1247 Love poems

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No Will-o'-th'-Wisp mis-light thee, Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee; But on, on thy way, Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee. Let not the dark thee cumber; What though the moon does slumber? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear without number. Then Julia let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me; And when I shall meet Thy silv'ry feet, My soul I'll pour into thee.

My bones tied up with his bones at night, him falling asleep in my arm after wrasslin me, calling it love in some kind of low whisper no dog would believe. I know his every smell, every way the littlest corner of him be stinkin underneath me, on top of me, while our children snore in the corner, then he creep out the way he creep in, before the cock crow at the sun. In daylight he act like we strangers, on the edge of the field, his little tan children of mine turning brown, playing more than working cause they his children, Missy look over at me while I look over at her, both of us got some kind of papers on this same man that say he own both of us, the man who owes us even we he die cause the Bible say you gotta look after the widow. But when he die it will be cause Missy and me locked eyes many days and hated him like one wronged woman made out of two, him standing up there on the porch studyin everything— his eyes lit up like he the Lord of all creation. hush now, night wind on my skin, hush now bird lost in trees, hush now, hungry moon

Just because there is music piped into the most false of revolutions it cannot clean these senses of slow wireless death crawling from a slick mirror 1/8th it’s normal size . . . Marty was found dead by the man literally blue 12 hours after falling out at the foot of the Cloisters with its millions in rare tapestry and its clear view of the Hudson and even testing your blue pills over and over to reverse my slow situations I wind up stretched across the couch still nodding with Sherlock Holmes examining our crushed veins Richard Brautigan, I don’t care who you are fucking in your clean California air I just don’t care though mine are more beautiful anyway (though more complex perhaps) and we have white flowers too right over our window on 10th St. like hands that mark tiny x’s across infinity day by day but even this crumb of life I eventually surface toward continues to nod as if I see you all thoughtlessly through a carefully inverted piece of tainted glass shattered in heaven and found on these streets

Give me more love or more disdain; The torrid, or the frozen zone, Bring equal ease unto my pain; The temperate affords me none; Either extreme, of love, or hate, Is sweeter than a calm estate. Give me a storm; if it be love, Like Danae in that golden show'r I swim in pleasure; if it prove Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture-hopes; and he's possess'd Of heaven, that's but from hell releas'd. Then crown my joys, or cure my pain; Give me more love, or more disdain.

Love, meet me in the green glen, Beside the tall elm-tree, Where the sweetbriar smells so sweet agen; There come with me. Meet me in the green glen. Meet me at the sunset Down in the green glen, Where we’ve often met By hawthorn-tree and foxes’ den, Meet me in the green glen. Meet me in the green glen, By sweetbriar bushes there; Meet me by your own sen, Where the wild thyme blossoms fair. Meet me in the green glen. Meet me by the sweetbriar, By the mole-hill swelling there; When the west glows like a fire God’s crimson bed is there. Meet me in the green glen.

I The grey sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i' the slushy sand. II Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross till a farm appears; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each!

Time was away and somewhere else, There were two glasses and two chairs And two people with the one pulse (Somebody stopped the moving stairs): Time was away and somewhere else. And they were neither up nor down; The stream’s music did not stop Flowing through heather, limpid brown, Although they sat in a coffee shop And they were neither up nor down. The bell was silent in the air Holding its inverted poise— Between the clang and clang a flower, A brazen calyx of no noise: The bell was silent in the air. The camels crossed the miles of sand That stretched around the cups and plates; The desert was their own, they planned To portion out the stars and dates: The camels crossed the miles of sand. Time was away and somewhere else. The waiter did not come, the clock Forgot them and the radio waltz Came out like water from a rock: Time was away and somewhere else. Her fingers flicked away the ash That bloomed again in tropic trees: Not caring if the markets crash When they had forests such as these, Her fingers flicked away the ash. God or whatever means the Good Be praised that time can stop like this, That what the heart has understood Can verify in the body’s peace God or whatever means the Good. Time was away and she was here And life no longer what it was, The bell was silent in the air And all the room one glow because Time was away and she was here.

Up stand six yellow jonquils in a glass/ the stems dark green, paling as they descend into the water/ seen through a thicket of baby’s breath, “a tall herb bearing numerous small, fragrant white flowers.” I have seen snow-drops larger. I bent my face down. To my delight they were convoluted like a rose. They had no smell, their white the grain of Biblical dust, which like the orchid itself is as common as hayseed. Their stems were thin and woody but as tightly compacted as a tree trunk, greenish rubbings showing in spots through the brown; wiry, forked twigs so close, they made an impassable bush which from a distance looked like mist. I could barely escape from that wood of particulars ... the jonquils whose air within was irradiated topaz, silent as in an ear, the stems leaning lightly against the glass, trisecting its inner circle in the water, crossed like reverent hands (ah, the imagination! Benedicite. Enter monks. Oops, sorry! Trespassing on Japanese space. Exit monks and all their lore from grace). I was moved by all this and murmured to my eyes, “Oh, Master!” and became engrossed again in that wood of particulars until I found myself out of character, singing “Tell me why you’ve settled here.” “Because my element is near.” and reflecting, “The eye of man cares. Yes!” But a familiar voice broke into the wood, a shade of mockery in it, and in her smile a fore-knowledge of something playful, something forbidden, something make-believe something saucy, something delicious about to pull me off guard: “Do you want to be my Cupid-o?” In fairness to her it must be said that her freckles are always friendly and that the anticipation of a prank makes them radiate across her face the way dandelions sprout in a field after a summer shower. “What makes you so fresh, my Wife of Bath? What makes you so silly, o bright hen?” “That’s for you to find out, old shoe, old shoe. That’s for you to find out if you can.” “Oh yeah!” (a mock chase and capture). “Commit her into jonquil’s custody. She’ll see a phallus in the pistil. Let her work it off there.” But I was now myself under this stringent force which ended, as real pastorals in time must, in bed, with the great eye of man, rolling.

You, functional space variants in voltage, the only light Transitory effect of Love several different lights Sustain Sustain them you sustain them.

At midnight, he can’t see the white picket fence or the tomato stalks, shriveled, in the garden, though he knows the patio, strewn with willow leaves, plumes of tall grasses, upright and still; and, as he peers into the yard, he senses a moment wicking into flame — walking up an arroyo, they gaze back across the Pojoaque valley, spot the glinting tin roofs, cottonwoods leafing along the curves of the river — a green tide surges in their arteries as well as the trees; tonight, spring infuses fall, and memory’s wick draws the liquefied wax of experience up into flame.