Purpose of IWSG: to share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!
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Ninja Captain Alex J. Cavanaugh here.
It’s July third. It’s also the birthday of the grandmother after whom I was named. As on Monday, my post is here, but I am not. If all went to plan, I am up in the Bay State taking measurements.
For this IWSG, I wanted to share a poem I ran across. It’s actually about lost and found love, but I think in many ways it sums up our relationship to writing, maybe even our relationship to our readers.
Well, that’s kind of presumptuous. What I should say is that it sums up my relationship to writing.
I recently touched upon why writers want to be published. We all have different reasons, but I think one thing is true for most of us: we want to create something lasting, to make a difference (most of us are introverts after all, so this is no small feat), we want to be remembered. It hurts when someone dismisses our work out of hand, because it means they’re dismissing us.
And now without further adieu, here is Pablo Neruda’s “If You Forget Me”:
one thing. You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
toward those isles of yours that wait for me. Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little. If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you. If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land. But
if each day,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
-Pablo Neruda, If You Forget Me