1247 Love poems

Were I to fall in love all over again, it would be with this low ceiling, with the calm  faces of  the two men going about their craft, and with her, now twisting towards them, beautiful, defiant and free. Because we forget how beauty was once itself and nothing else, how it held its stellar moment in attic and cellar. Because that is what beauty is, this compact with time and the silence of  concentration on one subversive operation, that requires courage and sacrifice and never comes without a price.

47

When I first heard you on the phone your voice had to be that '40s wartime voice for it to get under my skin like it did, after seven years asleep. You’re at the beginning of something, you said, and I’m at the end of something; but you didn’t go away, twice-born, three times, coming around, rough cello. Late days I want to drive to your grave, But I don’t belong to it.

Dear love, for nothing less than thee Would I have broke this happy dream; It was a theme For reason, much too strong for fantasy, Therefore thou wak'd'st me wisely; yet My dream thou brok'st not, but continued'st it. Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice To make dreams truths, and fables histories; Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best, Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest. As lightning, or a taper's light, Thine eyes, and not thy noise wak'd me; Yet I thought thee (For thou lovest truth) an angel, at first sight; But when I saw thou sawest my heart, And knew'st my thoughts, beyond an angel's art, When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when Excess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then, I must confess, it could not choose but be Profane, to think thee any thing but thee. Coming and staying show'd thee, thee, But rising makes me doubt, that now Thou art not thou. That love is weak where fear's as strong as he; 'Tis not all spirit, pure and brave, If mixture it of fear, shame, honour have; Perchance as torches, which must ready be, Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me; Thou cam'st to kindle, goest to come; then I Will dream that hope again, but else would die.

All trembling in my arms Aminta lay, Defending of the bliss I strove to take; Raising my rapture by her kind delay, Her force so charming was and weak. The soft resistance did betray the grant, While I pressed on the heaven of my desires; Her rising breasts with nimbler motions pant; Her dying eyes assume new fires. Now to the height of languishment she grows, And still her looks new charms put on; Now the last mystery of Love she knows, We sigh, and kiss: I waked, and all was done. ‘Twas but a dream, yet by my heart I knew, Which still was panting, part of it was true: Oh how I strove the rest to have believed; Ashamed and angry to be undeceived!

What do I owe to you Who loved me deep and long? You never gave my spirit wings Nor gave my heart a song. But oh, to him I loved, Who loved me not at all, I owe the little open gate That led through heaven’s wall.

tend their yard every weekend, when they paint or straighten the purple fencepickets canting each other at the edge of their lot, hammering them down into soil to stand. How long will they stay put? My neighbors mend their gate, hinges rusted to blood-colored dust, then weave gold party-lights with orange lobster-nets & blue buoys along the planks. So much to see & not see again, each chore undone before they know it. I love how faithfully they work their garden all year, scumbling dried eelgrass in fall, raking away mulch in spring. Today the older one, Pat, plants weeds ripped from a cranberry-bog. Sassafras & pickerel, black locust & meadowsweet, wild sarsaparilla, checkerberry, starflower. Will they take root here? Meanwhile Chris waters seeds sown months ago. Furrows of kale, snap-bean, scallion break the surface, greedy for life. Muskrose & lilac cast their last shadows. Is it seeing or sun that makes them flicker, as if they’ve vanished? They shake like a letter in someone’s hand. Here come the guys from Whorfs (“Whores”) Court, walking their dog —also in drag—to the dunes. I miss seeing Disorient Express (a.k.a. Cheng, out of drag) walk by, in tulle & sequins the exact shade of bok choi. He must have endured things no one can name, to name only KS, pneumocystis, aplastic anemia. I remember he walked off his gurney when the ambulance came, then broke his nurse’s fingers in the hospital when he tried to change his IV line, wanting to live without meds. Zorivax, Ativan, leucovorin? I don't know. Pat & Chris pack down the loose dirt. I’ll never know what threads hold our lives together. They kiss, then fall on the grass. I should look away but don’t.

Anemone and columbine Where gloom has lain Opened in gardens Between love and disdain Made somber by the sun Our shadows meet Until the sun Is squandered by night Gods of living water Let down their hair And now you must follow A craving for shadows

Oh, come, my lad, or go, my lad, And love me if you like! I hardly hear the door shut Or the knocker strike. Oh, bring me gifts or beg me gifts, And wed me if you will! I'd make a man a good wife, Sensible and still. And why should I be cold, my lad, And why should you repine, Because I love a dark head That never will be mine? I might as well be easing you As lie alone in bed And waste the night in wanting A cruel dark head! You might as well be calling yours What never will be his, And one of us be happy; There's few enough as is.

Blow, northerne wynd, Send thou me my suetyng! Blow, northerne wynd, Blou, blou, blou! Ichot a burde in boure bryht, That fully semly is on syht, Menskful maiden of myht, Feir ant fre to fonde; In al this wurhliche won, A burde of blod and of bon Never yete y nuste non Lussomore in londe. With lokkes lefliche and longe, With frount and face feir to fonge, With murthes monie mote heo monge, That brid so breme in boure; With lossom eye, grete ant gode, With browen blysfol under hode; He that reste him on the rode That leflich lyf honoure! Hire lure lumes liht Ase a launterne a nyht, Hire bleo blykyeth so bryht: So feyr heo is ant fyn! A suetly suyre heo hath to holde, With armes, shuldre, ase mon wolde, Ant fyngres feyre forte folde, God wolde hue were myn! Middel heo hath menskful smal; Hire loveliche chere as cristal; Theyes, legges, fet, ant al, Ywraht is of the beste. A lussum ledy lasteles That sweting is, and ever wes; A betere burde never nes Yheryed with the heste. Heo is dereworthe in day, Graciouse, stout, and gay, Gentil, jolyf so the jay, Worhliche when heo waketh. Maiden murgest of mouth; Bi est, bi west, by north and south, Thér nis fithele ne crouth That such murthes maketh. Heo is coral of godnesse, Heo is rubie of ryhtfulnesse, Heo is cristal of clannesse, Ant baner of bealté; Heo is lilie of largesse, Heo is paruenke of prouesse, Heo is solsecle of suetnesse, Ant ledy of lealté. For hire love y carke ant care, For hire love y droupne ant dare, For hire love my blisse is bare, Ant al ich waxe won; For hire love in slep y slake, For hire love al nyht ich wake, For hire love mournynge y make More then eny mon.