1247 Love poems

Sweet Marie-Anne, she thought Being French, intellectual and brunette Entitled her, in any Parisian cafe To prompt service—and she was Probably right, (as the Policeman Later confirmed)—always provided The situation was normal, and She herself did not let the race down. So that afternoon, she said to me: “Sit by me,mon cheri, and order A drink!”—Well! The waiter came As was his duty, only to stand aghast At the unspeakable scandal of a Full-blooded French woman kissing This merde of a black man openly and Full on the lips!—Purebred son of The Galls, his first impulse Was to smash his tray at the black head And shriek out for help to the army of riot Police permanently stationed on the streets Of the Latin Quarter . . . —But He was a non-violent man, and besides, He had the customer’s tip to think of. So he turned to me, swallowing hard, and With controlled French politeness, he said: “M’sieur, please sit OPPOSITE the lady— “Yes, with the sacre table between you, face To face—Or mon cul, dammit, I shall Not serve you!”—And I was still wiping off Her lipstick, wondering what to do, when my lady Spoke, her face red with indignation: “But You’re mistaken! This one’s not like the rest, “Can’t you see! He’s a bon sauvage, and has Written such brilliant essays in impreccable French “On the phallus of—pardon, the merits of Negritude! Show him my dear!” she turned to me, “Show how well “You quote Molière, Corneille, and—” But the waiter Was already smiling and bowing: I had passed my test.

You are a land I can’t stand leaving and can’t not. My party ship is pulling out. We all have hats. I try to toot some notes you’ll understand but this was not our instrument or plan.

Remember when you love, from that same hour Your peace you put into your lover’s power; From that same hour from him you laws receive, And as he shall ordain, you joy, or grieve, Hope, fear, laugh, weep; Reason aloof does stand, Disabled both to act, and to command. Oh cruel fetters! rather wish to feel On your soft limbs, the galling weight of steel; Rather to bloody wounds oppose your breast. No ill, by which the body can be pressed You will so sensible a torment find As shackles on your captived mind. The mind from heaven its high descent did draw, And brooks uneasily any other law Than what from Reason dictated shall be. Reason, a kind of innate deity, Which only can adapt to ev’ry soul A yoke so fit and light, that the control All liberty excels; so sweet a sway, The same ’tis to be happy, and obey; Commands so wise, and with rewards so dressed, That the according soul replies “I’m blessed.”

Ye tender young virgins attend to my lay, My heart is divided in twain; My Collin is beautiful, witty, and gay, And Damon’s a kind-hearted swain. Whenever my lovely young Collin I meet, What pleasures arise in my breast; The dear gentle swain looks so charming and sweet, I fancy I love him the best. But when my dear Damon does to me complain, So tender, so loving and kind, My bosom is softened to hear the fond swain, And Collin slips out of my mind. Whenever my Damon repeats his soft tale, My heart overflows with delight; But when my dear Collin appears in the vale, I languish away at the sight. ’Tis Collin alone shall possess my fond heart, Now Damon for ever adieu; But can I? — I cannot from Damon thus part! He’s loved me so long, and so true. My heart to my Damon I’ll instantly bind, And on him will fix all my care; But, O should I be to my Collin unkind, He surely will die with despair. How happy, how happy with Damon I’d been, If Collin I never had knew; As happy with Collin, if I’d never seen My Damon, so tender and true.

If you’re love’s lover and look for love cold smoke the dog called bashfulness beware for your conversation is a hindrancy this poem isn’t interested I’ll bill you Why’d the mad one make madness in a thousand works that wild one make a thousand wild works of wiles? now he disrobes, now he’s so fast now he likes intoxicating substances and wants to die Since a spider spies and eats a whole deer behold what the web of Zoroastrianism will do! Since the love of nighties had positive market outlook, how will it be with “He took His servant in nighties?” Have you not seen the book of Waisa and Ramin? Have you not heard the tales of Wamiq and ‘Adra? You hike your denim so you don’t wear water do you have to pull that bridge stunt over & over? The way of love is filth and I’m drunk the storm storms—how should a storm calm? you’ll be the jewel in the ring of lovers If you’re insistent on assuming the consequence of jewelry so, say it, how does the earth hurt if we fuck? what gifts would be unreasonable? it’s not cool to beat a drum when yr. in bed, son, and put your erection in the middle of the desert Listen to the sounds of fucking and coming, under the sky, which “Orientals, perhaps owing to some optical peculiarity, see as green.” When you’re drunk take your clothes off Heaven is great, Orion is confused how the world is high and killed by love which is high and killed! When the sun comes out, where do nighties hide? When the come comes, where does the pent go? I’m done. Speak to me, soul’s soul’s soul From desire of whom from whose desire every throat was cut

I have seen eternity and it is like this, a man and woman dancing in a bar in a poor street on an unswept floor. It clings and plots and is desperate, at a point between violence and abjection, between warmth and agoraphobic fear. Let me reverse this and accept the fear. Let me drop all objections to abjection, since life itself  is desperate and has to tread the unswept floor carefully, lovingly, while the bar hovers in eternity. Like this.

When the world is reduced to a single dark wood for our two pairs of dazzled eyes — to a beach for two faithful children — to a musical house for our clear understanding — then I shall find you. When there is only one old man on earth, lonely, peaceful, handsome, living in unsurpassed luxury, then I am at your feet. When I have realized all your memories, — when I am the girl who can tie your hands, — then I will stifle you. When we are very strong, who draws back? or very happy, who collapses from ridicule? When we are very bad, what can they do to us. Dress up, dance, laugh. I will never be able to throw Love out of the window. — Comrade of mine, beggar girl, monstrous child! How little you care about the wretched women, and the machinations and my embarrassment. Join us with your impossible voice, oh your voice! the one flatterer of this base despair. *    *    * A dark morning in July. The taste of ashes in the air, the smell of wood sweating in the hearth, steeped flowers, the devastation of paths, drizzle over the canals in the fields, why not already playthings and incense? *    *    * I stretched out ropes from spire to spire; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance. *    *    * The high pond is constantly streaming. What witch will rise up against the white sunset? What purple flowers are going to descend? *    *    * While public funds disappear in brotherly celebrations, a bell of pink are rings in the clouds. *    *    * Arousing a pleasant taste of Chinese ink, a black powder gently rains on my night, — I lower the jets of the chandelier, throw myself on the bed, and turning toward thedark, I see you, O my daughters and queens! *    *    *

You're dreaming of Cratoids, Armpullers, the Blownose Dragon. Who knows what Anna Brichtova dreamed about, the girl who comes looking for us tonight with her mosaic of colored paper: her house with its red roof, some trees on a green lawn, the sky—outside, the concentration camp. This is the real gift I brought back from Prague without telling you. It was with me on the train the morning I thought I was living in hell: Stuttgart, or south of there, amid a drone of people working—they don't know at what or for whom, but they're working, pressing keys, sending messages to unknown persons through the air. Nothing but eyes and fingers, nothing but one day after the next, interminable passage of a time that doesn't vary, that belongs forever to others, to something outside themselves, and the fear, the hatred of one pariah for another, this brawl of lost souls, of new slaves. The Great Drinker of Beer, the Woman Staring into Space, Mazinger Z: these were my traveling companions. Who knows what Anna Brichtova dreamed about, or what you're dreaming now, or how you children see the world. Will you find, among your games, the game that saves us? It's what we all are hoping as we watch you sleep.

No, I wasn’t meant to love and be loved. If I’d lived longer, I would have waited longer. Knowing you are faithless keeps me alive and hungry. Knowing you faithful would kill me with joy. Delicate are you, and your vows are delicate, too, so easily do they break. You are a laconic marksman. You leave me not dead but perpetually dying. I want my friends to heal me, succor me. Instead, I get analysis. Conflagrations that would make stones drip blood are campfires compared to my anguish. Two-headed, inescapable anguish!— Love’s anguish or the anguish of time. Another dark, severing, incommunicable night. Death would be fine, if I only died once. I would have liked a solitary death, not this lavish funeral, this grave anyone can visit. You are mystical, Ghalib, and, also, you speak beautifully. Are you a saint, or just drunk as usual?

Tell me no more of minds embracing minds, And hearts exchang’d for hearts; That spirits spirits meet, as winds do winds, And mix their subt’lest parts; That two unbodied essences may kiss, And then like Angels, twist and feel one Bliss. I was that silly thing that once was wrought To practise this thin love; I climb’d from sex to soul, from soul to thought; But thinking there to move, Headlong I rolled from thought to soul, and then From soul I lighted at the sex again. As some strict down-looked men pretend to fast, Who yet in closets eat; So lovers who profess they spirits taste, Feed yet on grosser meat; I know they boast they souls to souls convey, Howe’r they meet, the body is the way. Come I will undeceive thee, they that tread Those vain aerial ways, Are like young heirs and alchemists misled To waste their wealth and days, For searching thus to be for ever rich, They only find a med’cine for the itch.