1247 Love poems

The heart and service to you proffer'd With right good will full honestly, Refuse it not, since it is offer'd, But take it to you gentlely. And though it be a small present, Yet good, consider graciously The thought, the mind, and the intent Of him that loves you faithfully. It were a thing of small effect To work my woe thus cruelly, For my good will to be abject: Therefore accept it lovingly. Pain or travel, to run or ride, I undertake it pleasantly; Bid ye me go, and straight I glide At your commandement humbly. Pain or pleasure, now may you plant Even which it please you steadfastly; Do which you list, I shall not want To be your servant secretly. And since so much I do desire To be your own assuredly, For all my service and my hire Reward your servant liberally.

On some fundless expedition, you discover it beneath a pyracantha bush carved from the hip bone of a long-extinct herbivore that walked the plains on legs a story tall. An ocarina of bone drilled and shaped laboriously with tools too soft to be efficient by one primitive musician spending night after night squatting by the fire. No instrument of percussion: place this against your lips, fill it from your lungs to sound a note winding double helix, solo and thready calling to the pack.

It's neither red nor sweet. It doesn't melt or turn over, break or harden, so it can't feel pain, yearning, regret. It doesn't have a tip to spin on, it isn't even shapely— just a thick clutch of muscle, lopsided, mute. Still, I feel it inside its cage sounding a dull tattoo: I want, I want— but I can't open it: there's no key. I can't wear it on my sleeve, or tell you from the bottom of it how I feel. Here, it's all yours, now— but you'll have to take me, too.

The legendary muscle that wants and grieves, The organ of attachment, the pump of thrills And troubles, clinging in stubborn colonies Like pulpy shore-life battened on a jetty. Slashed by the little deaths of sleep and pleasure, They swell in the nurturing spasms of the waves, Sucking to cling; and even in death itself— Baked, frozen—they shrink to grip the granite harder. “Rid yourself of attachments and aversions”— But in her father’s orchard, already, he says He’d like to be her bird, and she says: Sweet, yes, Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing, Showing that she knows already—as Art Pepper, That first time he takes heroin, already knows That he will go to prison, and that he’ll suffer And knows he needs to have it, or die; and the one Who makes the General lose the world for love Lets him say,Would I had never seen her, but Oh! Says Enobarbus, Then you would have missed A wonderful piece of work, which left unseen Would bring less glory to your travels. Among The creatures in the rock-torn surf, a wave Of agitation, a gasp. A scholar quips, Shakespeare was almost certainly homosexual, Bisexual, or heterosexual, the sonnets Provide no evidence on the matter.

If I beg and pray you to set me free, then bind me more tightly still. — Homer I’m striving to be a better astronaut, but consider where I’m coming from, the exosphere, a desk where the bluest air thins to a lip. Impossible to know the difference from where I sit and space. I promise I still dream of coming back to you, settling on your yellow for the kitchen. We won’t fight. Let it not manifest. Not over the crumpled bodies of laundry. Let us not row over the nail polish, its color, the spilled sun. Inspiration is the deadliest radiation. It never completely leaves the bones. You know. From here, there are no obstructions but the radiant nothingness. An aurora borealis opens like a fish. This. To the pyramids, yes, to a great wall. And there you are, moving from curtain to curtain. O, to fantasize of having chosen some design with you. But the moons over Jupiter. But asteroids like gods deadened by the weight of waiting. I remember you said pastel for the cabinet where the spice rack lives. That I ought’ve picked you up flowers when I had a chance. Daisy, iris, sun. Red roses. Ultraviolet, the color of love (what else but this startles the air open like an egg?). I’m really trying to be better, to commit to memory the old songs about the ground, to better sense your latitudes, see the corona of your face. Take your light as it arrives. Earth is heavenly too. But know that time is precious here. How wine waits years and years to peak. What is there to do: I’ve made love to satellites in your name. I’m saying I can’t say when I’ll return. Remember me, for here are dragons and the noble songs of sirens. Stars that sway elysian. Ships that will not moor, lovers who are filled with blood and nothing more. Who could love you like this? Who else will sew you in the stars? Who better knows your gravity and goes otherwise, to catastrophe? I’ve schemed and promised to bring you back a ring from Saturn. But a week passes, or doesn’t manage. Everything steers impossible against the boundless curb of light. Believe I tried for you. Against space. Time takes almost everything away. To you. For you. A toast to the incredible. I almost wish I’d never seen the sky when always there was you. Sincerely,

There is no noisier place than the suburbs, someone once said to me as we were walking along a fairway, and every day is delighted to offer fresh evidence: the chainsaw, the leaf-blower blowing one leaf around an enormous house with columns, on Mondays and Thursdays the garbage truck equipped with air brakes, reverse beeper, and merciless grinder. There’s dogs, hammers, backhoes or serious earthmovers if today is not your day. How can the birds get a peep or a chirp in edgewise, I would like to know? But this morning is different, only a soft clicking sound and the low talk of two workmen working on the house next door, laying tile I am guessing. Otherwise, all quiet for a change, just the clicking of tiles being handled and their talking back and forth in Spanish then one of them asking in English “What was her name?” and the silence of the other.

Her face          Her tongue       Her wit so fair             so sweet          so sharp first bent         then drew         then hit mine eye         mine ear          my heart Mine eye         Mine ear          My heart to like             to learn            to love her face          her tongue       her wit doth lead         doth teach       doth move Her face          Her tongue       Her wit with beams      with sound       with art doth blind       doth charm       doth knit mine eye         mine ear          my heart Mine eye         Mine ear          My heart with life          with hope         with skill her face         her tongue       her wit doth feed       doth feast         doth fill O face            O tongue          O wit with frowns      with checks      with smart wrong not       vex not            wound not mine eye         mine ear          my heart This eye         This ear            This heart shall joy         shall yield          shall swear her face          her tongue         her wit to serve          to trust             to fear.

The dog licks my hand as I worry about the left nipple of the woman in the bathroom. She is drying her hair, the woman whose left nipple is sore. We looked this evening for diagonal cuts or discoloration or bite marks from small insects that may be in our bed. It is a good bed, a faithful bed. A bed that won’t be hurt by the consideration we gave to the possibility of small though disproportionately strong insects in our bed. The blow-dryer sounds like a jet taking off. The first time I flew to Brussels, people began the journey happy but ended with drool on their shirts. She is drying her hair though she has never been to Brussels. Drying her hair though she could be petting a dog. Drying her hair while having red thoughts about what the pain in her nipple means. I would not dry my hair in such a moment but I am bald. The body of the woman has many ways to cease being the body of the woman. I have one way to be happy and she is that way. I would like to fly with her to Brussels. We would not be put off by the drool. This is what happens when people sleep. We would buy postcards of the little boy who saved Brussels when he peed on a fire. We would be romantic in public places. For the moment these desires can best be furthered by petting a dog. I’m also working on this theory. That sometimes a part of the body just hurts. That the purpose of prayer is to make the part of the body that sometimes just hurts the little toe or appendix. Something vestigial or redundant. Something that can be jettisoned. I have no reason to use the word cancer while petting a dog. Here is a piece of a second during which a jet is not flying nor is it on the ground. I’m working on a theory that no one can die inside that piece of a second. If you are comforted by this thought you are welcome to keep it.

The First Sestiad (excerpt) On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood, In view and opposite two cities stood, Sea-borderers, disjoin'd by Neptune's might; The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight. At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair, Whom young Apollo courted for her hair, And offer'd as a dower his burning throne, Where she could sit for men to gaze upon. The outside of her garments were of lawn, The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn; Her wide sleeves green, and border'd with a grove, Where Venus in her naked glory strove To please the careless and disdainful eyes Of proud Adonis, that before her lies; Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain, Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain. Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath, From whence her veil reach'd to the ground beneath; Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves, Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives; Many would praise the sweet smell as she past, When 'twas the odour which her breath forth cast; And there for honey bees have sought in vain, And beat from thence, have lighted there again. About her neck hung chains of pebble-stone, Which lighten'd by her neck, like diamonds shone. She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind, Or warm or cool them, for they took delight To play upon those hands, they were so white. Buskins of shells, all silver'd, used she, And branch'd with blushing coral to the knee; Where sparrows perch'd, of hollow pearl and gold, Such as the world would wonder to behold: Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills, Which as she went, would chirrup through the bills. Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin'd, And looking in her face, was strooken blind. But this is true; so like was one the other, As he imagin'd Hero was his mother; And oftentimes into her bosom flew, About her naked neck his bare arms threw, And laid his childish head upon her breast, And with still panting rock'd there took his rest. So lovely-fair was Hero, Venus' nun, As Nature wept, thinking she was undone, Because she took more from her than she left, And of such wondrous beauty her bereft: Therefore, in sign her treasure suffer'd wrack, Since Hero's time hath half the world been black. Amorous Leander, beautiful and young (Whose tragedy divine Musæus sung), Dwelt at Abydos; since him dwelt there none For whom succeeding times make greater moan. His dangling tresses, that were never shorn, Had they been cut, and unto Colchos borne, Would have allur'd the vent'rous youth of Greece To hazard more than for the golden fleece. Fair Cynthia wish'd his arms might be her sphere; Grief makes her pale, because she moves not there. His body was as straight as Circe's wand; Jove might have sipt out nectar from his hand. Even as delicious meat is to the taste, So was his neck in touching, and surpast The white of Pelops' shoulder: I could tell ye, How smooth his breast was, and how white his belly; And whose immortal fingers did imprint That heavenly path with many a curious dint That runs along his back; but my rude pen Can hardly blazon forth the loves of men, Much less of powerful gods: let it suffice That my slack Muse sings of Leander's eyes; Those orient cheeks and lips, exceeding his That leapt into the water for a kiss Of his own shadow, and, despising many, Died ere he could enjoy the love of any. Had wild Hippolytus Leander seen, Enamour'd of his beauty had he been. His presence made the rudest peasant melt, That in the vast uplandish country dwelt; The barbarous Thracian soldier, mov'd with nought, Was mov'd with him, and for his favour sought. Some swore he was a maid in man's attire, For in his looks were all that men desire,— A pleasant smiling cheek, a speaking eye, A brow for love to banquet royally; And such as knew he was a man, would say, "Leander, thou art made for amorous play; Why art thou not in love, and lov'd of all? Though thou be fair, yet be not thine own thrall." The men of wealthy Sestos every year, For his sake whom their goddess held so dear, Rose-cheek'd Adonis, kept a solemn feast. Thither resorted many a wandering guest To meet their loves; such as had none at all Came lovers home from this great festival; For every street, like to a firmament, Glister'd with breathing stars, who, where they went, Frighted the melancholy earth, which deem'd Eternal heaven to burn, for so it seem'd As if another Pha{"e}ton had got The guidance of the sun's rich chariot. But far above the loveliest, Hero shin'd, And stole away th' enchanted gazer's mind; For like sea-nymphs' inveigling harmony, So was her beauty to the standers-by; Nor that night-wandering, pale, and watery star (When yawning dragons draw her thirling car From Latmus' mount up to the gloomy sky, Where, crown'd with blazing light and majesty, She proudly sits) more over-rules the flood Than she the hearts of those that near her stood. Even as when gaudy nymphs pursue the chase, Wretched Ixion's shaggy-footed race, Incens'd with savage heat, gallop amain From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain, So ran the people forth to gaze upon her, And all that view'd her were enamour'd on her. And as in fury of a dreadful fight, Their fellows being slain or put to flight, Poor soldiers stand with fear of death dead-strooken, So at her presence all surpris'd and tooken, Await the sentence of her scornful eyes; He whom she favours lives; the other dies. There might you see one sigh, another rage, And some, their violent passions to assuage, Compile sharp satires; but, alas, too late, For faithful love will never turn to hate. And many, seeing great princes were denied, Pin'd as they went, and thinking on her, died. On this feast-day—O cursed day and hour!— Went Hero thorough Sestos, from her tower To Venus' temple, where unhappily, As after chanc'd, they did each other spy. So fair a church as this had Venus none: The walls were of discolour'd jasper-stone, Wherein was Proteus carved; and over-head A lively vine of green sea-agate spread, Where by one hand light-headed Bacchus hung, And with the other wine from grapes out-wrung. Of crystal shining fair the pavement was; The town of Sestos call'd it Venus' glass: There might you see the gods in sundry shapes, Committing heady riots, incest, rapes: For know, that underneath this radiant flower Was Danae's statue in a brazen tower, Jove slyly stealing from his sister's bed, To dally with Idalian Ganimed, And for his love Europa bellowing loud, And tumbling with the rainbow in a cloud; Blood-quaffing Mars heaving the iron net, Which limping Vulcan and his Cyclops set; Love kindling fire, to burn such towns as Troy, Sylvanus weeping for the lovely boy That now is turn'd into a cypress tree, Under whose shade the wood-gods love to be. And in the midst a silver altar stood: There Hero, sacrificing turtles' blood, Vail'd to the ground, veiling her eyelids close; And modestly they opened as she rose. Thence flew Love's arrow with the golden head; And thus Leander was enamoured. Stone-still he stood, and evermore he gazed, Till with the fire that from his count'nance blazed Relenting Hero's gentle heart was strook: Such force and virtue hath an amorous look. It lies not in our power to love or hate, For will in us is over-rul'd by fate. When two are stript, long ere the course begin, We wish that one should lose, the other win; And one especially do we affect Of two gold ingots, like in each respect: The reason no man knows, let it suffice, What we behold is censur'd by our eyes. Where both deliberate, the love is slight: Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?

I drift into the sound of wind, how small my life must be to fit into his palm like that, holly leaf, bluejay feather, milkweed fluff, pin straw or sycamore pod, resembling scraps of light. The world slips through these fingers so easily, there’s so much to miss: the sociable bones linked up in supple rows, mineral seams just under the skin. I hold my palm against the sun and don’t see palm or sun, don’t hold anything in either hand. I look up, look away (what’s that?), I trip and stumble (fall again), find myself face down in duff, a foam of fallen live oak leaves, with only this life, mine at times.