1247 Love poems

Highlight Actions Enable or disable annotations Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar Pale . . . Shalimar The epigraph is from a 12-line poem entitled “Kashmiri Song.” There are allusions to “Kashmiri Song” throughout this poem. The Shalimar Garden, in Lahore, Pakistan, was built by the Mughal Emperor Jahangir in 1619 for his wife Nur Jahan. — Laurence Hope Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell Where . . . spell A direct quotation of line 2 of “Kashmiri Song” tonight? Whom else from rapture’s road will you expel tonight? Those “Fabrics of Cashmere—” “to make Me beautiful—” Fabrics . . . tell The quotations are from Emily Dickinson’s poem that begins, “I am ashamed – I hide – / What right have I – to be a Bride -”. Lines 7-9 of her poem read: “Me to adorn – How – tell –/ Trinket – to make Me beautiful –/ Fabrics of Cashmere –” “Trinket”—to gem—“Me to adorn—How tell”—tonight? Fabrics . . . tell The quotations are from Emily Dickinson’s poem that begins, “I am ashamed – I hide – / What right have I – to be a Bride -”. Lines 7-9 of her poem read: Me to adorn – How – tell – / Trinket – to make Me beautiful – / Fabrics of Cashmere – I beg for haven: Prisons, let open your gates— A refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight. God’s vintage loneliness has turned to vinegar— All the archangels—their wings frozen—fell tonight. Lord, cried out the idols,Don’t let us be broken; Only we can convert the infidel tonight.

There is a music to this sadness. In a room somewhere two people dance. I do not mean to say desire is everything. A cup half empty is simply half a cup. How many times have we been there and not there? I have seen waitresses slip a night's worth of tips into the jukebox, their eyes saying yes to nothing in particular. Desire is not the point. Tonight your name is a small thing falling through sadness. We wake alone in houses of sticks, of straw, of wind. How long have we stood at the end of the pier watching that water going? In the distance the lights curve along Tampa Bay, a wishbone ready to snap and the night riding on that half promise, a half moon to light the whole damned sky. This is the way things are with us. Sometimes we love almost enough. We say I can do this, I can do more than this

ROXANA from the court retiring late, Sigh'd her soft sorrows at St. JAMES's gate: Such heavy thoughts lay brooding in her breast, Not her own chairmen w th more weight opprest; They groan the cruel load they're doom'd to bear ; She in these gentler sounds express'd her care. " Was it for this, that I these Roses wear, " For this new-set my Jewels for my hair ? " Ah ! Princess ! with what zeal have I pursu'd ! " Almost forgot the duty of a Prude. " Thinking I never cou'd attend too soon, " I've miss'd my prayers, to get me dress'd by noon. " For Thee, ah ! what for Thee did I resign ? " My Pleasures, Passions, all that e'er was mine. " I sacrific'd both Modesty and Ease, " Left Operas, and went to filthy Plays ; " Double entendres shock'd my tender ear, " Yet even this for Thee I chose to bear. " In glowing youth, when nature bids be gay, " And ev'ry joy of life before me lay, " By honour prompted, and by pride restrain'd, " The pleasures of the young my soul disdain'd : " Sermons I sought, and with a mien severe " Censur'd my neighbours, and said daily pray'r. " Alas ! how chang'd! — with the same sermon mien " That once I pray'd, the What-d'ye call't I've seen. " Ah ! cruel Princess, for thy sake I've lost " That reputation which so dear had cost : " I, who avoided ev'ry publick place, " When bloom, and beauty bid me show my face ; " Now near Thee constant ev'ry night abide " With never-failing duty by thy side, " Myself and daughters standing on a row, " To all the foreigners a goodly show ! " Oft had your drawing-room been sadly thin, " And merchants wives close by the chair had been seen ; " Had not I amply fill'd the empty space, " And sav'd your Highness from the dire disgrace. " Yet COQUETILLA's artifice prevails, " When all my merit and my duty fails : " That COQUETILLA, whose deluding airs " Corrupts our virgins, and our youth ensnares ; " So sunk her character, so lost her fame, " Scarce visited before your Highness came ; " Yet for the Bed-chamber 'tis Her you chuse, " When Zeal and Fame and Virtue you refuse. " Ah ! worthy choice ! not one of all your train " Whom censure blasts not, and dishonours stain. " Let the nice hind now suckle dirty pigs, " And the proud pea-hen snatch the cuckoo's eggs ! " Let IRIS leave her paint, and own her age, " And grave SUFFOLKIA wed a giddy page ! " A greater miracle is daily view'd, " A virtuous Princess with a court so lewd. " I know thee, Court ! with all thy treach'rous wiles, " Thy false caresses and undoing smiles ! " Ah ! Princess, learn'd in all the courtly arts " To cheat our hopes, and yet to gain our hearts. " Large lovely bribes are the great statesman's aim ; " And the neglected patriot follows fame. " The Prince is ogled ; some the King pursue ; " But your ROXANA only follows YOU. " Despis'd ROXANA, cease, and try to find " Some other, since the Princess proves unkind : " Perhaps it is not hard to find at court " If not a greater, a more firm support.

SILLIANDER and PATCH. THOU so many favours hast receiv'd, Wondrous to tell, and hard to be believ'd, Oh ! H—— D, to my lays attention lend, Hear how two lovers boastingly contend ; Like thee successful, such their bloomy youth, Renown'd alike for gallantry and truth. St. JAMES's bell had toll'd some wretches in, (As tatter'd riding-hoods alone could sin) The happier sinners now their charms put out , And to their manteaus their complexions suit : The opera queens had finish'd half their faces, And city-dames allready taken places ; Fops of all kinds to see the Lion, run ; The beauties stay till the first act's begun, And beaux step home to put fresh linen on. No well-dress'd youth in coffee-house remain'd, But pensive PATCH, who on the window lean'd ; And SILLIANDER, that alert and gay, First pick'd his teeth, and then began to say. SILLIANDER. Why all these sighs ? ah ! why so pensive grown ? Some cause there is that thus you sit alone. Does hapless passion all this sorrow move ? Or dost thou envy where the ladies love ? PATCH. If, whom they love, my envy must pursue, 'Tis sure, at least, I never envy You. SILLIANDER. No, I'm unhappy, You are in the right, 'Tis You they favour, and 'tis Me they slight. Yet I could tell, but that I hate to boast, A club of ladies where 'tis Me they toast. PATCH. Toasting does seldom any favour prove ; Like us, they never toast the thing they love. A certain Duke one night my health begun ; With chearful pledges round the room it run, Till the young SILVIA press'd to drink it too, Started, and vow'd she knew not what to do : What, drink a fellow's health ! she dy'd with shame : Yet blush'd whenever she pronounc'd my name. SILLIANDER. Ill fates pursue me, may I never find The dice propitious, or the ladies kind, If fair Miss FLIPPY's fan I did not tear, And one from me she condescends to wear. PATCH. Women are always ready to receive ; 'Tis then a favour when the sex will give. A lady (but she is too great to name) Beauteous in person, spotless is her fame, With gentle strugglings let me force this ring ; Another day may give another thing. SILLIANDER. I cou'd say something — see this billet-doux — And as for presents — look upon my shoe — These buckles were not forc'd, nor half a theft, But a young Countess fondly made the gift. PATCH. My Countess is more nice, more artful too, Affects to fly that I may fierce pursue : This snuff-box which I begg'd, she still deny'd, And when I strove to snatch it, seem'd to hide ; She laugh'd and fled, and as I sought to seize, With affectation cramm'd it down her stays : Yet hop'd she did not place it there unseen, I press'd her breasts, and pull'd it from between. SILLIANDER. Last night, as I stood ogling of her Grace, Drinking delicious poison from her face, The soft enchantress did that face decline, Nor ever rais'd her eyes to meet with mine ; With sudden art some secret did pretend, Lean'd cross two chairs to whisper to a friend, While the stiff whalebone with the motion rose, And thousand beauties to my sight expose. PATCH. Early this morn — (but I was ask'd to come) I drank bohea in CÆLIA's dressing-room : Warm from her bed, to me alone within, Her night-gown fasten'd with a single pin ; Her night-cloaths tumbled with resistless grace, And her bright hair play'd careless round her face ; Reaching the kettle, made her gown unpin, She wore no waistcoat, and her shift was thin. SILLIANDER. See TITIANA driving to the park, Hark ! let us follow, 'tis not yet too dark ; In her all beauties of the spring are seen, Her cheeks are rosy, and her mantle green. PATCH. See, TINTORETTA to the opera goes ! Haste, or the crowd will not permit our bows ; In her the glory of the heav'ns we view, Her eyes are star-like, and her mantle blue. SILLIANDER. What colour does in CÆLIA's stockings shine ? Reveal that secret, and the prize is thine. PATCH. What are her garters ! tell me if you can ; I'll freely own thee for the happier man. Thus PATCH continued his heroic strain, While SILLIANDER but contends in vain. After a conquest so important gain'd, Unrival'd PATCH in ev'ry ruelle reign'd.

DANCINDA . " NO, fair DANCINDA, no ; you strive in vain " To calm my care and mitigate my pain ; " If all my sighs, my cares , can fail to move, " Ah ! sooth me not with fruitless vows of love." Thus STREPHON spoke. DANCINDA thus reply'd : What must I do to gratify your pride ? Too well you know (ungrateful as thou art) How much you triumph in this tender heart ; What proof of love remains for me to grant ? Yet still you teize me with some new complaint. Oh ! would to heav'n ! — but the fond wish is vain — Too many favours had not made it plain ! But such a passion breaks thro' all disguise, Love reddens on my cheek and wishes in my eyes. Is't not enough (inhuman and unkind !) I own the secret conflict of my mind ? You cannot know what secret pain I prove, When I with burning blushes own I love. You see my artless joy at your approach, I sigh, I faint, I tremble at your touch ; And in your absence all the world I shun ; I hate mankind, and curse the cheering sun. Still as I fly, ten thousand swains pursue ; Ten thousand swains I sacrifice to you. I shew you all my heart without disguise : But these are tender proofs that you despise — I see too well what wishes you pursue ; You wou'd not only conquer, but undo : You, cruel victor, weary of your flame, Would seek a cure in my eternal shame ; And not content my honour to subdue, Now strive to triumph o'er my virtue too. Oh ! LOVE, a God indeed to womankind, Whose arrows burn me and whose fetters bind, Avenge thy altars, vindicate thy fame, And blast these traytors that profane thy name, Who by pretending to thy sacred fire, Raise cursed trophies to impure desire. Have you forgot with what ensnaring art You first seduc'd this fond uncautious heart ? Then as I fled, did you not kneeling cry, Turn, cruel beauty ; whither wou'd you fly ? Why all these Doubts ? why this distrustful fear ? No impious wishes shall offend your ear : Nor ever shall my boldest hopes pretend Above the title of a tender friend ; Blest, if my lovely Goddess will permit My humble vow, thus sighing at her feet. The tyrant Love that in my Bosom reigns, The God himself submits to wear your chains ; You shall direct his course, his ardour tame, And check the fury of his wildest flame. Unpractis'd youth is easily deceiv'd ; Sooth'd by such sounds, I listen'd and believ'd : Now quite forgot that soft submissive fear : You dare to ask what I must blush to hear. Cou'd I forget the honour of my race, And meet your wishes, fearless of disgrace ; Cou'd passion o'er my tender youth prevail, And all my mother's pious maxims fail ; Yet to preserve your heart (which still must be, False as it is, for ever dear to me) This fatal proof of love I wou'd not give, Which you contemn the moment you receive. The wretched she, who yields to guilty joys A man may pity, but he must despise. Your ardour ceas'd, I then shou'd see you shun The wretched victim by your arts undone. Yet if I cou'd that cold indifference bear, What more wou'd strike me with the last despair, With this reflection wou'd my soul be torn, To know I merited your cruel scorn. Has Love no pleasures free from guilt or fear ? Pleasures less fierce, more lasting, more sincere ? Thus let us gently kiss and fondly gaze, Love is a child, and like a child it plays. O STREPHON, if you wou'd continue just, If Love be something more than brutal lust, Forbear to ask what I must still deny, This bitter pleasure, this destructive joy, So closely follow'd by the dismal train Of cutting shame, and guilt's heart-piercing pain. She paus'd ; and fix'd her eyes upon her fan ; He took a pinch of snuff, and thus began ; Madam, if Love — but he cou'd say no more, For Mademoiselle came rapping at the door. The dangerous moments no adieus afford ; Begone, she cries, I'm sure I hear my Lord. The lover starts from his unfinish'd loves, To snatch his hat, and seek his scatter'd gloves : The sighing dame to meet her dear prepares, While STREPHON cursing, slips down the back-stairs.

Then there was the time I looked directly into the face of the life I thought I was missing, of love. I used to think to be not alone meant never having to walk through the high wheat or struggle in the water. Not having to decide not to fling from some height. Once, the two of us rode one bicycle. I wore a straw hat and perched on the handlebars and beside us the sea oats swayed like skirts and I heard a trilling in the crabgrass. The sidewalks were bleached as Grecian stone as we rode past the fish shop smelling of morning— salt, bread, limes, men. Riding in front, it was such that I could not be heard always, at least not the first time for you pedaled into the wind and my hair was a ribbon in your eyes. I said I thought bougainvillea was a stoic plant and then had to say twice,no,stoic! and then no,the bougainvillea! and then you said easily it was nothing like that at all. But our future was clear enough when I asked if you saw the clean aprons of those men (how much longer you think until they clean the fish? did you see how white those aprons were? did you see?)

I want to reach you— in that city where the snow only shimmers silver for a few hours. It has taken seventeen years. This trip, these characters patterned in black ink, curves catching on the page like hinges, this weave of letters fraying like the lines on my palm, all broken paths. Outside, no snow. Just the slow pull of brown on the hills, umber dulling to a bruise until the city is just a memory of stained teeth, the burn of white marble to dusk, cows standing on the edges like a dust cloud gaining weight after days of no rain. Asleep in the hot berth, my parents sway in a dance, the silence broken by scrape of tin, hiss of tea, and underneath, the constant clatter of wheels beating steel tracks over and over: to the city of white marble, to the city of goats, tobacco fields, city of dead hands, a mantra of my grandmother's— her teeth eaten away by betel leaves—the story of how Shah Jahan had cut off all the workers' hands after they built the Taj, so they could never build again. I dreamt of those hands for weeks before the trip, weeks even before I stepped off the plane, thousands of useless dead flowers drying to sienna, silent in their fall. Every night, days before, I dreamt those hands climbing over the iron gate of my grandparents' house, over grate and spikes, some caught in the groove between its sharpened teeth, others biting where they pinched my skin.

His car rolls up to the curb, you switch your mood, which doll to bring and rush out again on the sliding steps of your shoes half-on, forgetting to zip your new pink coat in thirty degrees, teeth and hair not brushed, already passing the birch, mid-way between us, too far to hear my fading voice calling my rope of reminders as I lean out in my robe, another Saturday morning you’re pulled toward his smile, his gifts, sweeping on two flattened rafts from mine to his, your fleeting wave down the rapids of the drive.

Three sang of love together: one with lips Crimson, with cheeks and bosom in a glow, Flushed to the yellow hair and finger tips; And one there sang who soft and smooth as snow Bloomed like a tinted hyacinth at a show; And one was blue with famine after love, Who like a harpstring snapped rang harsh and low The burden of what those were singing of. One shamed herself in love; one temperately Grew gross in soulless love, a sluggish wife; One famished died for love. Thus two of three Took death for love and won him after strife; One droned in sweetness like a fattened bee: All on the threshold, yet all short of life.

She was in love with the same danger everybody is. Dangerous as it is to love a stranger, she was in love. With that same danger an adulteress risks a husband’s anger. Stealthily death enters a house: she was in love with that danger. Everybody is dangerous.