1247 Love poems

Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

I never said I loved you, John: Why will you tease me, day by day, And wax a weariness to think upon With always "do" and "pray"? You know I never loved you, John; No fault of mine made me your toast: Why will you haunt me with a face as wan As shows an hour-old ghost? I dare say Meg or Moll would take Pity upon you, if you'd ask: And pray don't remain single for my sake Who can't perform that task. I have no heart?—Perhaps I have not; But then you're mad to take offence That I don't give you what I have not got: Use your common sense. Let bygones be bygones: Don't call me false, who owed not to be true: I'd rather answer "No" to fifty Johns Than answer "Yes" to you. Let's mar our pleasant days no more, Song-birds of passage, days of youth: Catch at to-day, forget the days before: I'll wink at your untruth. Let us strike hands as hearty friends; No more, no less: and friendship's good: Only don't keep in view ulterior ends, And points not understood In open treaty. Rise above Quibbles and shuffling off and on: Here's friendship for you if you like; but love,— No, thank you, John.

I went to my mother’s room at 13 past midnight, and told her I was dying. I’d wet the bed, I’d had this crazy dream, about a sexy neighbor I’d been spying on. Well, I didn’t tell her that. I mean, the day before she asked who I was eyeing when I didn’t want to go outside for ice cream. The truck was parked out front, and she was buying, but I couldn’t join the other screaming kids — not with Lance applying suntan lotion to his muscled teenage skin. Stretched out on a beach towel in his front yard, his body mystified me, while mine seemed happy to defy me. My dick would tent my cut-offs at the sight of him. I wore two pair of underwear, but even then I thought I’d burst right through the seams. So I didn’t dare tell mother what I’d dreamed, though she did think to ask me. I’d have been a fool to tell her that. She thought my blush was any boy’s, puzzling out his sexuality, but I swear it was as much because the fantasies were always other boys. some from my baseball team, some the roughnecks at school, but usually Lance. He was flying naked in the dream I had that night, the one that made me think that God was mad and killing me. I was lying (also naked — and hard as cinder block) on the beach towel I’d seen him lay across the grass the day before. I tried to understand the signs implying I might turn into some kind of freaky thing. But it would have been cruel to tell my mother that, especially when she was already crying, and trying not to laugh at the same time, when I showed her what came out of me. She apologized for throwing such a scene, said I was growing up to be a man, that’s all it meant, said it was normal for a boy my age’s thing to start uprising like a metal beam. She apologized again that I didn’t have my dad around to train an 11-year old boy in the ways of puberty. I was as stupefied as I’ve ever been. She never mentioned him. And I have never turned a deeper red than I did then, at 26 past midnight, when my mother helped me change my sheets, and said the next day she’d teach me to wash them. And then she said she’d ask the man across the street to talk to me. Would that be okay? Or would I feel more comfortable with someone younger, like his son?

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks; The sun is spent, and now his flasks Send forth light squibs, no constant rays; The world's whole sap is sunk; The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the next spring; For I am every dead thing, In whom Love wrought new alchemy. For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness; He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not. All others, from all things, draw all that's good, Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have; I, by Love's limbec, am the grave Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood Have we two wept, and so Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow To be two chaoses, when we did show Care to aught else; and often absences Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses. But I am by her death (which word wrongs her) Of the first nothing the elixir grown; Were I a man, that I were one I needs must know; I should prefer, If I were any beast, Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest, And love; all, all some properties invest; If I an ordinary nothing were, As shadow, a light and body must be here. But I am none; nor will my sun renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun At this time to the Goat is run To fetch new lust, and give it you, Enjoy your summer all; Since she enjoys her long night's festival, Let me prepare towards her, and let me call This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

Hurrah! to them who do nothing see nothing feel nothing whose hearts are fitted with prudence like a diaphragm across womb’s beckoning doorway to bar the scandal of seminal rage. I’m told the owl too wears wisdom in a ring of defense round each vulnerable eye securing it fast against the darts of sight. Long ago in the Middle East Pontius Pilate openly washed involvement off his white hands and became famous. (Of all the Roman officials before him and after who else is talked about every Sunday in the Apostles’ Creed?) And talking of apostles that other fellow Judas wasn’t such a fool either; though much maligned by succeeding generations the fact remains he alone in that motley crowd had sense enough to tell a doomed movement when he saw one and get out quick, a nice little packet bulging his coat pocket into the bargain—sensible fellow. September 1970

Because a little reprieve, a little hope (even for those whom I love) would exculpate the world of  its actions, I hold to logic steadfast. Belief, without knowledge, dislodges perception of all the empirical world — (even for you, mom and dad). Know that if, for you, on some filthy lie I could wish for the mind’s persistence after death, I would say no.

How she let her long hair down over her shoulders, making a love cave around her face. Return and return again. How when the lamplight was lowered she pressed against him, twining her fingers in his. Return and return again. How their legs swam together like dolphins and their toes played like little tunnies. Return and return again. How she sat beside him cross-legged, telling him stories of her childhood. Return and return again. How she closed her eyes when his were open, how they breathed together, breathing each other. Return and return again. How they fell into slumber, their bodies curled together like two spoons. Return and return again. How they went together to Otherwhere, the fairest land they had ever seen. Return and return again. O best of all nights, return and return again.

We lived in province snow range and something that we uncover is like living in one Arizona room when we discover all we owe to darkness we never really know. Tomorrow is the national holiday for independence— no more left. For the first time we see the mountains with snow on them pulling away from the mountains and clouds.

O , she says (because she loves to say O ),

And now, my Marian, from its shackles free, My wearied fancy turns for ease to thee; To thee, my compass through life’s varied stream, My constant object, and unfailing theme. Torn from the bosom of my soul’s repose, And self-devoted to surrounding woes, Oft o’er my solitary thoughts I brood— (For passing crowds to me are solitude)— Catch thy loved image, on thy beauties dwell, Improved by graces which no tongue can tell, The look which I have seen, by love endeared, The voice to love attuned, which I have heard. Or rapt in thoughts of higher worth, adore Thy virtues, drawn by mem’ry’s faithful store; Or court, as now obsequious at her shrine, The Muse, unkind on ev’ry theme but thine. Nor foreign deem from such a frame of mind This tale, to meet thy gracious ear designed, To me, and to my state, alike belong The subject, and the moral, of my song, ’Tis true, no serpent of envenomed breath Hath stung my love, ere yet a bride, to death; And, O! may Heav’n for many years to come, Preserve her life from Nature’s final doom! Yet is she lost to me, in substance dead, With half the traversed globe between us spread; Dreadful transition! in one moment’s cost My soul’s whole wealth I saw, and held, and lost. The Fate and Silence closed life’s blissful scene, Its being past, as it had never been. The sad rememberance only now remains, And by contrasting aggravates my pains. Hope still attendant and delusive stands, And points, but coldly points, to distant lands; Gilds their faint summits with her flatt’ring ray; But deserts, rocks, and seas obstruct the way; And age, and sickness, and the clouds that teem With unknown thunders, through the prospect gleam. Ah me! no Gods, nor Angels now descend, The sons of men in pity to befriend! My sufferings else might some kind spirit move To give me back on terms the wife I love: And more than half my life would I resign, For health, her purchase, and herself, for mine, Borne by the Pow’rs of Air, or she should rise, Or I rejoin her through the distant skies. No more my thoughts in solitude should mourn My sweet companion from my presence torn; Nor rigid duty force me to remain, And see her sails diminish on the main. To her my destined hours, though few, I’d give, And while I lived, a life of bliss I’d live.