my hand that now holds it. The words scrawled boldly across it remind me of my youthful fervor and the intravenous determination that drove me. What a time that was, and how things have changed.

A Resting Place

It’s been a wasted life of walking the globe,

pushing steps forward through the bite of the wind.

Thinking always around the next corner,

down the next street, in the next city,

hidden deep in South Africa, Mexico, Cuba,

crouching in Thailand, Japan or Ukraine –

The answer would be waiting,

tied with a ribbon for me to take home,

but everywhere I go is the same.

My heart beat so hard blood poured from my feet

so I wrapped them in rags and kept walking.

Never resting or sleeping, not eating, not stopping,

Drifting gaunt and forlorn, feeling lost and forgotten.

My body fell fallow, my mind wracked by pain;

my countenance turned sour, my emotions degraded.

It’s been a wasted life of pacing this globe,

with time my heart hardened to petrified stone

since everywhere I go is the same.

I cannot describe her, I cannot explain,

all I know is my heart stopped its race.

And my feet, always moving, are stuck in this mud,

and that’s where I want them to stay.

The sidewalks are touched by the clouds’ gentle brush,

and in silence they shimmer

as tender rain drops

sliding idly off the awning above.

In the air resides a thick humid glow,

and the sun from behind bleary-eyed pillows

comes to dance across the stone rooftops.

It’s been a long life of walking the globe,

a long time pacing in vain.

But now I can breathe – deeply, sweetly,

I can finally smile and say;

Here is where I need to be

for the remainder of my days.

Now I rest my calloused feet,

with her is where I lay.

– September 13, 2002

I was so foolish and young when I wrote that poem; I thought I had finally found my “Resting Place”. I intended to give it to her as a romantic gesture that would surely sweep her off her feet and cure my heart’s jaundice. Of course it could never be that easy. Needless to say I still have it – and as usual, things didn’t work out as planned. But for the sake of the story I think it’s best to begin from the beginning. It began a couple years before my first stay in Sevilla. I had recently graduated from college and was trying to find myself abroad, in this instance while teaching literature in Ireland.

I was a wandering writer as I have always been. My feet treading new earth, my head turned to the sky. She was traveling in her curious way, a Spanish girl in a foreign land. I saw her from across the pub – the sweet, soft tan of her skin, the luxurious curls pushed over her shoulder, her deep brown eyes. I learned later of their consuming spirit. With black magic they pull you in and hook your mind like a fish. Their darkness inspires a playful sadness; you can’t tell if the gaze is directly for you, only for you – or if she’s not looking at you at all. From my stool I felt a tremendous surge within me as years of imprisoned emotions flung themselves around in a near orgiastic release. I stared unabashedly as she spoke to the bartender, who was in as much of a blind stupor as I. He took her glass but failed to fill it for some time. He was entranced by her conversation, caught by the rolling tongue behind her lips – ensnared by those ravishing dark eyes. Only when a line began to form behind her did he remember what he was doing and quickly filled her glass to the brim, overflowing the head in a puddle on the counter. I watched her take the drink away, her hips shifting ever so slightly as she walked back to her table. My heart sank back into my chest, the wild emotions returned to somber emptiness. Of course it was only appropriate that I fall in with a Spanish girl in Ireland. How fortune tortures us. She is only sweet to intensify her cruelty, and from the beginning I knew it wasn’t meant to be.

Hold on

The heart is most sodden in the fathomless night

When distractions by day fade to a distant echo

and are swallowed up by the closeness of the dark.

From the folded corners of memory old pains return

and cast off silver cobwebs like dust in the moonlight.

It is then, in pale robes, she drifts through my window

and lies down so softly the sheets seldom stir.

Her hair with white aura and mind of its own

reminds of years past and her presence returns.

My heart is most sodden when I turn on my side

to look upon her as she looks to the sky

and she speaks in a voice melodious and pure

of nothing important but I cherish the time–

since It’s been a long while since I’ve smiled this way

and she doesn’t come much anymore.

Though I try to resist the drawing glow of her form

my hand reaches out through the shadow dividing

and tingling with hope goes to brush through her hair

but the space is left empty and my fist closes cold.

My heart is most sodden when I lay in the night

soaked in silk sheets I’d pushed out of mind,

and wishing her here but knowing she’s there,

and at his sweet caress, she won’t disappear.