1247 Love poems

Where does such tenderness come from? These aren’t the first curls I’ve wound around my finger— I’ve kissed lips darker than yours. The sky is washed and dark (Where does such tenderness come from?) Other eyes have known and shifted away from my eyes. But I’ve never heard words like this in the night (Where does such tenderness come from?) with my head on your chest, rest. Where does this tenderness come from? And what will I do with it? Young stranger, poet, wandering through town, you and your eyelashes—longer than anyone’s. 1916

The feverish room and that white bed, The tumbled skirts upon a chair, The novel flung half-open, where Hat, hair-pins, puffs, and paints are spread; The mirror that has sucked your face Into its secret deep of deeps, And there mysteriously keeps Forgotten memories of grace; And you half dressed and half awake, Your slant eyes strangely watching me, And I, who watch you drowsily, With eyes that, having slept not, ache; This (need one dread? nay, dare one hope?) Will rise, a ghost of memory, if Ever again my handkerchief Is scented with White Heliotrope.

Two rooms, the Aegean, 2008 , there lived a rhapsode and his wife. When they ate, they ate straight from the vine. Her curves, sibilance, Serbo-Croatian chants. His chants, curves of clocks, burnished bells. When they ate, they boiled wings and gills. Nights, slate olives, he couldn’t see.

Whoever you are holding me now in hand, Without one thing all will be useless, I give you fair warning before you attempt me further, I am not what you supposed, but far different. Who is he that would become my follower? Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections? The way is suspicious, the result uncertain, perhaps destructive, You would have to give up all else, I alone would expect to be your sole and exclusive standard, Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting, The whole past theory of your life and all conformity to the lives around you would have to be abandon’d, Therefore release me now before troubling yourself any further, let go your hand from my shoulders, Put me down and depart on your way. Or else by stealth in some wood for trial, Or back of a rock in the open air, (For in any roof’d room of a house I emerge not, nor in company, And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,) But just possibly with you on a high hill, first watching lest any person for miles around approach unawares, Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea or some quiet island, Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you, With the comrade’s long-dwelling kiss or the new husband’s kiss, For I am the new husband and I am the comrade. Or if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing, Where I may feel the throbs of your heart or rest upon your hip, Carry me when you go forth over land or sea; For thus merely touching you is enough, is best, And thus touching you would I silently sleep and be carried eternally. But these leaves conning you con at peril, For these leaves and me you will not understand, They will elude you at first and still more afterward, I will certainly elude you, Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold! Already you see I have escaped from you. For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this book, Nor is it by reading it you will acquire it, Nor do those know me best who admire me and vauntingly praise me, Nor will the candidates for my love (unless at most a very few) prove victorious, Nor will my poems do good only, they will do just as much evil, perhaps more, For all is useless without that which you may guess at many times and not hit, that which I hinted at; Therefore release me and depart on your way.

Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air Of absence withers what was once so fair? Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant— Bound to thy service with unceasing care, The mind’s least generous wish a mendicant For nought but what thy happiness could spare. Speak— though this soft warm heart, once free to hold A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, Be left more desolate, more dreary cold Than a forsaken bird’s-nest filled with snow ‘Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine— Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know.

Every morning I look for you on the menu. Where are your eyes and lips, my side order of thighs? I’m so hungry for the sauce of you and the way your blouse opens like a flame.

Why this sudden at-homeness, all-out, all-in? I can, look, sink myself into you, glacierlike, you yourself slay your brothers: earlier than they I was with you, Snowed One. Throw your tropes in with the rest: Someone wants to know, why with God I was no different than with you, someone wants to drown in that, two books instead of lungs, someone who stabbed himself into you, bebreathes the cut, someone, he was the one closest to you, gets lost to himself, someone adorns your sex with your and his betrayal, maybe I was both

Roger a doleful widower, Full eighteen weeks had been, When he, to meet the milk-maid Nell Came smiling o’er the green. Blithe as a lad of seventeen, He thus accosted Nell; Give me your pail, I’ll carry it For you, if you think well. Says Nell, indeed my milking-pail You shall not touch, I vow; I’ve carried it myself before, And I can carry it now. So side by side they walked awhile, Then he at last did say; My inclination is to come And see you, if I may. Nell understood his meaning well, And briskly answered she; You may see me at any time, If you look where I be. Says he, but hear me yet awhile, I’ve something more to tell; I gladly would a sweetheart be Unto you, Mistress Nell. A sweetheart I don’t want, says Nell, Kind Sir, and if you do, Another you may seek, for I Am not the lass for you. When she had made him this reply, He’d nothing more to say But — Nelly, as good night to you, And homeward went his way.

Wild nights - Wild nights! Were I with thee Wild nights should be Our luxury! Futile - the winds - To a Heart in port - Done with the Compass - Done with the Chart! Rowing in Eden - Ah - the Sea! Might I but moor - tonight - In thee!

About twenty years ago Two girls came in where I worked— A bosomy English rose And her friend in specs I could talk to. Faces in those days sparked The whole shooting-match off, and I doubt If ever one had like hers: But it was the friend I took out, And in seven years after that Wrote over four hundred letters, Gave a ten-guinea ring I got back in the end, and met At numerous cathedral cities Unknown to the clergy. I believe I met beautiful twice. She was trying Both times (so I thought) not to laugh. Parting, after about five Rehearsals, was an agreement That I was too selfish, withdrawn, And easily bored to love. Well, useful to get that learnt. In my wallet are still two snaps Of bosomy rose with fur gloves on. Unlucky charms, perhaps.