1247 Love poems

It may be through some foreign grace, And unfamiliar charm of face; It may be that across the foam Which bore her from her childhood’s home, By some strange spell, my Katie brought, Along with English creeds and thought— Entangled in her golden hair— Some English sunshine, warmth, and air! I cannot tell—but here to-day, A thousand billowy leagues away From that green isle whose twilight skies No darker are than Katie’s eyes, She seems to me, go where she will, An English girl in England still; I meet her on the dusty street, And daisies spring about her feet; Or, touched to life beneath her tread, An English cowslip lifts its head; And, as to do her grace, rise up The primrose and the buttercup! I roam with her through fields of cane, And seem to stroll an English lane, Which, white with blossoms of the May, Spreads its green carpet in her way! As fancy wills, the path beneath Is golden gorse, or purple heath: And now we hear in woodlands dim Their unarticulated hymn, Now walk through rippling waves of wheat, Now sink in mats of clover sweet, Or see before us from the lawn The lark go up to greet the dawn! All birds that love the English sky Throng round my path when she is by: The blackbird from a neighboring thorn With music brims the cup of morn, And in a thick, melodious rain The mavis pours her mellow strain! But only when my Katie’s voice Makes all the listening woods rejoice I hear—with cheeks that flush and pale— The passion of the nightingale! Anon the pictures round her change, And through an ancient town we range, Whereto the shadowy memory clings Of one of England’s Saxon kings, And which to shrine his fading fame Still keeps his ashes and his name. Quaint houses rise on either hand, But still the airs are fresh and bland, As if their gentle wings caressed Some new-born village of the West. A moment by the Norman tower We pause; it is the Sabbath hour! And o’er the city sinks and swells The chime of old St. Mary’s bells, Which still resound in Katie’s ears As sweet as when in distant years She heard them peal with jocund din A merry English Christmas in! We pass the abbey’s ruined arch, And statelier grows my Katie’s march, As round her, wearied with the taint Of Transatlantic pine and paint, She sees a thousand tokens cast Of England’s venerable Past! Our reverent footsteps lastly claims The younger chapel of St. James, Which though, as English records run, Not old, had seen full many a sun, Ere to the cold December gale The sullen Pilgrim spread his sail. There Katie in her childish days Spelt out her prayers and lisped her praise, And doubtless, as her beauty grew, Did much as other maidens do— Across the pews and down the aisle Sent many a beau-bewildering smile, And to subserve her spirit’s need Learned other things beside the creed! There, too, to-day her knee she bows, And by her one whose darker brows Betray the Southern heart that burns Beside her, and which only turns Its thoughts to Heaven in one request, Not all unworthy to be blest, But rising from an earthlier pain Than might beseem a Christian fane. Ah! can the guileless maiden share The wish that lifts that passionate prayer? Is all at peace that breast within? Good angels! warn her of the sin! Alas! what boots it? who can save A willing victim of the wave? Who cleanse a soul that loves its guilt? Or gather wine when wine is spilt? We quit the holy house and gain The open air; then, happy twain, Adown familiar streets we go, And now and then she turns to show, With fears that all is changing fast, Some spot that’s sacred to her Past. Here by this way, through shadows cool, A little maid, she tripped to school; And there each morning used to stop Before a wonder of a shop Where, built of apples and of pears, Rose pyramids of golden spheres; While, dangling in her dazzled sight, Ripe cherries cast a crimson light, And made her think of elfin lamps, And feast and sport in fairy camps, Whereat, upon her royal throne (Most richly carved in cherry-stone), Titania ruled, in queenly state, The boisterous revels of the fête! ’T was yonder, with their “horrid” noise, Dismissed from books, she met the boys, Who, with a barbarous scorn of girls, Glanced slightly at her sunny curls, And laughed and leaped as reckless by As though no pretty face were nigh! But—here the maiden grows demure— Indeed she’s not so very sure, That in a year, or haply twain, Few looked who failed to look again, And sooth to say, I little doubt (Some azure day, the truth will out!) That certain baits in certain eyes Caught many an unsuspecting prize; And somewhere underneath these eaves A budding flirt put forth its leaves! Has not the sky a deeper blue, Have not the trees a greener hue, And bend they not with lordlier grace And nobler shapes above the place Where on one cloudless winter morn My Katie to this life was born? Ah, folly! long hath fled the hour When love to sight gave keener power, And lovers looked for special boons In brighter flowers and larger moons. But wave the foliage as it may, And let the sky be ashen gray, Thus much at least a manly youth May hold—and yet not blush—as truth: If near that blessed spot of earth Which saw the cherished maiden’s birth No softer dews than usual rise, And life there keeps its wonted guise, Yet not the less that spot may seem As lovely as a poet’s dream; And should a fervid faith incline To make thereof a sainted shrine, Who may deny that round us throng A hundred earthly creeds as wrong, But meaner far, which yet unblamed Stalk by us and are not ashamed. So, therefore, Katie, as our stroll Ends at this portal, while you roll Those lustrous eyes to catch each ray That may recall some vanished day, I—let them jeer and laugh who will— Stoop down and kiss the sacred sill! So strongly sometimes on the sense These fancies hold their influence, That in long well-known streets I stray Like one who fears to lose his way. The stranger, I, the native, she, Myself, not Kate, have crossed the sea; And changing place, and mixing times, I walk in unfamiliar climes! These houses, free to every breeze That blows from warm Floridian seas, Assume a massive English air, And close around an English square; While, if I issue from the town, An English hill looks greenly down, Or round me rolls an English park, And in the Broad I hear the Larke! Thus when, where woodland violets hide, I rove with Katie at my side, It scarce would seem amiss to say, “Katie! my home lies far away, Beyond the pathless waste of brine, In a young land of palm and pine! There, by the tropic heats, the soul Is touched as if with living coal, And glows with such a fire as none Can feel beneath a Northern sun, Unless—my Katie’s heart attest!— ’T is kindled in an English breast! Such is the land in which I live, And, Katie! such the soul I give. Come! ere another morning beam, We’ll cleave the sea with wings of steam; And soon, despite of storm or calm, Beneath my native groves of palm, Kind friends shall greet, with joy and pride, The Southron and his English bride!”

Katie kissed me! Yuck, it's true! My face took on a greenish hue! My knees, like jelly, started shaking! Then my stomach started quaking! Slobber slithered down my cheek! My consciousness was growing weak! My ears were ringing, my head was spinning! But, all the while Kate was grinning! My heart was pounding through my shirt! My tongue felt like I just ate dirt! Though you may think I've lost my brain! I wished she'd kiss me once again!

Keen and lovely man moved as in a dance to be considerate in lighted, glass-walled almost outdoor office. Business wasn’t all he knew. He knew music, art. Had a heart. “With eyes like yours I should think the dictaphone” or did he say the flute? His sensitivity—it stopped you. And the neighbors said “She’s taking lessons on the dictaphone” as tho it were a saxophone. He gave the job to somebody else.

II Keep me fully glad with nothing. Only take my hand in your hand. In the gloom of the deepening night take up my heart and play with it as you list. Bind me close to you with nothing. I will spread myself out at your feet and lie still. Under this clouded sky I will meet silence with silence. I will become one with the night clasping the earth in my breast. Make my life glad with nothing. The rains sweep the sky from end to end. Jasmines in the wet untamable wind revel in their own perfume. The cloud-hidden stars thrill in secret. Let me fill to the full my heart with nothing but my own depth of joy.

I was so thirsty, you cracked an egg into my mouth. I ate it & thanked you. We were so rich then. I imagined the moon, a being I’d never seen, in every nail you’d use to tack the tarp over our heads. I confused hens clucking for the ringing of the phone you’d never let me answer. With a spatula to my ear, I’d pretend to be a woman on TV & say: ¿Bueno? Your anger was the gun you kept by the door, my fear, the knife I used to chop onions. One night you confused the sound of a snake rattling for rain. The snake opened its jaw & its fangs were the color of mud. You reached for my thighs just before you died & I couldn’t face you. Once you stopped breathing I rubbed your beard between my hands & played the most beautiful cumbia. We danced for the first time since our wedding.

Kick in the heart. Kick the starting lance. Throw the ground a word and stand back. The color of terror is the envy on body rags, the dragonfly war scraped off a painting inside the door. Kick the shame. Kick the falling dawn as fortunate. Throw the corrupted guest out the door. A sequence of rhythms bound for the light on your bed. On the eggplant cooked for the husband working late: an ant, a hair— the only thing said to race the mind. Take someone else’s voice and touch their ears. Make sure they hear you cry in their own whispers, their harangue. Kick the soil. Kick the sweet drowning as if you know the round jubilance of pear is afraid of a darkening spoon, a honey of flavor, the tender one who never touches your plate. The tired one who rations food to thank God eternity is here and there. Slip the eye the blue-black stranger, his instrument of scars and neglect, its tune of every wish besides the grave of a careless, quiet man. Shape his sound into the thumb asking for a ride in the years of not going anywhere. Kick the alphabet. Kick the hungry thigh and try again. Reduce yourself to a moving mouth, a solemn happiness that smells of the past, takes hold of the throat and teaches you to despise omens— ignore Apache mirrors on rock arches as if you knew what their scratchings meant. Kick the heart. Kick the starting lance. It moves deeper into the month of blinking neon where vertigo is perfume, desire foaming on your bare feet killed by frost, taken by the animal waking inside your holy cross— a figure of green gowns and things that follows you until you dance. Kick the truth. Kick the belly until it confesses. Admit you were fed by a woman flapping in the wind, told to sit there by a father who made her give birth to a shimmering head, your brain of flowers blossoming upon the body always first to confess. What snow is left is tired water unmoved by your seasonal words, your circle healing by slowing down, swelling to the size of God, yellow leaves in the blood nothing dangerous— this impulse, this kick to the brittle lake where the snow goes away.

Unhappy verse, the witness of my unhappy state, Make thy self flutt'ring wings of thy fast flying Thought, and fly forth unto my love, wheresoever she be: Whether lying restless in heavy bed, or else Sitting so cheerless at the cheerful board, or else Playing alone careless on her heavenly virginals. If in bed, tell her, that my eyes can take no rest: If at board, tell her, that my mouth can eat no meat: If at her virginals, tell her, I can hear no mirth. Asked why? say: waking love suffereth no sleep: Say that raging love doth appal the weak stomach: Say, that lamenting love marreth the musical. Tell her, that her pleasures were wont to lull me asleep: Tell her, that her beauty was wont to feed mine eyes: Tell her, that her sweet tongue was wont to make me mirth. Now do I nightly waste, wanting my kindly rest: Now do I daily starve, wanting my lively food: Now do I always die, wanting thy timely mirth. And if I waste, who will bewail my heavy chance? And if I starve, who will record my cursed end? And if I die, who will say: "This was Immerito"?

Ianthe! you are call’d to cross the sea! A path forbidden me! Remember, while the Sun his blessing sheds Upon the mountain-heads, How often we have watcht him laying down His brow, and dropt our own Against each other’s, and how faint and short And sliding the support! What will succeed it now? Mine is unblest, Ianthe! nor will rest But on the very thought that swells with pain. O bid me hope again! O give me back what Earth, what (without you) Not Heaven itself can do— One of the golden days that we have past, And let it be my last! Or else the gift would be, however sweet, Fragile and incomplete.

An evil spirit, your beauty, haunts me still, Wherewith, alas, I have been long possess'd, Which ceaseth not to tempt me to each ill, Nor gives me once but one poor minute's rest. In me it speaks, whether I sleep or wake; And when by means to drive it out I try, With greater torments then it me doth take, And tortures me in most extremity. Before my face it lays down my despairs, And hastes me on unto a sudden death; Now tempting me to drown myself in tears, And then in sighing to give up my breath. Thus am I still provok'd to every evil By this good-wicked spirit, sweet angel-devil.

Dear, why should you command me to my rest When now the night doth summon all to sleep? Methinks this time becometh lovers best; Night was ordain'd together friends to keep. How happy are all other living things Which, though the day disjoin by sev'ral flight, The quiet ev'ning yet together brings, And each returns unto his love at night! O thou that art so courteous else to all, Why should'st thou, Night, abuse me only thus, That ev'ry creature to his kind dost call, And yet 'tis thou dost only sever us? Well could I wish it would be ever day, If when night comes you bid me go away.