Another little treasure…
No matter why, nor whence, nor when she came,
There was her place. No matter what men said,
No matter what she was; living or dead,
Faithful or not, he loved her all the same.
The story was as old as human shame,
But ever since that lonely night she fled,
With books to blind him, he had only read
The story of the ashes and the flame.
There she was always coming pretty soon
To fool him back, with penitent scared eyes
That had in them the laughter of the moon
For baffled lovers, and to make him think —
Before she gave him time enough to wink —
Her kisses were the keys to Paradise.
Not just a treasury but a very precious little treasure too. Published in 1947, the poems may no longer be quite so modern but they are still certainly beautiful. Here is one I particularly liked …. ‘deep is the silence.’
| Moonlit Apples
At the top of the house the apples are laid in rows,
And the skylight lets the moonlight in, and those
Apples are deep-sea apples of green. There goes
A cloud on the moon in the autumn night.
A mouse in the wainscot scratches, and scratches, and then
There is no sound at the top of the house of men
Or mice; and the cloud is blown, and the moon again
Dapples the apples with deep-sea light.
They are lying in rows there, under the gloomy beams;
On the sagging floor; they gather the silver streams
Out of the moon, those moonlit apples of dreams,
And quiet is the steep stair under.
In the corridors under there is nothing but sleep.
And stiller than ever on orchard boughs they keep
Tryst with the moon, and deep is the silence, deep
On moon-washed apples of wonder.
I love you like the promise
That only tomorrow can bring
When today has become lost,
Where yesterday means nothing.
Even if I could wrap it up,
You’d not be surprised to find
That same gift I give you every day
Beating away like a ticking bomb,
Sweet as stained-red marzipan.
There are lots of ways in which I can relate to the speaker of this poem who thinks that Courbet ‘might capture’ her. I’d like to think he’d paint me as ‘L’origine du Monde’:A scandalous gift for someone important to keep hidden behind a green curtain.
An unused portion of ‘L’origine du Monde’ by Gustav Courbet
Hair still Titian,
but Botticelli’s grip has loosened—
not now Rubenesque,
and probably never;
but Courbet might capture me.
Could I be surreal?
It seems almost likely—
bells in my ears
and fortresses under;
cones have been set on my eyes.
My spring is gone
and summer’s upon me,
rude in its ripening.
I’m espaliered, strung wide and tied,
pinioned, and thus can I fly.
I love you.
You drown me in blue.
I miss you.
For me, it’s only you.
I’m not so good at writing this kind of stuff but I do enjoy reading it…Came across this the other day, great words and I love the picture. wordsofkings
This I miss.
I have not words to describe this pain
That hits like waves
Again and again.
I have not words to describe this space
Just that it’s shaped like you,
It has your face.