1247 Love poems

after Sappho Yea, thou shalt be forgotten like spilt wine, Except these kisses of my lips on thine Brand them with immortality; but me – Men shall not see bright fire nor hear the sea, Nor mix their hearts with music, nor behold Cast forth of heaven, with feet of awful gold And plumeless wings that make the bright air blind, Lightning, with thunder for a hound behind Hunting through fields unfurrowed and unsown, But in the light and laughter, in the moan And music, and in grasp of lip and hand And shudder of water that makes felt on land The immeasurable tremor of all the sea, Memories shall mix and metaphors of me.

It was so simple: you came back to me And I was happy. Nothing seemed to matter But that. That you had gone away from me And lived for days with him—it didn’t matter. That I had been left to care for our old dog And house alone—couldn’t have mattered less! On all this, you and I and our happy dog Agreed. We slept. The world was worriless. I woke in the morning, brimming with old joys Till the fact-checker showed up, late, for work And started in:Item: it’s years, not days. Item: you had no dog. Item: she isn’t back, In fact, she just remarried. And oh yes, item: you Left her, remember?

“And if I did, what then? Are you aggriev’d therefore? The sea hath fish for every man, And what would you have more?” Thus did my mistress once, Amaze my mind with doubt; And popp’d a question for the nonce To beat my brains about. Whereto I thus replied: “Each fisherman can wish That all the seas at every tide Were his alone to fish. “And so did I (in vain) But since it may not be, Let such fish there as find the gain, And leave the loss for me. “And with such luck and loss I will content myself, Till tides of turning time may toss Such fishers on the shelf. “And when they stick on sands, That every man may see, Then will I laugh and clap my hands, As they do now at me.”

He faced the sink, one foot up on the edge of the tub. She stood behind him, reaching around. In the mirror, her face rose over his shoulder like the moon, and like the moon she regarded him beautifully but without feeling, and he looked at her as he would at the moon:How beautiful! How distant! No smiling, no weeping, no talking. A man and a woman transacting their magnificent business with the usual equanimity. The man as a passenger walking the ship’s deck at evening and the woman as the moon over his shoulder oiling the ocean with light. Deep in the ship’s belly pistons churned and sailors fed the boilers' roar with coal. On deck just the engine’s dull thrum and a faint click as the woman sets her ring on the cool white lip of the sink.

And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay, say nay, for shame, To save thee from the blame Of all my grief and grame; And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay, say nay! And wilt thou leave me thus, That hath loved thee so long In wealth and woe among? And is thy heart so strong As for to leave me thus? Say nay, say nay! And wilt thou leave me thus, That hath given thee my heart Never for to depart, Nother for pain nor smart; And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay, say nay! And wilt thou leave me thus And have no more pity Of him that loveth thee? Hélas, thy cruelty! And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay, say nay!

It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Of course we failed, by succeeding. The fiery cherub becomes his smothering. A greedy heart dives into a dream Of power or truth, and wakes up middle-aged In some committee room. It is eating paper instead of God. We two are one, my bird, this is a wedding. When love was war, you swore you’d burn Your life and die at thirty-five. I said good riddance, Bright hairy boy, I will beat you, down, Tear you to monkey shreds, survive like earth, Owl-eyed, because I wanted to see everything Black and permanent and kill you with your theories. We used to wake up sweaty and entangled. Thirty, home, and work. We cohabit in a functioning machine. There is violence, somewhere else. Do we wish this? It occurs, The flayed combatant, the dismembered child, The instruments in the basement. We must wish it. See, Between us is peace, our babies are plump, I know you, I caress you, I fail you. My faith adheres In nothing. Don’t leave me, don’t leave me.

All Kings, and all their favourites, All glory of honours, beauties, wits, The sun itself, which makes times, as they pass, Is elder by a year now than it was When thou and I first one another saw: All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay; This no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday, Running it never runs from us away, But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day. Two graves must hide thine and my corse; If one might, death were no divorce. Alas, as well as other Princes, we (Who Prince enough in one another be) Must leave at last in death these eyes and ears, Oft fed with true oaths, and with sweet salt tears; But souls where nothing dwells but love (All other thoughts being inmates) then shall prove This, or a love increasèd there above, When bodies to their graves, souls from their graves remove. And then we shall be throughly blessed; But we no more than all the rest. Here upon earth we’re Kings, and none but we Can be such Kings, nor of such subjects be; Who is so safe as we? where none can do Treason to us, except one of us two. True and false fears let us refrain, Let us love nobly, and live, and add again Years and years unto years, till we attain To write threescore: this is the second of our reign.

In the absence of anything as definitive as blood type or maths, I am delighted to declare I found the back to the earring, also the mildew is banished, albeit temporarily. I want to share this news with you, a check against the inventory of living. Personalized necklaces point to living. Customizable anything suggests it’s all worth it. Sometimes it’s “oh this iced finger bun” others it’s “put something in the diary to look forward to.” This is an elaborate mural in an ill-frequented part of the city. My diary is full and the bakery is out of buns. Indoors there needs to be a swap from idle teasels to cacti. (Some sort of permanence that works in the way I work — water, light, a finger touch confirming my edges.) I only have cats to verify I’m there. • I am building up evidence. Some bodily. Some constructed. On balance, perhaps I am more a person who racks up indicators of taste as proof of living. There are condiments, playlists, preferred linens. I first got drunk on Cinzano. There was no one taking notes. I used to dream of sex in a fully upholstered room with no windows or doors. This idea of rabbit fur rugs and buttoned velvet cushions, immaculately conceived. Always snagged on the detail of things — how even did I come to be inside, nevermind out. The sex wasn’t the point. What I seek is magic like an intact lipstick mirror in an antique handbag, my own nifty (crackerjack?) endurance. Or to discover a gulping heart within a privet hedge. Or the druzy quartz of someone’s eyes long gone and to say it! • I am dying to be written about in your diary and my self-involvement extends to endless photographs of my eye makeup, which might be described as “signature.” FYI I prefer a fine brush to a pen. What can be said about slush, about the corners cut when cleaning the fridge. What can be said about what is considered to be ordinary. Crucially, love is a desire to be a witness and be witnessed, how you might skate past the provisional.If the house were burning down I would rescue all the photographs

My dear, you are the high-speed car chase, and I, I am the sheet of glass being carefully carried across the street by two employees of Acme Moving who have not parked on the right side because the plot demands that they make the perilous journey across traffic, and so they are cursing as rehearsed as they angle me into the street, acting as if they intend to get me to the department store, as if I will ever take my place as the display window, ever clear the way for a special exhibit at Christmas, or be Windexed once a day, or even late at night, be pressed against by a couple who can’t make it back to his place, and so they angle me into the street, a bright lure, a provocative claim, their teaser, and indeed you can’t resist my arguments, fatally flawed though they are, so you come careening to but and butt and rebut, you come careening, you being both cars, both chaser and chased, both good and bad, both done up with bullets that haven’t yet done you in. I know I’m done for: there’s only one street on this set and you’ve got a stubborn streak a mile long. I can smell the smoke already. No matter, I’d rather shatter than be looked through all day. So come careening; I know you’ve other clichés to hammer home: women with groceries to send spilling, canals to leap as the bridge is rising. And me? I’m so through. I’ve got a thousand places to be.