1247 Love poems

That which her slender waist confin’d, Shall now my joyful temples bind; No monarch but would give his crown, His arms might do what this has done. It was my heaven’s extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer, My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move. A narrow compass, and yet there Dwelt all that’s good, and all that’s fair; Give me but what this ribbon bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.

You're telling that story again about your childhood, when you were five years old and rode your blue bicycle from Copenhagen to Espergaerde, and it was night and snowing by the time you arrived, and your grandparents were so relieved to see you, because all day no one knew where you were, you had vanished. We sit at our patio table under a faded green umbrella, drinking wine in California's blue autumn, red stars of roses along the fence, trellising over the roof of our ramshackle garage. Too soon the wine glasses will be empty, our stories told, the house covered with pine needles the wind has shaken from the trees. Other people will live here. We will vanish like children who traveled far in the dark, stars of snow in their hair, riding to enchanted Espergaerde.

I have studied the tight curls on the back of your neck moving away from me beyond anger or failure your face in the evening schools of longing through mornings of wish and ripen we were always saying goodbye in the blood in the bone over coffee before dashing for elevators going in opposite directions without goodbyes. Do not remember me as a bridge nor a roof as the maker of legends nor as a trap door to that world where black and white clericals hang on the edge of beauty in five oclock elevators twitching their shoulders to avoid other flesh and now there is someone to speak for them moving away from me into tomorrows morning of wish and ripen your goodbye is a promise of lightning in the last angels hand unwelcome and warning the sands have run out against us we were rewarded by journeys away from each other into desire into mornings alone where excuse and endurance mingle conceiving decision. Do not remember me as disaster nor as the keeper of secrets I am a fellow rider in the cattle cars watching you move slowly out of my bed saying we cannot waste time only ourselves.

In the end she just wanted the house and a horse not much more what if  he didn’t own the house or worse not even a horse how do we separate the things from a man the man from the things is a man still the same without his reins here it rains every fifteen minutes it would be foolish to marry a man without an umbrella did Cinderella really love the prince or just the prints on the curtains in the ballroom once I went window- shopping but I didn’t want a window when do you know it’s time to get a new man one who can win more things at the fair I already have four stuffed pandas from the fair I won fair and square is it time to be less square to wear something more revealing in North and South

I know that he told that I snared his soul With a snare which bled him to death. And all the men loved him, And most of the women pitied him. But suppose you are really a lady, and have delicate tastes, And loathe the smell of whiskey and onions. And the rhythm of Wordsworth's "Ode" runs in your ears, While he goes about from morning till night Repeating bits of that common thing; "Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?" And then, suppose: You are a woman well endowed, And the only man with whom the law and morality Permit you to have the marital relation Is the very man that fills you with disgust Every time you think of it — while you think of it Every time you see him? That's why I drove him away from home To live with his dog in a dingy room Back of his office.

Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory— Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heaped for the belovèd's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.

After Rabelais' Gargantua and Pantagruel His Exterior toes like blue glass marbles nails like wax shavings feet like those of an elephant heels like narrow escapes soles like yellow sponges expanding in water legs like longitude and latitude knees like neon headlights thighs like open desert in a movie hips like a leaping horse a belly button like a luminescent watch pubic hair like frontier instances a penis like overnight mail balls large as a boar-hound’s seminal vesicles like tulip bulbs in a paper bag testicle muscles like rising chords an asshole like an undiscovered planet buttocks like a fleet antelope’s a sacrum like plein air painting a back like a chalked sidewalk a spinal column like a suspension bridge ribs like a bookcase a sternum like gum shoulder blades like kitchen tables a chest like a stuffed animal pectorals like floating bars of soap shoulders like observed facts arms like lassos fingers like sparklers wrist bones like a shipyard elbows like antidotes hands like passports an Adam’s apple like a great circle course a beard like Whitman’s a chin like a lichen-splotched rock ears like a full bathtub a nose like a birdcage nostrils like subway tunnels eyebrows like a captive audience a birthmark like a stop sign eyelids like a partial eclipse eyes like effervescence optical nerves like an orchid a forehead like a window display temples like singing crickets cheeks like party invitations jaws like handcuffs teeth like sweet tea a tongue like watercolors a mouth like a silk lampshade a face like a moving picture a head like a jar of pennies a skull like a geode skin with a black line running down it epidermis like a wool sweater whiskers like a street sweeper and hair like a cloudy day. His Interior cerebellum like a coffee grinder cerebral lobes like a house on fire cranial membranes like a construction-paper diorama optical nerves like a developing Polaroid cerebral fornix like colonial maps pineal gland like a giant pinecone circulatory system like cello strings eardrums like a still life with oranges forehead like television backbone like a fiddlehead fern nerve channels like transatlantic cables uvula like a propeller palate like a telegram saliva like a rotating sprinkler tonsils like action figures stomach like professional wrestling trachea like pirate radio throat like a bold headline lungs like plastic bags caught in a tree heart like a supernova pulmonary membranes like dirigibles arteries like rush hour diaphragm like the sound barrier liver like a public trial veins like Japanese characters spleen like a rogue bowels like surrealism guts like an inheritance small intestine like fake pearls large intestine like stolen currency colon like reliable data rectum like a fade-out kidneys like a barrier reef loins like a mowed lawn renal veins like gossip sperm glands like lava beds prostate like a fissure vent bladder like a fish bowl abdomen like a leather suitcase muscles like an assembly line tendons like pickpockets ligaments like safety pins bones like bones marrow like realism cartilage like strips of kelp lymph glands like sentimentality urine like sugar water blood like melted crayons and sperm like flies in amber. How He Acts If he laughs, it’s spontaneous combustion If he mutters, it’s a retreating glacier If he pouts, he sharpens his horn on stones If he jumps up and down, its hard to look away If he scratches himself, it’s with an aspen branch If he gets angry, he fights with tooth, horn, and heel If he spits, he fights his own kind If he blows his nose, it starts a riot If he sweats, it’s monsoons If he coughs, it unlocks doors in the next room If he argues, it’s over lost rituals If he sighs, it ruffles goldfinch feathers If he whistles, it’s overheard miles away If he snores, it’s over nostalgic reveries If he scowls, spears launch from his eyes If he snorts, it’s over gilt lion-head spouts If he shits, it’s historical documents If he belches, it’s a diary If he vomits, there’s finger-pointing all around If he walks, it’s Chaplin If he writes, it’s manifestos If he goes shopping, it’s for lentils and peas If he dances, it’s the Rites of Spring If he swears, he’s a ryght cruell beast If he drives, it’s among the Mountains of the Moon If he bathes, it’s in deceptive surfaces If he dresses, it’s a white linen suit If he wonders, it’s if his own reflection If he’s jealous, it’s of birthday parties If he lies, it’s about mathematical errors If he spends money, it’s on magic lanterns If he goes to the movies, it’s Vertigo If he listens to music, it’s the sound of running water If he falls, it’s down a slope of turf into the bushes If he recites, it’s from the Beast Epic of Alexandria If he is seduced, it’s a river of electricity If he is curious, he attempts to draw If he calls, it’s about weather patterns If he sings, it’s ‘Tyger, Tyger’ and if he escapes, he’s swift of foot.

My darling turns to poetry at night. What began as flirtation, an aside Between abstract expression and first light Now finds form as a silent, startled flight Of commas on her face — a breath, a word ... My darling turns to poetry at night. When rain inspires the night birds to create Rhyme and formal verse, stanzas can be made Between abstract expression and first light. Her heartbeat is a metaphor, a late Bloom of red flowers that refuse to fade. My darling turns to poetry at night. I watch her turn. I do not sleep. I wait For symbols, for a sign that fear has died Between abstract expression and first light. Her dreams have night vision, and in her sight Our bodies leave ghostprints on the bed. My darling turns to poetry at night Between abstract expression and first light.

My dear and only Love, I pray This noble world of thee Be govern'd by no other sway But purest monarchy; For if confusion have a part, Which virtuous souls abhor, And hold a synod in thy heart, I'll never love thee more. Like Alexander I will reign, And I will reign alone, My thoughts shall evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That puts it not unto the touch To win or lose it all. But I must rule and govern still, And always give the law, And have each subject at my will, And all to stand in awe. But 'gainst my battery, if I find Thou shunn'st the prize so sore As that thou sett'st me up a blind, I'll never love thee more. Or in the empire of thy heart, Where I should solely be, Another do pretend a part And dares to vie with me; Or if committees thou erect, And go on such a score, I'll sing and laugh at thy neglect, And never love thee more. But if thou wilt be constant then, And faithful of thy word, I'll make thee glorious by my pen And famous by my sword: I'll serve thee in such noble ways Was never heard before; I'll crown and deck thee all with bays, And love thee evermore.

My galley, chargèd with forgetfulness, Thorough sharp seas in winter nights doth pass 'Tween rock and rock; and eke mine en'my, alas, That is my lord, steereth with cruelness; And every owre a thought in readiness, As though that death were light in such a case. An endless wind doth tear the sail apace Of forced sighs and trusty fearfulness. A rain of tears, a cloud of dark disdain, Hath done the weared cords great hinderance; Wreathèd with error and eke with ignorance. The stars be hid that led me to this pain; Drownèd is Reason that should me comfort, And I remain despairing of the port.