1247 Love poems

How long will the bed that we made together hold us there? Your stubbled cheeks grazed my skin from evening to dawn, a cloud of scattered particles now, islands of shaving foam slowly spiraling down the drain, blood drops stippling the water pink as I kiss the back of your neck, our faces framed inside a medicine cabinet mirror. The blade of your hand carves a portal out of steam, the two of us like boys behind frosted glass who wave goodbye while a car shoves off into winter. All that went unnoticed till now — empty cups of coffee stacked up in the sink, the neighborhood kids up to their necks in mounds of autumn leaves. How months on a kitchen calendar drop like frozen flies, the flu season at its peak followed by a train of magic-markered xxx’s — nights we’d spend apart. Death must work that way, a string of long distance calls that only gets through to the sound of your voice on our machine, my heart’s mute confession screened out. How long before we turn away from flowers altogether, your blind hand reaching past our bedridden shoulders to hit that digital alarm at delayed intervals — till you shut it off completely.

Who e’er she be That not impossible she That shall command my heart and me; Wher e’er she lie, Lock’d up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny; Till that ripe birth Of studied fate stand forth And teach her fair steps to our earth; Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine; Meet you her, my wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye call’d my absent kisses. I wish her beauty That owes not all his duty To gaudy tire, or glist’ring shoe-ty. Something more than Taffeta or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan. More than the spoil Of shop, or silkworm’s toil, Or a bought blush, or a set smile. A face that’s best By its own beauty drest, And can alone command the rest. A face made up Out of no other shop Than what nature’s white hand sets ope. A cheek where youth, And blood, with pen of truth Write, what the reader sweetly ru’th. A cheek where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box his being owes. Lips, where all day A lover’s kiss may play, Yet carry nothing thence away. Looks that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simplest nakedness. Eyes, that displaces The neighbour diamond, and outfaces That sunshine, by their own sweet graces. Tresses, that wear Jewels but to declare How much themselves more precious are. Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems, that in their bright shades play. Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear. A well-tam’d heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart. Eyes, that bestow Full quivers on Love’s bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe. Smiles, that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chastity shall take no harm. Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within. Joys, that confess Virtue their mistress, And have no other head to dress. Fears, fond and flight As the coy bride’s when night First does the longing lover right. Tears, quickly fled, And vain, as those are shed For a dying maidenhead. Days, that need borrow No part of their good morrow From a forespent night of sorrow. Days, that in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind are day all night. Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers’ play, Yet long by th’ absence of the day. Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes say, “Welcome friend.” Sidneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter’s head with flowers. Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers, ’Bove all, nothing within that lours. Whate’er delight Can make Day’s forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of Night. In her whole frame Have nature all the name, Art and ornament the shame. Her flattery, Picture and poesy, Her counsel her own virtue be. I wish, her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes, and I wish—no more. Now if time knows That her whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows, Her whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise; Her that dares be What these lines wish to see: I seek no further, it is she. ’Tis she, and here, Lo, I unclothe and clear My wishes’ cloudy character. May she enjoy it, Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it. Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying wishes, And determine them to kisses. Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye; Be ye my fictions; but her story.

I’ll conjure the perfect Easter & we’ll plant mini spruces in the yard— my pink gloves & your green gloves like parrots from an opera over the earth— We’ll chatter about our enemies’ spectacular deaths. I’ll conjure the perfect Easter dark pesto sauce sealed with lemon long cords of fusilli to remind you of my hair & my pink gloves. Your gloves are green & transparent like the skin of Christ when He returned, filmed over with moss roses— I’ll conjure as perfect an Easter: provolone cut from the whole ball woody herbs burning our tongues—it’s a holiday I conjure with my pink-and-green gloves wrangling life from the dirt. It all turns out as I’d hoped. The warlocks of winter are dead & it’s Easter. I dig up body after body after body with my pink gloves, my green gloves.

The shed        behind the barn behind the red cottage I wait for her in the fescue grass the rye        I hear it grow over me Wait for my friends in the distance        on fire their full heads of rust (I love how the clothing drips off them I hear myself say) If the beekeeper doesn’t        come chasing behind with a hatchet I’ll wait behind Cobb’s barn        watching the distant houses She will come down this road        my shadow is paving for her a stalk of honey        and the rye grass grows from her arms (She was raised in these hills        looking down on Elk Creek) and behind her the bluegrass        it’s reaching to touch her ankle

Now thou has loved me one whole day, Tomorrow when you leav’st, what wilt thou say? Wilt thou then antedate some new-made vow? Or say that now We are not just those persons which we were? Or, that oaths made in reverential fear Of Love, and his wrath, any may forswear? Or, as true deaths true marriages untie, So lovers’ contracts, images of those, Bind but till sleep, death’s image, them unloose? Or, your own end to justify, For having purposed change and falsehood, you Can have no way but falsehood to be true? Vain lunatic, against these ‘scapes I could Dispute and conquer, if I would, Which I abstain to do, For by tomorrow, I may think so too.

A woman’s looks Are barbed hooks, That catch by art The strongest heart, When yet they spend no breath. But let them speak, And sighing break Forth into tears, Their words are spears That wound our souls to death. The rarest wit Is made forget, And like a child Is oft beguiled With Love’s sweet-seeming bait. Love with his rod So like a god Commands the mind We cannot find, Fair shows hide foul deceit. Time, that all things In order brings, Hath taught me now To be more slow In giving faith to speech: Since women’s words No truth affords, And when they kiss They think by this Us men to overreach.

Lightning hits the roof, shoves the knife, darkness, deep in the walls. They bleed light all over us and your face, the fan, folds up, so I won’t see how afraid to be with me you are. We don’t mix, even in bed, where we keep ending up. There’s no need to hide it: you’re snow, I’m coal, I’ve got the scars to prove it. But open your mouth, I’ll give you a taste of black you won’t forget. For a while, I’ll let it make you strong, make your heart lion, then I’ll take it back.

Pushing off on her back out Into the fishpond’s cold Archaic glitter, my naked wife Could not have guessed how High she rode into the noon Sky, a brightened polestar Gliding out between nothing And nothing, between a sun- Lit vacancy and its ancient, Reflected, weightless Hour unrippling back From the sedges. The just- Cut grasses fumed around her Like gasoline, a few Spent bees dozed above The compost, and in my arms The steady thrum of the mower Carried on, though I’d Shut it off to sit down And watch: but so fond of her, The water parted to take Her back from that aimless Sky, where light- Headed and slippery as a star She turtled under the still Simmering Indian summer To startle the sunfish At the margins—then punctured Back with a blow-frog’s gasp, An amazed stranger Conjured into the world By a willow shadow Spread out on the grass Like an extravagant Old World gesture no One believes in anymore. On that stalled shore she climbed Back out among the cool And slightly washed- Out leaves to towel off, Put on her clothes, and shake Her hair out in no time Which slips off into the past, Or future, into nothing But the pure unburnished hum- Drum of that moment, that place, From which we turned away Eventually and went back to work.

A great light is the man who knows the woman he loves A great light is the woman who knows the man she loves And carries the light into room after room arousing The sleepers and looking hard into the face of each And then sends them asleep again with a kiss Or a whole night of love and goes on and on until The man and woman who carry the great lights of the Knowledge of the one lover enter the room toward which Their light is sent and fit the one and the other torch In a high candelabrum and there is such light That children leap up unless the sea swallow them In the crossing or hatred or war against which do not Pray only but be vigilant and set your hand to the work.

1 Rain fell as a glass breaks, something suddenly everywhere at the same time. 2 To live like a painting looked into from more than one angle at once — eye to eye with the doorway, down at the hair, up at your own dusty feet. 3 “This is your house,” said my bird heart to my heart of the cricket, and I entered. 4 The happy see only happiness, the living see only life, the young see only the young, as lovers believe they wake always beside one also in love. 5 However often I turned its pages, I kept ending up as the same two sentences of the book: The being of some is: to be. Of others: to be without. Then I fell back asleep, in Swedish. 6 A sheep grazing is unimpressed by the mountain but not by its flies. 7 The grief of what hasn’t yet happened — a door closed from inside. The weight of the grass dividing an ant’s five-legged silence walking through it. 8 What is the towel, what is the water, changes, though of we three, only the towel can be held upside down in the sun. 9 “I was once.” Said not in self-pity or praise. This dignity we allow barn owl, ego, oyster.