Words

“When I said: “You’ll outlast me, you live more carefully.” He said: “Write out what you want.” Okay, it’s hard to say I knew him well, He was enigmatic to himself. Which of us was more aware? Which the elder? I was born November fifth. He on October thirteenth – a few weeks premature, you following me? He was born three weeks before me, my dear, But he was a premature baby. Were we both conceived at the same instant? February 5th 1941, the dead middle of winter, In the heart of World War Two Was I born at the right time? For seventy years his arm has been around my shoulder. He’s dazzled me with gifts. I nurtured him in his youth. He brought me into prominence. I taught him to sing. He connected my voice to the world. I made him tall. All of our personal belongings are intertwined. We say it’s exhausting to compete, But we shine for each other. It’s still our favorite game. It goes on, this embrace, whether I speak for him, or he for me. Love ruled our lives. It rules the mourners, And the winner of longevity.“

by Art Garfunkel

—-

A birthday poem delivered at Paul Simon’s 70th birthday party in 2011, written and read by Art Garfunkel.

Happy 71st Birthday, Paul Simon!

–

Transcribed from the BBC 4 radio interview with Art Garfunkel, broadcasted on November 28, 2011.

“You start dying slowly if you do not travel, if you do not read, if you do not listen to the sounds of life, if you do not appreciate yourself.

You start dying slowly when you kill your self-esteem; when you do not let others help you.

You start dying slowly if you become a slave of your habits, walking everyday on the same paths…If you do not change your routine, if you do not wear different colors, or you do not speak to those you don’t know.

You start dying slowly if you avoid to feel passion and their turbulent emotions; those which make your eyes glisten and your heart beat fast.

You start dying slowly if you do not change your life when you are not satisfied with your job, or with your love, if you do not risk what is safe for the uncertain, if you do not go after a dream, if you do not allow yourself, at least once in your lifetime, to run away from sensible advice.”

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --

because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long

and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station

when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because

then the little drops of anguish will all run together,

the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift

into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;

may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.

Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you'll have gone so far

I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,

Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms

but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,

or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms

but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,