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Love poetry


alexander
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I do not love you...

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,

or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms

but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Pablo Neruda

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Apology

I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I keep saying that I'm sorry.

I know it's strange, strange in a "George W. Bush hasn't been assassinated yet" kind of way,

but I say I'm sorry for stupid shit and trivial things. And she sings the sweet logic that

"apologies should grow like trees only able to bare fruit if its root is planted in the soil of genuine sincerity".

But I somehow manage to parody each apology by speaking it before I react and the fact is

I'm not really sorry that I completely dig Degrassi. Because it was Yik and Arthur

that got me through wet dreams and puberty. Lady, I don't expect you to understand the reference

but I've been into this shit ever since the casting director said

"fuck physicality, give me some reality, give me kids who can’t act and are ugly,

they'll teach the world about beauty." Lady, I can relate to this because

before I met you I used to want to lock myself into a vault just to feel precious

but now with every kiss hello and goodbye I feel a self worth no banker could tally.

And my heart is a protest that I let rally against my ribs because I want to build my bones into cribs

and lay my reluctance to rest; test what it would be like to live frenetically,

to hold you unapologetically, to plant a giving tree on my front lawn so that when you're gone

it can give you back to me. And I'm sorry that when you sleep next to me you're forced

to listen to the symphony of the unplugged nostril and I'm sorry that for one time for some reason

I called you ma'am, that's fucked up. Fucked up in an

"I just bought a pair of Speedos so I could go swimming with you"

kind of way. And crazier than that is the fact that I will play at being brave

because doubt is about as useful as a fire escape when you are trying to dodge a tidal wave.

When you've got no time to save anyone but yourself you better believe

you're worth it and you are worth the time it takes to take the time to get to know you.

We've managed to muddle through the awkward stages of "I like you" and "do you like me"

and when we both said yes life became a multiple choice test; not knowing anything,

we became each others best guess. And holding your hand is less like exploration and more like discovery.

Lady, I don't have to study you to be sure you were the choice I made before

I knew what the other choices were.

And like the best idea I'll ever have I want you to occur to me daily.

And I'm sorry but I want to kiss you every time you have something incredible to say

but you're beautiful, beautiful in a "you" kind of way. You're like the long lost vinyl of Louis Armstrong

and I want to play you and play you until it skips.

I want to tell you a secret and I want you to listen with your lips.

I want my hands on your hips like they are on their final resting place and put that

funeral onto paper so you can trace their life time back to the fact that I'm more inclined

to find a space in your heart to haunt for as long as you want me too.

Lady, I'll rattle chains up and down the halls of you. And this

isn't the greatest romance of the world has ever seen.

Lets face it we've been making out to songs about break up and heart ache

but I've come to realize that romance should be less like a flower and more like an earthquake.

And I'm not saying I want to shake cities to the ground.

I'm not saying I want the rubble that remains to become a lost and found where we find

the kind of tolerance it takes to rebuild in the face of tragedy.

Because I'm tired of living in a world that says people only come together when faced with catastrophe.

I want you, to want me, to be the me you see when I'm free to be the me that got me next to you.

And as for romance? Well, I want that too.

I want to fall asleep next to you, 100 times a night,

so I can know you 100 times better before we hit the day light. And despite all of this,

I also want amnesia so I can relive each kiss with a perfect newness

that leaves me smashed in the arms of rapture. I want the sky to fracture under

the impossible weight of an apology because I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I want so much.

I'm sorry that I'm using "I'm sorry" as a crutch to lean on for so long

but if you sing me that song of sweet logic again then I promise to make the effort

to stand on my own. There is a reason that our hearts are more like a muscle

and less like a bone. I've known so many people who've have grown up flexing

in front of mirrors and falling for their own reflection as if that's adequate but that's bullshit.

Because we only get now until the time we go and if they've only got time to love themselves

then nobody is going to be around to hear the sound of their heartbeat echo.

So lady, don't expect an apology when I tell you I'm only held together

by a heart that pumps blue, it's the strongest muscle in my body and I'm flexing it for you.

Shane Koyczan

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One of my favourite poems

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,'The night is shattered

and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms

I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.

How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.

The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.

My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.

My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.

We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.

My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.

Her void. Her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms

my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer

and these the last verses that I write for her.

Pablo Neruda

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"Whenever I see you, sound fails, my tongue falters, thin fire steals through my limbs, an inner roar, and darkness shrouds my ears and eyes."

That's Sapphic, or so I'm led to understand. John Fowles calls it the greatest summation of love in European Literature.

It looks quite good in a Valentines card.

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  • 5 months later...

Pole Dancer

She pole-dances to gospel hymns.

Came out to her family in the middle of Thanksgiving grace.

I knew she was trouble

two years before our first date.

But my heart was a Labrador Retriever

with its head hung out the window of a car

tongue flapping in the wind

on a highway going 95

whenever she walked by.

So I mastered the art of crochet

and I crocheted her a winter scarf

and one night at the bar I gave it to her with a note

that said something like,

I hope this keeps your neck warm.

If it doesn't give me a call.

The key to finding love

is fucking up the pattern on purpose

is skipping a stitch,

is leaving a tiny, tiny hole to let the cold in

and hoping she mends it with your lips.

This morning I was counting her freckles.

She has five on the left side of her face, seven on the other

and I love her for every speck of trouble she is.

She's frickin' awesome.

Like popcorn at a drive-in movie

that neither of us has any intention of watching.

Like Batman and Robin

in a pick-up truck in the front row with the windows steamed up.

Like Pacman in the eighties,

she swallows my ghosts.

Slaps me on my dark side and says,

"Baby, this is the best day ever."

So I stop listening for the sound of the ocean

in the shells of bullets I hoped missed us

to see there are white flags from the tips of her toes

to her tear ducts

and I can wear her halos as handcuffs

'cause I don't wanna be a witness to this life,

I want to be charged and convicted,

ear lifted to her song like a bouquet of yes

because my heart is a parachute that has never opened in time

and I wanna fuck up that pattern,

leave a hole where the cold comes in and fill it every day with her sun,

'cause anyone who has ever sat in lotus for more than a few seconds

knows it takes a hell of a lot more muscle to stay than to go.

And I want to grow

strong as the last patch of sage on a hillside

stretching towards the lightning.

God has always been an arsonist.

Heaven has always been on fire.

She is a butterfly knife bursting from a cocoon in my belly.

Love is a half moon hanging above Baghdad

promising to one day grow full,

to pull the tides through our desert wounds

and fill every clip of empty shells with the ocean.

Already there is salt on my lips.

Lover, this is not just another poem.

This is my goddamn revolt.

I am done holding my tongue like a bible.

There is too much war in every verse of our silence.

We have all dug too many trenches away from ourselves.

This time I want to melt like a snowman in Georgia,

'til my smile is a pile of rocks you can pick up

and skip across the lake of your doubts.

Trust me,

I have been practicing my ripple.

I have been breaking into mannequin factories

and pouring my pink heart into their white paint.

I have been painting the night sky upon the inside of doorframes

so only moonshine will fall on your head in the earthquake.

I have been collecting your whispers and your whiplash

and your half-hour-long voice mail messages.

Lover, did you see the sunset tonight?

Did you see Neruda lay down on the horizon?

Do you know it was his lover who painted him red,

who made him stare down the bullet holes

in his country's heart?

I am not looking for roses.

I want to break like a fever.

I want to break like the Berlin Wall.

I want to break like the clouds

so we can see every fearless star,

how they never speak guardrail,

how they can only say fail.

- Andrea Gibson

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  • 4 months later...

Carol Ann Duffy

TEA

I like pouring your tea, lifting

the heavy pot, and tipping it up,

so the fragrant liquid streams in your china cup.

Or when you’re away, or at work,

I like to think of your cupped hands as you sip,

as you sip, of the faint half-smile of your lips.

I like the questions – sugar? – milk? –

and the answers I don’t know by heart, yet,

for I see your soul in your eyes, and I forget.

Jasmine, Gunpowder, Assam, Earl Grey, Ceylon,

I love tea’s names. Which tea would you like? I say

but it’s any tea for you, please, any time of day,

as the women harvest the slopes

for the sweetest leaves, on Mount Wu-Yi,

and I am your lover, smitten, straining your tea.

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