"My Heart Can't Go On Any Longer... "

¡Hola! Everybody…
First things first: I want to send a passionate and lustful birthday wish to the lovely E.Volve (Letrice). Treece, if you don’t know by now, is an intelligent woman who has a profound grasp of life. She has felt and felt deeply and has accomplished much in her short life. Of course, my open admiration doesn’t stop me from lusting over that shapely ass, that huntress’ body, the dew on those ripe, luscious lips. If there ever was a black angel, then Letrice is mine.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABY!

Click here and go wish her a happy...

I have to work today. I will be at a political function, rubbing elbows with the hoi polloi and the politicians. I hope to make Tony’s BBQ…

I love today’s blast/ blog song. I love the part when he sings, “I’m not that strong/ I’m not that strong!” LOL

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-=[ Miguel Hernandez ]=-
“I have plenty of heart… ”

Most of you probably never heard of Miguel Hernandez, but his work ranks right up there with the rest of the Latino/a pantheon – Julia de Burgos, Frederico Garcia Lorca, Cesar Vallejo, and Pablo Neruda just to name a few.

I love Hernandez because, as he himself wrote, “I have plenty of heart/ I who have a bigger heart than anyone,/ and having that, I am the bitterest also.” It was true: Hernandez was a warrior, poet who fought against fascism and eventually died of tuberculosis in a Spanish prison. To read Hernandez is almost like digging your hands into moist, fertile soil. You can almost smell the soil and clay, the ozone. His poetry is emotionally charged, and so full of earthiness and freedom that it’s an amazing experience to read him. Hernandez wrote poetry to the very end, reinforcing for me the truth that art isn’t a luxury, but the only true of human necessities. Here’s one of my favorites:

My heart can’t go any longer

My heart can’t go on any longer
putting up with its love-mad and murky storm,
and it raises to my tongue the blood-filled
noisy thing that weights it down.

Now my tongue, slow and long, is a heart,
and my heart is a tongue, long and slow…
You want to count up the pain? Go out and count
the sweet grains of the bitter sand.

My heart can’t stand this sadness anymore:
it flies in my blood, along with the floating
ghost of a drowned man, and goes down all alone.

And yesterday, you wrote from your heart
that you have a touch of homesickness –
half for my body, half for the grave.

(Translated by Timothy Baland)