1247 Love poems

Dark mornings shown thy mask made well thy visage and voice rolling over and hearing some perfect sweetness that one broad soul poured forth again in happy countenance and ancient word my city cold for me, my nature lost come back sallow soft and colorless thy dreams repent as: The whole family each with his own “Now, sweet child, we must kiss winter goodbye, and so too your furs.” She clutched the puppy to her breast. “Not little Bobby, father.” “Yes, my darling, little Bobby as well.” And this, as she ought, was how Gretel remembered summer – a constant giving up of things and people.

The first seated takes the chance he’ll be stood up. She’s getting on with the hope she may get off. One and one make one in this riddle. Or, more closely, comedy routine: first, impressions; second, observations. Impolite to have thirds. Bachelors and bachelorettes beware: more than tonight they can mess up your order. Who would go for the lobster expects the claws. No pets allowed, keep your shirt on, places this strict— like loony bins—require a jacket, sir. Mark sudden pauses, gaps in the flap, commas where a sutra might be

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone! Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast, Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone, Bright eyes, accomplish’d shape, and lang’rous waist! Faded the flower and all its budded charms, Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes, Faded the shape of beauty from my arms, Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise – Vanish’d unseasonably at shut of eve, When the dusk holiday – or holinight Of fragrant-curtain’d love begins to weave The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight, But, as I’ve read love’s missal through to-day, He’ll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.

the day shifts, we talk to each other the way we talk to each other, the luster fades, our bodies fill with sap, there is a shift, joy reappears before another personal narrative burns to a heap of citations, continuing in complicated machinery, becoming blood knots in space, both the living and dead surround the present has been. I open my eyes in the full force of fear and hesitation, frozen in passing passageways with endless permutations, subjected to violence, stupidity, and love.

I am not land or timber nor are you ocean or celestial body, but rather we are the small animals we have always been. The land and the sea know each other at the threshold where they meet, as we know something of one another, having shown, at different times, some bit of flesh, some feeling. We call the showing knowing instead of practice. We seem to say, at different times, A feeling comes. What is the metaphor for two animals sharing the same space? Marriage? We share a practice, you and I, a series of postures. Here is how I become a tree [                            ] and you [                            ] a body in space.

The most inscrutable beautiful names in this world always do sound like diseases. It’s because they are engorged. G., I am a fool. What we feel in the solar plexus wrecks us. Halfway squatting on a crate where feeling happened. Caresses. You know corporeal gifts besmirch thieves like me. But she plucks a feather and my steam escapes. We’re awake each night at pennymoon and we micro and necro. I can’t stop. But love and what-all: the uncomfortable position of telling the truth, like the lotus, can’t be held long. If she knew would she just take all her favors from my marmalade vessel and chuck them back into the endless reversible garment which is my life— an astonishing vanishing. G., I know this letter is like a slice of elevator accident. As smart folk would say, “Everything is only Nothing’s Truck.” I would revise it and say that everything is only nothing, truncated. Love, Your Igor

Dear, if you change, I’ll never choose again; Sweet, if you shrink, I’ll never think of love; Fair, if you fail, I’ll judge all beauty vain; Wise, if too weak, more wits I’ll never prove. Dear, sweet, fair, wise,-change, shrink, nor be not weak; And on my faith, my faith shall never break. Earth with her flowers shall sooner heaven adorn; Heaven her bright stars through, earth’s dim globe shall move; Fire heat shall lose, and frosts of flame be born; Air, made to shine, as black as hell shall prove: Earth, heaven, fire, air, the world transformed shall view, Ere I prove false to faith, or strange to you.

you dream in the language of dodging bullets and artillery fire. new, sexy diagnoses have been added to the lexicon on your behalf (“charlie don’t surf,” has also been added to the lexicon on your behalf). in this home that is not our home, we have mutually exiled each other. i walk down your street in the rain, and i do not call you. i walk in the opposite direction of where i know to find you. that we do not speak is louder than bombs. there are times that missing you is a matter of procedure. now is not one of those times. there are times when missing you hurts. so it comes to this, vying for geography. there is a prayer stuck in my throat. douse me in gasoline, my love, and strike a match. let’s see this prayer ignite to high heaven.

It’s true I never write, but I would gladly die with you.

My love is of a birth as rare As ’tis for object strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility. Magnanimous Despair alone Could show me so divine a thing Where feeble Hope could ne’er have flown, But vainly flapp’d its tinsel wing. And yet I quickly might arrive Where my extended soul is fixt, But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt. For Fate with jealous eye does see Two perfect loves, nor lets them close; Their union would her ruin be, And her tyrannic pow’r depose. And therefore her decrees of steel Us as the distant poles have plac’d, (Though love’s whole world on us doth wheel) Not by themselves to be embrac’d; Unless the giddy heaven fall, And earth some new convulsion tear; And, us to join, the world should all Be cramp’d into a planisphere. As lines, so loves oblique may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet. Therefore the love which us doth bind, But Fate so enviously debars, Is the conjunction of the mind, And opposition of the stars.