1247 Love poems

‘The myrtle bush grew shady Down by the ford.’ ‘Is it even so?’ said my lady. ‘Even so!’ said my lord. ‘The leaves are set too thick together For the point of a sword. ‘The arras in your room hangs close, No light between! You wedded one of those that see unseen.’ ‘Is it even so?’ said the King’s Majesty. ‘Even so!’ said the Queen.

When I see you, who were so wise and cool, Gazing with silly sickness on that fool You’ve given your love to, your adoring hands Touch his so intimately that each understands, I know, most hidden things; and when I know Your holiest dreams yield to the stupid bow Of his red lips, and that the empty grace Of those strong legs and arms, that rosy face, Has beaten your heart to such a flame of love, That you have given him every touch and move, Wrinkle and secret of you, all your life, —Oh! then I know I’m waiting, lover-wife, For the great time when love is at a close, And all its fruit’s to watch the thickening nose And sweaty neck and dulling face and eye, That are yours, and you, most surely, till you die! Day after day you’ll sit with him and note The greasier tie, the dingy wrinkling coat; As prettiness turns to pomp, and strength to fat, And love, love, love to habit! And after that, When all that’s fine in man is at an end, And you, that loved young life and clean, must tend A foul sick fumbling dribbling body and old, When his rare lips hang flabby and can’t hold Slobber, and you’re enduring that worst thing, Senility’s queasy furtive love-making, And searching those dear eyes for human meaning, Propping the bald and helpless head, and cleaning A scrap that life’s flung by, and love’s forgotten,— Then you’ll be tired; and passion dead and rotten; And he’ll be dirty, dirty! O lithe and free And lightfoot, that the poor heart cries to see, That’s how I’ll see your man and you!— But you —Oh, when that time comes, you’ll be dirty too!

Your jewel box of white balsa strips and bleached green Czechoslovakian rushes stands open where you keep it shelved in the bathroom. Morning and evening I see you comb its seawrack tangle of shell, stone, wood, glass, metal, bone, seed for the bracelet, earring, necklace, brooch or ring you need. Here's brass from Nepal, a bangle of African ivory and chased silver for your wrist, a twist of polished sandalwood seeds, deep scarlet, gleaming like the fossil tears of some long-gone exotic bird with ruby crest, sapphire claws. Adriatic blue, this lapis lazuli disc will brighten the pale of your throat, and on this small alabaster seal-ring the phantom of light inscribes a woman tilting an amphora, clear as day, almost as old as Alexander. To the ebony velvet brim of your hat you'll pin a perfect oval of abalone, a dark-whorled underwater sheen to lead us to work this foggy February morning. We'll leave your nest of brightness in the bathroom between the mirror and the laundry-basket where my dirty shirts sprawl like drunks amongst your skirts and blouses. Lace- work frills and rainbow silk pastels, your panties foam over the plastic brim, and on the shower-rail your beige and talc-white bras dangle by one strap like the skinned Wicklow rabbits I remember hanging from hooks outside the victuallers' big windows. We've been domesticated strangely, love, according to our lights: when you walk by me now, naked and not quite dry from the shower, I flatten my two hands on your wet flank, and wonder at the tall column of flesh you are, catching the faint morning light that polishes you pale as alabaster. You're warm, and stay a moment still like that, as though we were two planets pausing in their separate orbits, pendant, on the point of crossing. For one pulse-stroke they take stock of their bodies before returning to the journey. Dressed, you select a string of chipped amber to hang round your neck, a pair of star-shaped earrings, a simple ring of jet-black lustrous onyx. Going down the stairs and out to the fogbound street, you light my way.

The jewelled steps are already quite white with dew, It is so late that the dew soaks my gauze stockings, And I let down the crystal curtain And watch the moon through the clear autumn.

John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw, but blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo! John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And monie a cantie day, John, We've had wi' ane anither; Now we maun totter down, John, And hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo!

What never comes when called. What hides when held. Guest most at home where least expected. Vagrant balm of Gilead. What, soon as here, becomes the body’s native ground and, soon as not, its banishment. Coming and going, indifferent, magisterial. My lovely daughter— walking me to the car to say goodbye the day I left to keep watch at my brother’s bedside— suddenly singing “I feel pretty, oh so pretty” as she raised her arms up in a loose oval over her head and pirouetted all along the walk. Savage and magisterial— the joy of it, the animal candor of each arabesque, each leaping turn and counterturn, her voice now wobbly with laughter, “And I pity any girl who isn’t me tonight.” Savagely beautiful, not so much like the lion that the camera freezes in mid- pounce, claws outstretched for the stumbling antelope, as like the herd escaping that the camera pans to, zig- zagging, swerving as one, their leaping strides now leaping higher, faster, even after, it seems, the fear subsides— after the fear and the relief they keep on running for nothing but the joy of running, though it could be any one of them is running from its fallen mother or father, sister or brother, across the wide savanna, under a bright sun into fresher grass.

Joy of my life, full oft for loving you I bless my lot, that was so lucky placed: But then the more your own mishap I rue, That are so much by so mean love embased. For had the equal heavens so much you graced In this as in the rest, ye might invent Some heavenly wit, whose verse could have enchased Your glorious name in golden monument. But since ye deign’d so goodly to relent To me your thrall, in whom is little worth, That little that I am shall all be spent In setting your immortal praises forth; Whose lofty argument uplifting me Shall lift you up unto an high degree.

When beauty breaks and falls asunder I feel no grief for it, but wonder. When love, like a frail shell, lies broken, I keep no chip of it for token. I never had a man for friend Who did not know that love must end. I never had a girl for lover Who could discern when love was over. What the wise doubt, the fool believes— Who is it, then, that love deceives?

These, his last, employers, dead Inexplicably and Unavailable to praise his diligence, Cast a shadow on his prospects, and he sighed. Before all this, he Would have lit a pipe and mused on the past In aromatic mauve tobacco...Shadows Baffled pleasantly the better rug Once a bear. Grizzly bear. He would have enjoyed a smoke with a bear. Hibernation is not unlike a job you fail to love. He would have enjoyed Some banter on, and amiable disputation of, His claim. Or on job loss, in general; On night air, the fanfare above a curve, a star, If suitably asparkle in public.

Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar, Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell? Whom do you lead on Rapture's roadway, far, Before you agonise them in farewell? Oh, pale dispensers of my Joys and Pains, Holding the doors of Heaven and of Hell, How the hot blood rushed wildly through the veins, Beneath your touch, until you waved farewell. Pale hands, pink tipped, like Lotus buds that float On those cool waters where we used to dwell, I would have rather felt you round my throat, Crushing out life, than waving me farewell!