I spent one hour thinking of a verse
my pen does not want to write.
Yet, it is here inside
restless, alive.
It is here inside
and does not wish to get out.
But the poetry of this very moment
overflows my whole life.
Poetry by Carlos Drummond de Andrade
Translation used by permission of MariGoes.
He wished he'd never heard the word, wished that when he had, he'd just ignored it, gone on drinking his coffee, nodding his head, pretending to listen like he usually did when his co-workers talked about things he found too trivial to acknowledge.
Not that he was unkind. Those he worked with liked him well enough, they just found that his mind wandered and that he was forgetful. It was a standing joke, that David always, "Has his head in the clouds." They didn't need to know the real reason why he was often lost in his thoughts. It was better if they just thought that he was a dreamer.
"The Brazilians, the Portuguese, they have a word for that," Miranda spoke, in reply to another worker's story that David had drifted through. "Saudade, they say, it's that feeling of yearning, but with a fatalistic tone, like the memory of one far from home, we miss those we knew, those we love , but home is far away, maybe those we love are now dead, time has moved on so there is pain in that we can never go back, never see those we love, experience that feeling. I don't fully understand, but it is an intriguing word."
Saudade...it's odd how words stay in our thoughts, keep popping into our consciousness as we work, while driving home, while eating a Lean Cuisine in front of the television...when going to bed, when...
David awoke the next morning, he rolled over, staring at the still dark ceiling, his heart beat faster than normal and the collar of his tee-shirt was damp from perspiration. But he wasn't ill, though he felt tired, and agitated, but there was something more, maybe it was anxiety, he wasn't sure. He tried to think, what was he dreaming about? He really couldn't remember, but he'd felt this way before, many times, and usually he just pulled himself out of bed, made a cup of coffee and forgot it. But today he just remained there, staring and tried to understand his feelings.
He felt like crying...a grown man, he was ashamed to admit it, and yet he indulged it, for he wanted to understand what the dream was that caused him to have these mixed emotions. He thought hard, tried to put himself back in time, to just ten minutes before when he was asleep, and he assumed, dreaming.
Eventually he found a fragment, a piece of the dream. He thought about the things that were most important to him...his family, his friends, the people in his life. His dream must be, in some way, connected to them; and as he thought about it, he remembered a moment in his past. How odd that it came to him, it was just a simple thing, something, he was sure, that most men just ignored...he remembered frying bacon.
It wasn't exactly the bacon that he remembered; but the moment, just after shaving, cooking breakfast early one Saturday, placing the fried strips on a paper towel to absorb the grease...arranging the pieces into a word, "PAM."
Of course, the dream was about that moment, about the bacon, about his wife Pamela waking, smelling the slightly burned smell wafting into the bedroom, her getting up, head drooping, eyes still half shut, following the aroma; her slippers scuffing, making her way to the kitchen, hair askew, oddly beautiful. He remembered her, clearly, like they were both there now: she looked at the plate, shook her head as she read her name, telling her husband with an indulgent smile, "You just aren't normal, David, are you?"
That was the dream, nothing more than that. He had thousands of memories of his wife. Happy moments, dramatic ones, many that he thought about during the day. He also had those he tried to forget: the sickness, her depression, her acceptance, his feeling of helplessness, the long void since then.
It took a long time to get over Pamela's death...not that one ever does, but he learned to accept it, deal with it, sublimate it...he began to write poetry, fiction, trying to bottle his feelings, but not to re-visit them. He wrote humor, silly pieces that lifted his spirit, made him laugh. Poor, hastily written pieces that none-the-less made him smile, made his mind blank. When written, he'd place them in a three ring binder and forget them...writing was about what was yet to be written, what could be written.
He couldn't think of Pamela for long, couldn't go back to those days; two kids just out of college, no money, but enough dreams, enough love to make up for a cupboard containing Ramen noodle soup and a few packages of instant rice.
How he loved her. He would wake up in the morning and stare at her. She hated that. She'd awake, open her eyes, and he be there, on his side, hand under his head, just looking at her. He couldn't help it. He had a poet's heart, a fool's soul, he was the luckiest man on earth; and as he now thought about it, he saw the trite irony...that his luck had run out.
"Saudade." Suddenly he remembered the word, how his co-worker had described it...how it had got into his head, stuck there, the same way trivia usually did...movie quotes, batting averages, advertising jingles.
The dream slowly fell into place: the bacon, his wife's look, his walking up to her, hugging her from behind as she reached for a strip. The feeling of her warmth radiating through her pajamas, pressed against him...his heart beating strong, her turning, putting her arms around his shoulders, moving her head to the side, not letting him kiss her on the lips, for her breath smelled of bacon.
He shook his head, that was it, that was the dream. He could hear, and could feel his heart thumping, the same as when he awoke, he was suddenly warm, needed some cool air, his neck, below his Adam's apple felt hot...again, he wanted to cry.
But he remembered it all. How he felt that moment, as he held her, as he wanted her, wanted to love her, be loved by her. It was never enough, he could never get enough...and in the dream, he again had that feeling, of needing her, needing something more of her, not just the arms and legs entwined as they made love, not just the feeling of completeness after, but more, intangible things; a kiss, a whisper, a sigh...a promise...he wanted a pledge that she did not, could not give him...she did not love him forever, and that was not fair. She owed him another thirty years, or God owed him, someone did. He wanted a lifetime of Pamela, of her shaking her head at his silly jokes, a million more kisses, a thousand more conversations about bills, about the kids they never had, about the home they never bought, the old age they never had.
It was getting light, the alarm went off, startling him out of his thoughts. He reached over, across the bed and hit the snooze button, then he suddenly realized...that he was leaning on her side of the bed. He felt a light ache form in his chest, a hollow hunger that he could do nothing about. He was going to call into work, say he was sick. He didn't want to face the world, put on a mask. He just wanted to write poetry about slipping on banana peels or small cats chasing large dogs. Anything silly, and without repercussions. He would write thousands of words today, all day, but not one of them, no matter how many he wrote, would be, "saudade." He'd banish that word from his vocabulary, from his life...though sadly, he could do nothing about censoring his dreams.
Gold trophy winner
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Sorry, first time I've logged in for 10 days. Figured I'd better fix those crazy poems. 
