1247 Love poems

For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love, Or chide my palsy, or my gout, My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout, With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve, Take you a course, get you a place, Observe his honor, or his grace, Or the king's real, or his stampèd face Contemplate; what you will, approve, So you will let me love. Alas, alas, who's injured by my love? What merchant's ships have my sighs drowned? Who says my tears have overflowed his ground? When did my colds a forward spring remove? When did the heats which my veins fill Add one more to the plaguy bill? Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still Litigious men, which quarrels move, Though she and I do love. Call us what you will, we are made such by love; Call her one, me another fly, We're tapers too, and at our own cost die, And we in us find the eagle and the dove. The phœnix riddle hath more wit By us; we two being one, are it. So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit. We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious by this love. We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tombs and hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse; And if no piece of chronicle we prove, We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms; As well a well-wrought urn becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs, And by these hymns, all shall approve Us canonized for Love. And thus invoke us: "You, whom reverend love Made one another's hermitage; You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage; Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove Into the glasses of your eyes (So made such mirrors, and such spies, That they did all to you epitomize) Countries, towns, courts: beg from above A pattern of your love!"

When you show yourself to the woman you love, you don’t know your fear is not fear, itself. You have never been good, but now you are so good, who are you? Is it the liquidity of her skin that bathes the world for you, or her face, captured like a she-lion in your own flesh? This summerbed is soft with ring upon ring upon ring of wedding, the kind that doesn’t clink upon contact, the kind with no contract, the kind in which the gold is only (only!) light. Cloud covers and lifts, and sleep and night and soon enough, love’s big fire laughs at a terrible burn, but only (only!) because pain absorbs excess joy and you shouldn’t flaunt your treasures in front of all day’s eyes.

The best memory is not so firm as faded ink. —Chinese Proverb The body was one thing we always had in common, even when between us a continent unfolded. Eric says, We scattered his ashes beneath the Japanese maple here behind the house. No ceremony, as you wished, but this... What you wanted from me was complex and simple, both. Once you asked for more than I had to give. I live with this; call it regret. Your hands bloom in the intaglioed scrawl, creased onion skin tattooed with garnet stamps from Pietrasanta, a sifting of marble dust...Images: chiseled jut of jaw, cheek, bridge of nose—recall each granite face rising from New Hampshire dirt upon which faltering, you last stepped. In 1729, long before either of us came to be, Reiner Ottens dragged his fine tip across a smooth sheet:Globi Coelestis in Tabulas Planas Redacti Pars III. Bright beings— lobster, serpent, bison, dove bearing the requisite sprig—swirl and writhe over lines that pin distance and story to time. Spectral creatures that we are, connecting dots to chart our ways....If only I could wrap the whole plane back into its ball. Without your body in it, this world's gone flat. (Jack Marshall, 1932-2009)

1996 i. here: our forsaken home mesa breaks desert dialing curve of mountain territory of anthropology of the outlaw where you taught me how to shoot that .22 real good rifle butt steadied against the shoulder socket a wild pulsing third arm postures of stillness and reserve practiced cunning of the predator in the end         shattered bottles among cowering piñones here: the natives have never been safe ii. curious sentimental boy intent on the romance of expedition clever cynical woman intent on the Romantic trope mi cielo mi mar mi luna mi tierra language of Spanish occupation diligent engineers we divide and enter mapping for future travels the sheets marked, desk cluttered: pencil shavings graphs incomplete stanzas metaphors and equations of isolated fixed points like Malinches we are left harboring the remains of one another's labor iii. la migra       your mind skilled at expulsion vigilant surveillance those refused entry interest me those forced to settle elsewhere ours is a patrolled encounter my mind is what interests you creases of cerebrum     electric streams coursing through these fissures a landscape ripe for excavation you are brother to Isabella in devices and commands always the agenda the missionary plans and like the others you will insist on exile and I am no Circe no magical powers no victim of narrative just a woman with these few words a woman who has peered through the barrel of a loaded gun leaving nothing intact

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, Where I the rarest things have seen; Oh, things without compare! Such sights again cannot be found In any place on English ground, Be it at wake, or fair. At Charing-Cross, hard by the way, Where we (thou know’st) do sell our hay, There is a house with stairs; And there did I see coming down Such folk as are not in our town, Vorty, at least, in pairs. Amongst the rest, one pest’lent fine (His beard no bigger though than thine) Walk’d on before the rest: Our landlord looks like nothing to him: The King (God bless him) ’twould undo him, Should he go still so drest. At Course-a-Park, without all doubt, He should have first been taken out By all the maids i’th’ town: Though lusty Roger there had been, Or little George upon the Green, Or Vincent of the Crown. But wot you what? the youth was going To make an end of all his wooing; The parson for him stay’d: Yet by his leave (for all his haste), He did not so much wish all past (Perchance), as did the maid. The maid (and thereby hangs a tale) For such a maid no Whitsun-ale Could ever yet produce: No grape, that’s kindly ripe, could be So round, so plump, so soft as she, Nor half so full of juice. Her finger was so small, the ring Would not stay on, which they did bring; It was too wide a peck: And to say truth (for out it must) It look’d like the great collar (just) About our young colt’s neck. Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they fear’d the light: But oh! she dances such a way No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight. He would have kissed her once or twice, But she would not, she was nice, She would not do’t in sight, And then she looked as who should say I will do what I list to day; And you shall do’t at night. Her cheeks so rare a white was on, No daisy makes comparison, (Who sees them is undone); For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Catherine pear (The side that’s next the sun). Her lips were red, and one was thin, Compar’d to that was next her chin; (Some bee had stung it newly); But (Dick) her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze Than on the sun in July. Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou’dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get; But she so handled still the matter, They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit. If wishing should be any sin, The Parson himself had guilty been; (She looked that day so purely,) And did the youth so oft the feat At night, as some did in conceit, It would have spoil’d him, surely. Passion o’ me, how I run on! There’s that that would be thought upon (I trow) besides the bride. The business of the kitchen’s great, For it is fit that men should eat; Nor was it there denied. Just in the nick the cook knock’d thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey: Each serving-man, with dish in hand, March’d boldly up, like our train’d band, Presented, and away. When all the meat was on the table, What man of knife or teeth was able To stay to be intreated? And this the very reason was, Before the parson could say grace, The company was seated. Now hats fly off, and youths carouse, Healths first go round, and then the house, The bride’s came thick and thick; And when ’twas nam’d another’s health, Perhaps he made it hers by stealth; And who could help it, Dick? O’ th’ sudden up they rise and dance; Then sit again and sigh, and glance; Then dance again and kiss: Thus sev’ral ways the time did pass, Whilst ev’ry woman wish’d her place, And ev’ry man wish’d his. By this time all were stol’n aside To counsel and undress the Bride; But that he must not know: But yet ’twas thought he guess’d her mind, And did not mean to stay behind Above an hour or so. When in he came (Dick) there she lay Like new-fal’n snow melting away, (’Twas time I trow to part) Kisses were now the only stay, Which soon she gave, as who would say, Good Boy! with all my heart. But just as heav’ns would have to cross it, In came the Bridemaids with the Posset: The Bridegroom eat in spite; For had he left the Women to’t It would have cost two hours to do’t, Which were too much that night. At length the candles out and out, All that they had not done, they do’t: What that is, who can tell? But I believe it was no more Then thou and I have done before With Bridget, and with Nell.

In Scarlet town, where I was born, There was a fair maid dwellin’, Made every youth cry Well-a-way! Her name was Barbara Allen. All in the merry month of May, When green buds they were swellin’, Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay, For love of Barbara Allen. He sent his man in to her then, To the town where she was dwellin’; “O haste and come to my master dear, If your name be Barbara Allen.” So slowly, slowly rase she up, And slowly she came nigh him, And when she drew the curtain by— “Young man, I think you’re dyin’.” “O it’s I am sick and very very sick, And it’s all for Barbara Allen.”— O the better for me ye’se never be, Tho’ your heart’s blood were a-spillin’! “O dinna ye mind, young man,” says she, “When the red wine ye were fillin’, That ye made the healths go round and round, And slighted Barbara Allen?” He turned his face unto the wall, And death was with him dealin’: “Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, And be kind to Barbara Allen!” As she was walking o’er the fields, She heard the dead-bell knellin’; And every jow the dead-bell gave Cried “Woe to Barbara Allen.” “O mother, mother, make my bed, O make it saft and narrow: My love has died for me today, I’ll die for him tomorrow.” “Farewell,” she said, “ye virgins all, And shun the fault I fell in: Henceforth take warning by the fall Of cruel Barbara Allen.”

Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me, Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee; Sounds of the rude world heard in the day, Lull'd by the moonlight have all pass'd a way! Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song, List while I woo thee with soft melody; Gone are the cares of life's busy throng,— Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me! Beautiful dreamer awake unto me! Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea Mermaids are chaunting the wild lorelie; Over the streamlet vapors are borne, Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn. Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart, E'en as the morn on the streamlet and sea; Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,— Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me! Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

A month or twain to live on honeycomb Is pleasant; but one tires of scented time, Cold sweet recurrence of accepted rhyme, And that strong purple under juice and foam Where the wine’s heart has burst; Nor feel the latter kisses like the first. Once yet, this poor one time; I will not pray Even to change the bitterness of it, The bitter taste ensuing on the sweet, To make your tears fall where your soft hair lay All blurred and heavy in some perfumed wise Over my face and eyes. And yet who knows what end the scythèd wheat Makes of its foolish poppies’ mouths of red? These were not sown, these are not harvested, They grow a month and are cast under feet And none has care thereof, As none has care of divided love. I know each shadow of your lips by rote, Each change of love in eyelids and eyebrows; The fashion of fair temples tremulous With tender blood, and colour of your throat; I know not how love is gone out of this, Seeing that all was his. Love’s likeness there endures upon all these: But out of these one shall not gather love. Day hath not strength nor the night shade enough To make love whole and fill his lips with ease, As some bee-builded cell Feels at filled lips the heavy honey swell. I know not how this last month leaves your hair Less full of purple colour and hid spice, And that luxurious trouble of closed eyes Is mixed with meaner shadows and waste care; And love, kissed out by pleasure, seems not yet Worth patience to regret.

Awakened from a dream, I curl up and turn. The roses on the dresser smile and your words bloom. The red roses for Valentine’s Day. Like in a film thoughts of you unfold moment by moment. I vaguely hear the sound of your spoon scooping cereal the water stream in the shower the buzzing noise of your electric razor like a singing of cicada. Your footsteps in and out of the bedroom. Your lips touching my cheek lightly. And the sound of the door shutting. In your light I fall asleep again under the warm quilt happily like a child. Upon waking on the kitchen counter I find a half grapefruit carefully cut and sectioned. Such a loving touch is a milestone for my newly found happiness.

Mortal, if thou art beloved Life's offences are removed; All the fateful things that checked thee, Hearten, hallow, and protect thee. Grow'st thou mellow? What is age? Tinct on life's illumined page, Where the purple letters glow Deeper, painted long ago. What is sorrow? Comfort's prime, Love's choice Indian summer clime. Sickness!—thou wilt pray it worse For so blessed, balmy nurse. And for death! when thou art dying 'Twill be Love beside thee lying. Death is lonesome? Oh, how brave Shows the foot-frequented grave! Heaven itself is but the casket For Love's treasure, ere he ask it,— Ere with burning heart he follow, Piercing through corruption's hollow. If thou art beloved, oh then Fear no grief from mortal men.