I Moan

I could gasp
Loudly,
Breath taken away by how much I love you;
The way you love me.
But I’ll probably moan about it instead,
Reliving you as you
Come inside my head.

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Self-Portrait at 38 BY JENNIFER TONGE

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.

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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;

Ingres approaches,
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.

‘Talk To Me, Poem, I Think I’ve Got The Blues’ by Nikki Giovanni.

I’m finding it hard to find the right words when I need them. Either there are too many difficult ones when I should probably just shut up, or not enough when I want to write a poem that has substance. Anyway, whilst on my rather melancholy travels through poetry land looking for words that speak more articulately than my own…I discovered this gem and it even made me smile!

My next poem is definitely going to be about a road sign.

Cross roads?
Give way?
One way?
Dead end?
Stop?
Diversion?
Steep gradient?
Bumps?
Humps?
Slippery road ahead?
End of speed restriction?

There’s half a poem right there…

 

‘To You’ by Kenneth Koch

I love you as a sheriff searches for a walnut
That will solve a murder case unsolved for years
Because the murderer left it in the snow beside a window
Through which he saw her head, connecting with
Her shoulders by a neck, and laid a red
Roof in her heart. For this we live a thousand years;
For this we love, and we live because we love, we are not
Inside a bottle, thank goodness! I love you as a
Kid searches for a goat; I am crazier than shirttails
In the wind, when you’re near, a wind that blows from
The big blue sea, so shiny so deep and so unlike us;
I think I am bicycling across an Africa of green and white fields
Always, to be near you, even in my heart
When I’m awake, which swims, and also I believe that you
Are trustworthy as the sidewalk which leads me to
The place where I again think of you, a new
Harmony of thoughts! I love you as the sunlight leads the prow
Of a ship which sails
From Hartford to Miami, and I love you
Best at dawn, when even before I am awake the sun
Receives me in the questions which you always pose.

Love, Bites

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Oh little horsefly,
Summer lover of skin,
Your bites they can wound me,
But please, dig right in.

Feast while you can love,
While attraction remains,
My heart and my blood
Are reward for your pains.

Have all that you want,
Then vanish from sight,
Fly away quickly,
Until some other night

And these love bites, I’ll keep them
Though they hurt and are sore.
Your bites, they go deep dear;
Give me some more.

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.

Victoria

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Her name was as delicious as she was.
It would roll off your tongue like cream
Covered strawberries eaten in the Summer,
As you made love on red velvet picnic blankets,
Under the lemonade sun.

A Picture

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It made a glorious picture:
The nude and his lover
In a car 
In a field
Behind a hedge,
On the other side of which,
An old man walked
And cyclists, panting uphill, passed,
Whilst the nude and his lover
Just moaned and gasped.