1247 Love poems

And we are all there together time will wave as willows do and adios will be truly, yes, laughing at what is forgotten and talking of what's new admiring the roses you brought. How sad. You didn't know you were at the end thought it was your bright pear the earth, yes another affair to have been kept and gazed back on when you had slept to have been stored as a squirrel will a nut, and half forgotten, there were so many, many from the newly fallen.

Liebe, meine liebe, I had not hoped to be so poor The night winds reach like the blind breath of the world in a rhythm without mind, gusting and beating as if to destroy us, battering our poverty and all the land’s flat and cold and dark under iron snow the dog leaps in the wind barking, maddened with winter, and his voice claps again and again down the valley like tatters of revolutionary pennants birches cry and hemlocks by the brook stand hunched and downcast with their hands in their pockets Liebe, the world is wild and without intention how far this might be from the night of Christmas if it were not for you. Down the reaching wind shrieks of starlight bear broken messages among mountains where shadows plunge yet our brightness is unwavering Kennst du das land wo die zitronen blühn, im dunkeln laub die goldorangen ... liebe

If no love is, O God, what fele I so? And if love is, what thing and which is he? If love be good, from whennes cometh my woo? If it be wikke, a wonder thynketh me, When every torment and adversite That cometh of hym, may to me savory thinke, For ay thurst I, the more that ich it drynke. And if that at myn owen lust I brenne, From whennes cometh my waillynge and my pleynte? If harm agree me, whereto pleyne I thenne? I noot, ne whi unwery that I feynte. O quike deth, O swete harm so queynte, How may of the in me swich quantite, But if that I consente that it be? And if that I consente, I wrongfully Compleyne, iwis. Thus possed to and fro, Al sterelees withinne a boot am I Amydde the see, betwixen wyndes two, That in contrarie stonden evere mo. Allas! what is this wondre maladie? For hete of cold, for cold of hete, I dye.

In town it was very urban but in the country cows were covering the hills. The clouds were near and very moist. I was walking along the pavement with Anna, enjoying the scattered scenery. Suddenly a sound like a deep bell came from behind us. We both turned to look. “It’s the words you spoke in the past, coming back to haunt you,” Anna explained. “They always do, you know.” Indeed I did. Many times this deep bell-like tone had intruded itself on my thoughts, scrambling them at first, then rearranging them in apple-pie order. “Two crows,” the voice seemed to say, “were sitting on a sundial in the God-given sunlight. Then one flew away.” “Yes . . .and then?” I wanted to ask, but I kept silent. We turned into a courtyard and walked up several flights of stairs to the roof, where a party was in progress. “This is my friend Hans,” Anna said by way of introduction. No one paid much attention and several guests moved away to the balustrade to admire the view of orchards and vineyards, approaching their autumn glory. One of the women however came to greet us in a friendly manner. I was wondering if this was a “harvest home,” a phrase I had often heard but never understood. “Welcome to my home . . . well, to our home,” the woman said gaily. “As you can see, the grapes are being harvested.” It seemed she could read my mind. “They say this year’s vintage will be a mediocre one, but the sight is lovely, nonetheless. Don’t you agree, Mr. . . .” “Hans,” I replied curtly. The prospect was indeed a lovely one, but I wanted to leave. Making some excuse I guided Anna by the elbow toward the stairs and we left. “That wasn’t polite of you,” she said dryly. “Honey, I’ve had enough of people who can read your mind. When I want it done I’ll go to a mind reader.” “I happen to be one and I can tell you what you’re thinking is false. Listen to what the big bell says: ‘We are all strangers on our own turf, in our own time.’ You should have paid attention. Now adjustments will have to be made.”

Come live with me And we will sit Upon the rocks By shallow rivers Come live with me And we will plant acorns In each other's mouth It would be our way Of greeting the earth Before it shoves us Back into the snow Our interior cavities Brimming with Disagreeable substances Come live with me Before winter stops To use the only pillow The sky ever sleeps on Our interior cavities Brimming with snow Come live with me Before spring Swallows the air And birds sing

In the real world lovers part at morning with a kiss and look back longingly before they pass from sight. They go insouciant to work and smile at times; their life’s Vivaldi. Others bring what poetry they can into a life by counting days until employment comes again. They look at cherries in the fruit store and imagine biting in. They look so good. Children break from singing in the drill hall, burst outside to toss their frisbees in the park. A boy plays Satie on the piano; two Americans embrace as traffic whispers up the drive. They are embarking for the real world’s farthest shore. In the real world someone signs petitions every moment, tidies other people’s trash and greets another who is loved by someone else. This is how the real world copes with being economics, mathematics and ecology and botany and waiting for the bus. Costumed people earn their living slipping from the real world to persuade us to buy moon-cakes, supple skin and perfect hair. We smile to see them aping us. Gymnorhina tibicen swoops low and boasts her turf: the children run and shout out, ‘Magpie’ while the bird recalls the day in mimic song; order then restored, she dines alfresco on their scraps. And while we watch Magritte’s sky turn El Greco, roofs de Chirico beneath the plastic clouds, a plane is pasted on a sudden patch of blue.

To Lady Winchelsea, Occasioned by four Satirical Verses on Women Wits, In The Rape of the Lock In vain you boast poetic names of yore, And cite those Sapphos we admire no more: Fate doomed the fall of every female wit; But doomed it then, when first Ardelia writ. Of all examples by the world confessed, I knew Ardelia could not quote the best; Who, like her mistress on Britannia’s throne, Fights and subdues in quarrels not her own. To write their praise you but in vain essay; Even while you write, you take that praise away. Light to the stars the sun does thus restore, But shines himself till they are seen no more.

Not long ago, or maybe I dreamt it Or made it up, or have suddenly lost Track of its train in the hocus pocus Of the dissolving days; no, if I bend The turn around the corner, come at it From all three sides at once, or bounce the ball Against all manner of bleary-eyed fortune Tellers—well, you can see for yourselves there’s Nothing up my sleeves, or notice even Rocks occasionally break if enough Pressure is applied. As far as you go In one direction, all the further you’ll Have to go on before the way back has Become totally indivisible.

Late for the feast. Let me guess, she said, everything worked against you. Some pulverize experiences at the pool. When the air slaps, they flip into the water and speak of the excitations of distress. The stratagems of delivering an annulled emotion. And how is one to read a nod? Is a nod an exclamation? Does one kiss after a nod? A woman mutters something about the tea being too weak. The walls threaten to expose us, shadows pinch as we mutter jouissance, jouissance, while the university teacher said the use of the word was a considerable error. A most lamentable error, given half of us are illiterate and unattached. Think of words in their system of birth. Now do you see, the teacher said. Ah, see. Dogs were barking for no reason. Some of us went to the ghats and watched the dead burn. Woman in white wailed, her hair a dumb struck line against her rocking spine. We look for other distractions in a place of death. In the afternoon meanings are extolled. We are asked to name our loves. I will not, he said, use common language to talk of love. I will not jump into the substance without reinforcement. He took his body to the breeze and swayed till we begged him to stop. The rain subsided but we were still wet. Thousands have died in a nod.

at the altarpiece of Saint Teresa No need to be coy— you know what she’s doing And so did Bernini, when he found Teresa in the full-throttle of her divine vision, caught her at it, carving this surrender so fluidly you expect the impossible: for her tang to swell up, ripe as seafoam, from the gulf of her flushed and falling figure. Perhaps this is how God comes to us, or should come to us, all: the bluntly and beautifully corporeal at prayers in the Sunday school of pleasure. Why shouldn’t He come to us as He did to Teresa? A saint on her back— a girl tearing open the gift He gave her?