Anticipation by Amy Lowell

I have been temperate always,
But I am like to be very drunk
With your coming.

There have been times
I feared to walk down the street
Lest I should reel with the wine of you,
And jerk against my neighbours
As they go by.

I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth,
But my brain is noisy
With the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups.

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Did you walk by the River?

Did you walk down to the river today,
To sit on the bench and watch the swans swimming,
The lazy herons, the muddy dogs playing.
Yet not hear anything, a world working in mute
Because my words weren’t being spoken?
Did you see the brightness of the sun?
Have time for a cup of coffee?
Yet not feel the warmth of either,
Because my warm hand wasn’t in yours and
It wasn’t my warm gesture that brought the coffee?

Lent Heart

Ilya Repin Tempation of Christ.jpg

Ilya Repin: Tempation of Christ
Created: 19th or early 20th century.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You gave me up.

By Wednesday I became ash,
A cold, grey snow of
Scattered fragments,
Melting into nothing on the wind.

You took back your lent heart
And for forty days and forty nights
Retreated into the desert, deserting me,
For silent penance and prayer.
Pray for me

Your daily devotional.
You are my chosen one.
I am the worshipper at your temple
Or else I must be the devil
Who would, all things give to you,
If thou would only fall down and worship me.

Love Sonnet XI by Pablo Naruda

The madness of love and what it can do to you…

Love Sonnet XI
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue

In the Wind

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I will take a knife to that ancient tree
Whose twisted roots I envy.
Carve your name
Next to mine in its brittle bark
For permanence,
Then listen to it sing,
Mournful in the gale,
Of you and I,
That wounded tale.