'I would like to be a dot in a painting by Miro' by Moniza Alvi

I would like to be a dot in a painting by Miro.

Barely distinguishable from other dots,
it's true, but quite uniquely placed.
And from my dark centre

I'd survey the beauty of the linescape
and wonder - would it be worthwhile
to roll myself towards the lemon stripe,

Centrally poised, and push my curves
against it's edge, to get myself
a little extra attention?

But it's fine where I am.
I'll never make out what's going on
around me, and that's the joy of it.

The fact that I'm not a perfect circle
makes me more interesting in this world.
People will stare forever -

Even the most unemotional get excited.
So here I am, on the edge of animation,
a dream, a dance, a fantastic construction,

A child's adventure.
And nothing in this tawny sky
can get too close, or move too far away.

Touch me there - Emily Barren

Touch me.

Touch me in the space between

each rib cage, where I believe

my soul resides,

I’d like to know that you can feel her.

Touch me on the nape of my neck,

where I carry the weight of the world,

and let me know if you might

be willing to share some of this heaviness.

Touch me in the invisible places

that I hold my hurt

my secrets

my stories

and remind me to pay attention

to them—the last thing they need is neglect.

Touch me in the moonlight

where I often hide,

but long to know that someone still sees me.

Touch me in the sunlight,

where hiding is not an option

and all my imperfections are illuminated,

and show me you don’t mind

them one bit.

Touch me in the place that moves me,

which will in turn move you,

so we can move together

in a way that only two people

who have touched each other can.

Touch me with your words

or with your heart

or with your fingertips,

touch me there

or here

or even right over here,

I’m really not too picky.

I’d just like for you to touch me,

and gently remind me

that I am real.

The Saddest Poem - Pablo Neruda

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. 

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars, 
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance." 

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings. 

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. 
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. 

On nights like this, I held her in my arms. 
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky. 

She loved me, sometimes I loved her. 
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes? 

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. 
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her. 

To hear the immense night, more immense without her. 
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass. 

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her. 
The night is full of stars and she is not with me. 

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away. 
My soul is lost without her. 

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me. 

The same night that whitens the same trees. 
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her. 
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear. 

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once 
belonged to my kisses. 
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes. 

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her. 
Love is so short and oblivion so long. 

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms, 
my soul is lost without her. 

Although this may be the last pain she causes me, 
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

Cargoes By John Masefield

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amythysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

Living in the Moment - D. Doubtfire

Look closely now, I beg you,
Hold your breath
And feast on every fragment of your world.

No flower is ever quite the same again,
The light on every stone and leaf unique.

I lost this morning, thinking back,
Feeling the pain of yesterday;
I lost this sun, this shining grass, that bird 
Never in my life to be reclaimed.

So feast on every morsel of your day
And hold your breath, rejoice
That you can see and feel and understand,
Look closely now.

The Invitation by Oriah

It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon...

I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.

I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.

I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.

I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.

By Oriah © Mountain Dreaming,
from the book The Invitation

Changed - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

From the outskirts of the town,
Where of old the mile-stone stood,
Now a stranger, looking down
I behold the shadowy crown
Of the dark and haunted wood.

Is it changed, or am I changed?
Ah! the oaks are fresh and green,
But the friends with whom I ranged
Through their thickets are estranged
By the years that intervene.

Bright as ever flows the sea,
Bright as ever shines the sun,
But alas! they seem to me
Not the sun that used to be,
Not the tides that used to run.