Yellow

It’s the feeling of a yellow sofa,
A blue jumper in winter,
The barley, high in a summer field.
It’s the feeling of eating omelettes
Or strawberries, or chocolate
And listening to your beautiful voice as you sing in that tiny kitchen making tea
But didn’t know I was listening.
It’s the feeling of pub gardens,
Smoking fires and bears,
Wine that I drink whilst I drink you up and become giddy.
It is the feeling of dreams,
The ones I tell you
But more-so the ones I keep secret.
It is the feeling of waking up hoping to hear from you…

Or waking up knowing I’ll see you
And touch you.
It’s the feeling of poetry,
Music,
Art,
Icarus and his wings –
Ticking clocks,
Revolving planets
Universes,
Life, epiphanies
And other stuff and things…

It’s the feeling of you.

The feeling of something so great,
I’m insignificant.

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The 7.29

The time was 7.29
I missed you
Again,
So I waited
Forlornly,
Like a fool waiting for a lover
On the wrong platform.
And still I wait
For you to come
Like I often wait,
Wondering what went wrong
Along the line,
Where you are,
What I did,
Do you care?
I’m anxious, terrified
Of falling under the wheels,
As the seconds pass like minutes
That pass like hours
That stretch on like beige days
And before I know it, it’s 18.49
Another day spent waiting has come and gone
And before I know it it’s 18.49
You’ve passed on by,
I’ve missed you
Again.

‘Here I Love You’ by Pablo Neruda

Here I love you
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other

The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
sometimes a sail. High, high stars.

Oh the black cross of a ship.
Alone.
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.

Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.
The moon turns its clockwork dream.

The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.

Two by Four

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Tracks in early morning dew
Your four, to my two.
We run, you in front, no care,
Me behind. Just there.
You don’t need to look back to see
Where I am. You know me,
Hear me when I call you back
Know the things I often lack,
A touch, a voice, someone to be with
Nothing to take, only things to give.

What better love is there than this
Glossy black, requited bliss?

Mad Girl’s Love Song by Sylvia Plath

It’s been a Sylvia Plath kind of day and so I move from one female poetic genius to another, but I shan’t try to change this one.

 

“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)”

I’m Sorry Elizabeth

Sometimes you need a bit of help with the words…particularly when it’s hard to put just how you feel into words! So thank you EBB. I can only apologise for the butchery of this beautiful poem.

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How do I love you? I couldn’t count the ways.
There is no depth or breadth or height
To my love for you when out of sight,
Only being. Only grace.
I try, and fail, to love you to the level of your everyday’s
Most quiet need, from sun rise to sun spent.
I love you, not freely but, with abandonment,
Not purely, but wickedly, as I wait for your praise.
I love you with the passionate grief,
Of my childhood’s broken faith,
The more than love, I seemed to lose like belief
With my lost saints – I love you,
Not only with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my strife–
But in every silent space and, if you choose,
I shall but love you forever, beyond death, beyond life

Lemons

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Time with you is like a lemon.
Delicious, yellow, full of sunshine and promise.
I want to squeeze every last drop from it,
Drink it up
Feel the lemonade bubbles fizzing on my tongue
Before I go to the fridge
And find its gone.

Dancers

Words have proved elusive this week but I found some in the end...

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The Kiss by Edvard Munch

At night, in that cold, steel silence
Silvered in moonlight
They come together
Their white forms one,
Then two again;
Dancers on a cotton stage,
Intuitive, beautiful.

The orchestra of imagination
Plays on as they move,
His powerful limbs
Leading her with a
Graceful fierceness and
A touch that trails fire,
Speaks of love and
Untold desire.