Tuve un amor,
Que no pude ver.
Alguien que puede entenderme,
Que conoció mi dolor.
Y ha vivido el mismo.
Con una perspectiva muy linda.
Y con una destinación,
Y a ella,
Pongo en una silla más fea,
En la bondi boluda. #4#poemadiarioespanol#argentina#buenosaires
A poem about a favorite movie of mine as a young girl and the images within it that spoke the loudest.
Still the Same. -
When I saw the film Dr. Zhivago,
what stayed with me most was not
the winter palace sheathed in ice,
nor the vicious stabbing
by the vengeful brother
in the exotic palace ballroom
while revelers danced,
not even the two opposing armies,
goose stepping toward one another
on the road outside, the row upon row
of impossibly young soldiers, their heavy boots
pounding the frozen Moscow street,
moving ever closer until face to face.
What stayed was this:
Zhivago’s return that sunny afternoon to Yuryatin
and his beloved Lara,
after his escape from the army,
and his months-long trek across Russia.
How simple it was for him, after all he had seen,
to retrieve the skeleton key
from the niche in the wall
and climb the snowbound staircase
to enter her lovely rooms once again.
To find himself, astonishingly,
her tiny apartment fully intact,
her soup simmering on the stove
while she was briefly away.
There is her bed as Zhivago remembered it,
the same linens atop,
the finely-stitched pillow of her grandmother
propped on the bed at the same angle,
her family photos lined up
in the same identical order above the fire grate,
warming him now as it ever did.
And the soup spoons
still in the same drawer. -