‘The Story Of The Ashes And The Flame’ by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Another little treasure…

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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.

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Flashback Friday

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It was a year ago today and I don’t think I can remember any day where I have woken up with such excitement to see someone. As days go, it was pretty perfect. There was you, me, a bit of Shakespeare and whole lot of night…

If I could take back all the misery I have caused for one more night like this I would because when I was with you, you only made me happy.

Are You Still There?

 

 

Here

I am here 
But I am never here any more.

Here only exists with you.

So I will wait here,

With you.

And I will tell you every day
For as many days as I may have,
For as many days and minutes and hours that it may take,
About my here
And how much I love you here
And how much I want you here
And how much I need you here
Until you are brave enough to find me

Just here, not far,

And realise your here,
Is here with me
That you have always been here with me.

All Of You

These poems have all been chosen because there are some days that you just really miss someone.

Tu Me Manques

I Miss You

Without You

I miss your face
Your smile
Your hands
Your toes
Your legs
Your shins
Your skin
Your nose
I miss your laugh
Your voice
Your words
Your knees
Your tongue
Your teeth
The way you sneeze
I miss your mouth
Your chest
Your arms 
Your butt
Your shoulders 
Your back
Your self harm cut
I miss your touch
Your smile
Your cheeks
Your eyes
Your neck
Your ears
Your cock
Your sighs 
I miss your veins
Your cells
Your atoms 
Your blood
Your movements
Your hair
Your heart and its thud
I miss your song
Your beauty
Your love
Your sun.
But mostly,
I miss you,
My own special one.

‘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.

Origami Man

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My man is made of paper,
He is the blank page I write my dreams on,
And re-write my dreams on.
It gets complicated,
He’s complicated,
Or likes to think he is,
But I know each fold and crease of him,
I’ve traced them a million times with my hands
With my mind.
I try hard 
To smooth the edges, the angular corners
That frustrate as I attempt to follow the instructions, like
He frustrates,
Refuses to bend at every turn 
Until, suddenly, there he is
My paper man,
Three dimensional and beautiful,
Words, skin, love, paper dreams, within my hands.

‘Come Slowly-Eden’ By Emily Dickinson

If only you knew how heartbreakingly beautiful you are,
How you are so many perfect things,
How your touch is honey,
How your absence stings.

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Come slowly—Eden
Lips unused to Thee—
Bashful—sip thy Jessamines
As the fainting Bee—

Reaching late his flower,
Round her chamber hums—
Counts his nectars—
Enters—and is lost in Balms.

Emily Dickinson

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.

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.)”