Poetry....Love In Verse

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, 'O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless--of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here--that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.' That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.

What will your verse be?"

-from Dead Poet's Society


Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

 

O Me! O Life!

 

O ME! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;

Of the endless trains of the faithless--of cities fill'd with the foolish;

Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)

Of eyes that vainly crave the light--of the objects mean--of the struggle ever renew'd;

Of the poor results of all--of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;

Of the empty and useless years of the rest--with the rest me intertwined;

The question, O me! so sad, recurring--What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here--that life exists, and identity;

That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.


e. e. cummings (1894-1962)

 

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

 

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully, mysteriously)her first rose

 

or if your wish be to close me,i and

my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

 

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility: whose texture

compels me with the colour of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

 

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands


Coventry Patmore (1823-1896)

 

The Revelation

 

An idle poet, here and there,

Looks around him; but, for all the rest,

The world, unfathomably fair,

Is duller than a witling's jest.

Love wakes men, once a lifetime each;

They lift their heavy lids, and look;

And, lo, what one sweet page can teach,

They read with joy, then shut the book.

And some give thanks, and some blaspheme

And most forget; but, either way,

That and the Child's unheeded dream

Is all the light of all their day.


Philip Sidney (1554-1586)

 

Loving in Truth

 

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,

That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain:

Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,

Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,

I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,

Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain:

Oft turning others' leaves to see if thence would flow

Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burn'd brain.

But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay,

Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows,

And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my way.

Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,

Biting my trewand pen, beating myself for spite,

Fool, said my Muse to me, look in thy heart and write.


William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

 

Sonnet CXVI: Let me not to marriage of true minds admit impediments

 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.


Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1770-1850)

 

Sonnets from the Portuguese, XIII

 

And wilt thou have me fashion into speech

The love I bear thee, finding words enough,

And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough,

Between our faces, to cast light on each ?--

I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach

My hand to hold my spirit so far off

From myself--me--that I should bring thee proof

In words, of love hid in me out of reach.

Nay, let the silence of my womanhood

Commend my woman-love to thy belief,--

Seeing that I stand unwon, however wooed,

And rend the garment of my life, in brief,

By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude,

Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief.

 

 

Sonnets from the Portuguese, XIV

 

If thou must love me, let it be for nought

Except for love's sake only. Do not say

'I love her for her smile--her look--her way

Of speaking gently,--for a trick of thought

That falls in well with mine, and certes brought

A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'--

For these things in themselves, Beloved, may

Be changed, or change for thee,--and love, so wrought,

May be unwrought so. Neither love me for

Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,--

A creature might forget to weep, who bore

Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby !

But love me for love's sake, that evermore

Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.


William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

 

The world is too much with us; late and soon

 

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.


Henry Reed (b. 1914)

 

Naming of Parts

 

To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday,

We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,

We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,

To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica

Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,

And to-day we have naming of parts.

 

This is the lower sling swivel. And this

Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,

When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,

Which in your case you have not got. The branches

Hold in the garden their silent, eloquent gestures,

Which in our case we have not got.

 

This is the safety-catch, which is always released

With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me

See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy

If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms

Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see

Any of them using their finger.

 

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this

Is to open the breech, as you can see. We can slide it

Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this

Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards

The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:

They call it easing the Spring.

 

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy

If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,

And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,

Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom

Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,

For to-day we have naming of parts.


Philip Larkin (b. 1922)

 

Next, Please

 

Always too eager for the future, we

Pick up bad habits of expectancy.

Something is always approaching; every day

Till then we say,

 

Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear,

Sparking armada of promises draw near.

How slow they are! And how much time they waste,

Refusing to make haste!

 

Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks

Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks

Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinkled,

Each rope distinct,

 

Flagged, and the figurehead with golden tits

Arching our way, it never anchors; it's

No sooner present than it turns to past.

Right to the last

 

We think each one will heave to and unload

All good into our lives, all we are owed

For waiting so devoutly and so long.

But we are wrong:

 

Only one ship is seeking us, a black-

Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back

A huge and birdless silence. In her wake

No waters breed or break.


Theodore Roethke (1908-1963)

 

I knew a woman

 

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,

When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;

Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:

The shapes a bright container can contain!

Of her choice virtues only gods could speak,

Or English poets who grew up on Greek

(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek).

 

How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,

She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and Stand,

She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin;

I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;

She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,

Coming behind her for her pretty sake

(But what prodigious mowing we did make).

 

Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:

Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;

She played it quick, she played it light and loose;

My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;

Her several parts could keep a pure repose,

Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose

(She moved in circles, and those circles moved).

 

Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay;

I'm martyr to a motion not my own;

What's freedom for? To know eternity.

I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.

But who would count eternity in days?

These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:

(I measure time by how a body sways).


Lord Byron (1788-1824)

 

She walks in beauty

 

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

 

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair'd the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!


Lord Byron (1788-1824)

 

When We Two Parted

 

When we two parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.

 

The dew of the morning

Sunk chill on my brow--

It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.

Thy vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame;

I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame.

 

They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me--

Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well:--

Long, long shall I rue thee,

Too deeply to tell.

 

In secret we met--

In silence I grieve

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?--

With silence and tears.


*August 96* - A. Linh Do ©

 

As we walked,

Hand-in-hand

through the journey of Life,

Our fate

Intertwined

Harmoniously

amidst the songs of melodic Uncertainty.

 

As we kissed,

Honored

by the passionate embraces of Love,

Our shadows

Overlapped

Inseparably

as if two souls were kissing.

 

As we laid,

Separated

by a thin layer of restrained moral veil,

Our thoughts

Interwoven

Sinuously

with the flaming threads of Desire.

 

So we slept,

Wearied

from the concerns of this World,

Our dreams

Merged

Boundlessly

like the blue ocean and its horizon.

 

Good night, may the angels of softness sing you the sweetest of all dreams.


Kahlil Gibran

 

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.

Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;

For love is sufficient unto love.

 

When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, " I am in the heart of God."

And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

 

Love has no other desire but to fulfil it self.

But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:

To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.

To know the pain of too much tenderness.

To be wounded by your own understanding of love;

And the bleed willingly and joyfully.

To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;

 

To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;

To return home at eventide with gratitude;

And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and song of praise upon your lips.


Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593)

 

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

 

Come live with me and be my Love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

That hills and valleys, dales and fields,

Or woods or sleepy mountain yields.

 

And we will sit upon the rocks,

And see the shepherds feed their flocks

By shallow rivers, to whose falls

Melodious birds sing madrigals.

 

And I will make thee beds of roses

And a thousand fragrant posies;

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

 

A gown made of the finest wool

Which from our pretty lambs we pull;

Fair-lined slippers for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold;

 

A belt of straw and ivy buds

With coral clasps and amber studs:

And if these pleasures may thee move

Come live with me and be my Love.

 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight each May morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me and be my Love.


Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618)

 

The Nymph's Reply to the Shepard

 

If all the world and love were young,

And truth in every shepherd's tongue,

These pretty pleasures might me move

To live with the and be thy love.

 

Time drives the flocks from field to fold

When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,

And Philomel becometh dumb;

The rest complains of cares to come.

 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields

To wayward winter reckoning yields;

A honey tongue, a heart of gall,

Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

 

Thy gowns, the shoes, thy beds of roses,

Thy cap, the kirtle, and thy posies

Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten--

In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

 

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,

Thy coral clasps and amber studs,

All these in me no means can move

To come to thee and be thy love.

 

But could youth last and love still breed,

Had joys no date nor age no need,

Then these delights my mind might move

To live with thee and be thy love.


C. Day Lewis (1904-1972)

 

Song

 

Come live with me and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

Of peace and plenty, bed and board,

That chance employment can afford.

 

I'll handle dainties on the docks

And thou shalt read of summer frocks:

At evening by the sour canals

We'll hope to hear some madrigals.

 

Care on the maiden brow shall put

A wreath of wrinkles, and thy foot

Be shod with pain: not silken dress

But toil shall tire thy loveliness.

 

Hunger shall make thy modest zone

And cheat fond death of all but bone--

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me and by my love.


William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

 

Sonnet XVIII: Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;

Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this and this gives life to thee.


Arthur O'Shaughnessy

 

Ode

 

We are the music-makers,

And we are the dreamers of dreams,

Wandering by lone sea-breakers,

And sitting by desolate streams;

World-losers and world-forsakers,

On whom the pale moon gleams:

Yet we are the movers and shakers

Of the world for ever, it seems.

 

With wonderful deathless ditties

We build up the world's great cities,

And out of a fabulous story

We fashion an empire's glory:

One man with a dream, at pleasure,

Shall go forth and conquer a crown;

And three with a new song's measure

Can trample an empire down.

 

We, in the ages lying

In the buried past of the earth,

Built Nineveh with our sighing,

And Babel itself with our mirth;

And o'erthrew them with prophesying

To the old of the new world's worth;

For each age is a dream that is dying,

Or one that is coming to birth.