1247 Love poems

C. Damon, come drive thy flocks this way. D. No, ’tis too late; they went astray. C. I have a grassy scutcheon spied, Where Flora blazons all her pride. The grass I aim to feast thy sheep: The flowers I for thy temples keep. D. Grass withers; and the flowers too fade. C. Seize the short joys then, ere they vade, Seest thou that unfrequented cave? D. That den? C. Love’s Shrine. D. But virtue’s grave. C. In whose cool bosom we may lie Safe from the sun. D. Not heaven’s eye. C. Near this, a fountain’s liquid bell Tinkles within the concave shell. D. Might a soul bathe there and be clean, Or slake its drought? C. What is’t you mean? D. These once had been enticing things, Clorinda, pastures, caves, and springs. C. And what late change? D. The other day Pan met me. C. What did great Pan say? D. Words that transcend poor shepherds’ skill, But he e’er since my songs does fill: And his name swells my slender oat. C. Sweet must Pan sound in Damon’s note. D. Clorinda’s voice might make it sweet. C. Who would not in Pan’s praises meet? CHORUS Of Pan the flowery pastures sing, Caves echo, and the fountains ring. Sing then while he doth us inspire; For all the world is our Pan’s choir.

Come slowly – Eden! Lips unused to Thee – Bashful – sip thy Jessamines – As the fainting Bee – Reaching late his flower, Round her chamber hums – Counts his nectars – Enters – and is lost in Balms.

[First Setting] Comin thro' the rye, poor body, Comin thro' the rye, She draigl't a' her petticoatie Comin thro' the rye. [ CHORUS. ] Oh Jenny 's a' weet poor body Jenny 's seldom dry, She draigl't a' her petticoatie Comin thro' the rye. Gin a body meet a body Comin thro' the rye, Gin a body kiss a body — Need a body cry. Oh Jenny 's a' weet, &c. Gin a body meet a body Comin thro' the glen; Gin a body kiss a body — Need the warld ken! Oh Jenny 's a' weet, &c. [Second Setting] Gin a body meet a body, comin thro' the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, need a body cry; Ilka body has a body, ne'er a ane hae I; But a' the lads they loe me, and what the waur am I. Gin a body meet a body, comin frae the well, Gin a body kiss a body, need a body tell; Ilka body has a body, ne'er a ane hae I, But a the lads they loe me, and what the waur am I. Gin a body meet a body, comin frae the town, Gin a body kiss a body, need a body gloom; Ilka Jenny has her Jockey, ne'er a ane hae I, But a' the lads they loe me, and what the waur am I.

I love. Wouldn't we all like to start a poem with "I love . . ."? I would. I mean, I love the fact there are parallel lines in the word "parallel," love how words sometimes mirror what they mean. I love mirrors and that stupid tale about Narcissus. I suppose there is some Narcissism in that. You know, Narcissism, what you remind me to avoid almost all the time. Yeah, I love Narcissism. I do. But what I really love is ice cream. Remember how I told you no amount of ice cream can survive a week in my freezer. You didn't believe me, did you? No, you didn't. But you know now how true that is. I love that you know my Achilles heel is none other than ice cream— so chilly, so common. And I love fountain pens. I mean I just love them. Cleaning them, filling them with ink, fills me with a kind of joy, even if joy is so 1950. I know, no one talks about joy anymore. It is even more taboo than love. And so, of course, I love joy. I love the way joy sounds as it exits your mouth. You know, the word joy. How joyous is that. It makes me think of bubbles, chandeliers, dandelions. I love the way the mind runs that pathway from bubbles to dandelions. Yes, I love a lot. And right here, walking down this street, I love the way we make a bridge, a suspension bridge —almost as beautiful as the Golden Gate Bridge—swaying as we walk hand in hand.

I like to think of your silence as the love letters you will not write me, as two sax solos from two ages across a stage, learning the languages of kissing with your eyes closed. I like to think of you as a god to whom I no longer pray, as a god I aspire to. I like the opening of your joined palms, which is like an urn where my ashes find a home. The music of your lashes; the silent way your body wears out mine. Mostly, I like to think of you at night when a black screen of shining dust shines from your mines to the edge of my skin, where you are a lamp of flutters. I remember the spectral lashes–marigold, tamarind, secret thing between your thighs, of closed kissing eyes. At night, the possibility of you is a heavy sculpture of heavy bronze at the side of my bed, a god. And I pray you into life. Into flesh.

lands on my pretty man’s forearm. Harmless, it isn’t deadly at all; makes his muscle flutter — the one that gets his hand to hold mine, or ball into a fist, or handle a gun. It’s a ladybug, or an Asian lady beetle everyone mistakes for a ladybug — eating whatever it lands on. My pretty man is asleep — at ease, or plotting like the bug. Or maybe the bug is a blowfly — eating my pretty man’s tan from his pretty arm. My man swats it without waking, as if he’s dreaming of an enemy, or me. When my pretty man isn’t asleep he’s got a temper. No, he is not asleep. He’s wide awake and wants me to tell you I’m wrong. Blowflies don’t eat skin, they lay eggs on skin. He knows all about blowfly larvae. Napoleon used them to clean war wounds, my cold pretty man says in that pretty way, with his cold pretty mouth. He’s eaten plenty of bugs before. On night watch, over there. Over there, they’re everywhere.

Thinking to see them there, captains industrious in morning sun, I crack the egg’s tender yellow head Love comes to me un- repentant, toward it all vectors converge repeating, like moment of the necessary form I pluck a feather from your neck On the page one alights without permission, or love is an assemblage beginning each day identical, palpable I remarks of, is it that music or need edits my body two people leave a shopping mall with goods, death squad hovering high a streetlamp Call your mother, stay up late to watch the neighborhood undressing light, like multiple phone calls connected then hung up, get the family together soon, watch American bison overtake the field filling a vehicle lane in early snow obstructed I paused To see it, their dark furs shaking enormous out of trees they descended from the line of sky respond to a much deeper instinct we were then back on our way input later to the search bar I love keywords, like love is an exodus I imagine you sleeping, then a pyramid or chandelier throwing sunlight An absence emerges, sharp I regard the whole practice of it touch it

A hears by chance a familiar name, and the name involves a riddle of the past. B, in love with A, receives an unsigned letter in which the writer states that she is the mistress of A and begs B not to take him away from her. B, compelled by circumstances to be a companion of A in an isolated place, alters her rosy views of love and marriage when she discovers, through A, the selfishness of men. A, an intruder in a strange house, is discovered; he flees through the nearest door into a windowless closet and is trapped by a spring lock. A is so content with what he has that any impulse toward enterprise is throttled. A solves an important mystery when falling plaster reveals the place where some old love letters are concealed. A-4, missing food from his larder, half believes it was taken by a “ghost.” A, a crook, seeks unlawful gain by selling A-8 an object, X, which A-8 already owns. A sees a stranger, A-5, stealthily remove papers, X, from the pocket of another stranger, A-8, who is asleep. A follows A-5. A sends an infernal machine, X, to his enemy, A-3, and it falls into the hands of A’s friend, A-2. Angela tells Philip of her husband’s enlarged prostate, and asks for money. Philip, ignorant of her request, has the money placed in an escrow account. A discovers that his pal, W, is a girl masquerading as a boy. A, discovering that W is a girl masquerading as a boy, keeps the knowledge to himself and does his utmost to save the masquerader from annoying experiences. A, giving ten years of his life to a miserly uncle, U, in exchange for a college education, loses his ambition and enterprise. A, undergoing a strange experience among a people weirdly deluded, discovers the secret of the delusion from Herschel, one of the victims who has died. By means of information obtained from the notebook, A succeeds in rescuing the other victims of the delusion. A dies of psychic shock. Albert has a dream, or an unusual experience, psychic or otherwise, which enables him to conquer a serious character weakness and become successful in his new narrative, “Boris Karloff.” Silver coins from the Mojave Desert turn up in the possession of a sinister jeweler. Three musicians wager that one will win the affections of the local kapellmeister’s wife; the losers must drown themselves in a nearby stream. Ardis, caught in a trap and held powerless under a huge burning glass, is saved by an eclipse of the sun. Kent has a dream so vivid that it seems a part of his waking experience. A and A-2 meet with a tragic adventure, and A-2 is killed. Elvira, seeking to unravel the mystery of a strange house in the hills, is caught in an electrical storm. During the storm the house vanishes and the site on which it stood becomes a lake. Alphonse has a wound, a terrible psychic wound, an invisible psychic wound, which causes pain in flesh and tissue which, otherwise, are perfectly healthy and normal. A has a dream which he conceives to be an actual experience. Jenny, homeward bound, drives and drives, and is still driving, no nearer to her home than she was when she first started. Petronius B. Furlong’s friend, Morgan Windhover, receives a wound from which he dies. Thirteen guests, unknown to one another, gather in a spooky house to hear Toe reading Buster’s will. Buster has left everything to Lydia, a beautiful Siamese girl poet of whom no one has heard. Lassie and Rex tussle together politely; Lassie, wounded, is forced to limp home. In the Mexican gold rush a city planner is found imprisoned by outlaws in a crude cage of sticks. More people flow over the dam and more is learned about the missing electric cactus. Too many passengers have piled onto a cable car in San Francisco; the conductor is obliged to push some of them off. Maddalena, because of certain revelations she has received, firmly resolves that she will not carry out an enterprise that had formerly been dear to her heart. Fog enters into the shaft of a coal mine in Wales. A violent wind blows the fog around. Two miners, Shawn and Hillary, are pursued by fumes. Perhaps Emily’s datebook holds the clue to the mystery of the seven swans under the upas tree. Jarvis seeks to manage Emily’s dress shop and place it on a paying basis. Jarvis’s bibulous friend, Emily, influences Jarvis to take to drink, scoffing at the doctor who has forbidden Jarvis to indulge in spirituous liquors. Jarvis, because of a disturbing experience, is compelled to turn against his friend, Emily. A ham has his double, “Donnie,” take his place in an important enterprise. Jarvis loses his small fortune in trying to help a friend. Lodovico’s friend, Ambrosius, goes insane from eating the berries of a strange plant, and makes a murderous attack on Lodovico. “New narrative” is judged seditious. Hogs from all over go squealing down the street. Ambrosius, suffering misfortune, seeks happiness in the companionship of Joe, and in playing golf. Arthur, in a city street, has a glimpse of Cathy, a strange woman who has caused him to become involved in a puzzling mystery. Cathy, walking in the street, sees Arthur, a stranger, weeping. Cathy abandons Arthur after he loses his money and is injured and sent to a hospital. Arthur, married to Beatrice, is haunted by memories of a former sweetheart, Cornelia, a heartless coquette whom Alvin loves. Sauntering in a park on a fine day in spring, Tricia and Plotinus encounter a little girl grabbing a rabbit by its ears. As they remonstrate with her, the girl is transformed into a mature woman who regrets her feverish act. Running up to the girl, Alvin stumbles and loses his coins. In a nearby dell, two murderers are plotting to execute a third. Beatrice loved Alvin before he married. B, second wife of A, discovers that B-3, A’s first wife, was unfaithful. B, wife of A, dons the mask and costume of B-3, A’s paramour, and meets A as B-3; his memory returns and he forgets B-3, and goes back to B. A discovers the “Hortensius,” a lost dialogue of Cicero, and returns it to the crevice where it lay. Ambrose marries Phyllis, a nice girl from another town. Donnie and Charlene are among the guests invited to the window. No one remembers old Everett, who is left to shrivel in a tower. Pellegrino, a rough frontiersman in a rough frontier camp, undertakes to care for an orphan. Ildebrando constructs a concealed trap, and a person near to him, Gwen, falls into the trap and cannot escape.

The wind shakes the chimes into the siding, and the dog shakes too though he doesn’t wake you as I carry you to the bedroom. Small mouth sipping breath, you are fish-strange, bejeweled in the dimness of the microwave’s nightlight. As I turn my back to the bulb I make your form in my arms a dark weight but you are no anchor. Together we are sloops trailing a tiny wake in the carpet. In the dark it’s hard to navigate the furniture so I count distance—five paces from the tile to the sofa. From the sofa, twelve to the hall. I’m subtracting my steps to see what’s left. The things that burden me, like our lame dog’s shattered nail, blood on the carpet from his paces to the food dish, our drafty house, all are outpaced. There are no barriers, and I step over the hound’s dozing form as a quick gust cuts dead branches from the pine and the drifts lock our cars in. But I’m still counting— the none-stars in the winter sky, each hazily wrapped and strobing. The far bell over the deep waters of your sleep. Two steps to the corner where there are no animals nor animal danger. Two to the bed where behind us the shadow of the dog could be distant hills, where the clouds disassemble, where your breaths pull the warmth of the room in and where my face, my eyes are the glint of ore from a country far away and known only in a language, light as the syllables of exhalation.

Chorus Ca' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows Ca' them where the burnie rows, My bonie dearie. Hark! the mavis' evening sang Sounding Cluden's woods amang, Then a-fauldin let us gang, My bonie dearie. We'll gae down by Cluden side, Thro' the hazels spreading wide, O'er the waves that sweetly glide To the moon sae clearly. Yonder Cluden's silent towers, Where at moonshine midnight hours, O'er the dewy-bending flowers, Fairies dance sae cheery. Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; Thou 'rt to love and Heaven sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near, My bonie dearie. Fair and lovely as thou art, Thou hast stown my very heart; I can die—but canna part, My bonie dearie.