There’s this solitary house,
Forever yours and mine
A dream, a life, a dinner burned,
A bottle of good wine.
It’s a world of games you lose; I win
We play into the night
With open hearts and mouths and bodies
We let each other in.
And in the morning sunshine
There’s tea with sugar side by side,
We smile and tidy house but
There’s sadness that I hide.
Soon you’ll leave
I’ll watch you as you go
Unsure of all the many things
I thought I used to know.
And I’ll stay, I’ll wait, as the day unwinds
Praying that you will be back,
Down that long and difficult track.
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.
Write me a letter
20 years ago,
It will sound like this.
My name will be etched forever onto your
Fading paper heart,
Then folded carefully into envelopes,
The ‘I love yous’ rolling out across the decades
As you count down every day, hour, minute, second
Until they find me
Prettier than I once was,
Older than I was then,
For your delivery.
Here is a flag:
Like my skin.
White like surrender,
The whitest sin.
White like calm and white like flame
A cotton sheet
Of white-hot anger.
Here is a flag:
Unfurled with desire.
White sand of time
The truth and the liar.
I think of you somewhere
10 minutes in front of me.
My heart flies with you.
I feel it
Stretch to breaking point.