|Valentine's day Poems
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|Author:||Marion Arnott [ Sat Feb 02, 2008 12:49 am ]|
|Post subject:||Valentine's day Poems|
On the run up to Valentine's Day, let's share some favourite love poems - your own or someone else's. here's one of Anne Sexton's:
By the first of August
the invisible beetles began
to snore and the grass was
as tough as hemp and was
no color -- no more than
the sand was a color and
we had worn our bare feet
bare since the twentieth
of June and there were times
we forgot to wind up your
alarm clock and some nights
we took our gin warm and neat
from old jelly glasses while
the sun blew out of sight
like a red picture hat and
one day I tied my hair back
with a ribbon and you said
that I looked almost like
a puritan lady and what
I remember best is that
the door to your room was
the door to mine.
|Author:||Marion Arnott [ Sun Feb 03, 2008 12:46 am ]|
Farewell to Love
by Michael Drayton (1563 - 1631)
Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part;
Nay, I am done, you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we, one jot of former love retain.
Now, at the last gasp of love's latest breath,
When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,
When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And innocence is closing up his eyes,
Now, if thou woulds't, when all have given him over,
From death to life Thou might'st him yet recover
|Author:||Marion Arnott [ Sun Feb 03, 2008 12:56 am ]|
A poem for that much maligned group, husbands:
To a Husband by Anne Finch (1620-1720)
This is to the crown and blessing of my life,
The much loved husband of a happy wife;
To him whose constant passion found the art
To win a stubborn and ungrateful heart,
And to the world by tenderest proof discovers
They err, who say that husbands can't be lovers.
With such return of passion, as is due,
Daphnis I love, Daphinis my thoughts pursue;
Daphnis, my hopes and joys are bounded all in you.
Even I, for Daphnis' and my promise' sake,
What I in woman censure, undertake.
But this from love, not vanity proceeds;
You know who writes, and I who 'tis that reads.
Judge not my passion by my want of skill:
Many love well, though they express it ill;
And I your censure could with pleasure bear,
Would you but soon return, and speak it here.
|Author:||Bob Lock [ Sun Feb 03, 2008 10:01 am ]|
Here's one of mine
Tempus Non Fugit (An acrostic poem)
Time flies but on leaden wings.
Every moment we are apart.
Minutes turn into millennia.
Passing these eons,
Uncertain when you will return,
Saps my very soul
Never did I curse the hours so,
Only now, without you, I see,
Nothing means more to me than you, so,
For eternity I will endure,
Until all clocks wind down,
Galaxies dwindle and die,
I will remain to the very last.
Time waits for no man… but I will wait for you.
|Author:||Marion Arnott [ Sun Feb 03, 2008 10:41 am ]|
Hi,Bob - the galaxies dwindling and dying was lovely!
And the last line.
|Author:||des2 [ Sun Feb 03, 2008 8:54 pm ]|
Rose of All the World
I am here myself; as though this heave of effort
At starting other life, fulfilled my own;
Rose-leaves that whirl in colour round a core
Of seed-specks kindled lately and softly blown
By all the blood of the rose-bush into being -
Strange, that the urgent will in me, to set
My mouth on hers in kisses, and so softly
To bring together two strange sparks, beget
Another life from our lives, so should send
The innermost fire of my own dim soul out-spinning
And whirling in blossom of flame and being upon me!
That my completion of manhood should be the beginning
Another life from mine! For so it looks.
The seed is purpose, blossom accident.
The seed is all in all, the blossom lent
To crown the triumph of this new descent.
Is that it, woman? Does it strike you so?
The Great Breath blowing a tiny seed of fire
Fans out your petals for excess of flame,
Till all your being smokes with fine desire?
Or are we kindled, you and I, to be
One rose of wonderment upon the tree
Of perfect life, and is our possible seed
But the residuum of the ecstasy?
How will you have it? - the rose is all in all,
Or the ripe rose-fruits of the luscious fall?
The sharp begetting, or the child begot?
Our consummation matters, or does it not?
To me it seems the seed is just left over
From the red rose-flowers' fiery transience;
Just orts and slarts; berries that smoulder in the bush
Which burnt just now with marvellous immanence.
Blossom, my darling, blossom, be a rose
Of roses unchidden and purposeless; a rose
For rosiness only, without an ulterior motive;
For me it is more than enough if the flower unclose.
D. H. Lawrence
|Author:||des2 [ Mon Feb 04, 2008 10:12 am ]|
I think the last stanza in particular is suitable for Valentine's Day.
|Author:||Marion Arnott [ Mon Feb 04, 2008 4:34 pm ]|
Hmmm...I thought 'without an ulterior motive' struck a dud note. The rosebud surely matters.
|Author:||des2 [ Mon Feb 04, 2008 4:45 pm ]|
|Author:||Marion Arnott [ Mon Feb 04, 2008 9:09 pm ]|
DH Orson! It's amazing what people can get out of a poem!
|Author:||Marion Arnott [ Tue Feb 05, 2008 12:12 am ]|
Old favourite of mine:
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
admit impediments. Love is not love
which alters when it alteration finds,
or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! It is an ever-fixed mark
that looks on tempests and is never shaken;
it is the star to every wandering bark,
whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
within his bending sickle's compass come:
love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
but bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
- William Shakespeare -
|Author:||Marion Arnott [ Sun Feb 10, 2008 12:56 am ]|
AIR AND ANGELS
Twice or thrice had I loved thee,
Before I knew thy face or name;
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame,
Angels affect us oft, and worshipped be;
Still when, to where thou wert, I came,
Some lovely glorious nothing I did see.
But since my soul, whose child love is,
Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,
More subtle than the parent is
Love must not be, but take a body too;
And therefore what thou wert, and who,
I bid love ask, and now
That it assume thy body I allow,
And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow.
|Author:||Marion Arnott [ Sun Feb 10, 2008 1:44 pm ]|
It's Keats' day all over the Poetry Forum, so here he is on love:
When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be
by John Keats (1795 - 1821)
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
|Author:||ellina [ Fri Feb 15, 2008 12:37 pm ]|
The Valentine Day may be over by now but I must appreciate the poems here. There are so many instances when we wish our friends with the help of token gifts but there are little instances where we find time to create such poetries and give to each other. For me these are more appealing rather than the materialistic gifts.
|Author:||Marion Arnott [ Fri Feb 15, 2008 4:59 pm ]|
True, Elina. There's nothing quite like the perfect thought caught in a poem.
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