Love is a universal migraine,
A bright stain on the vision
Blotting out reason.
Symptoms of true love
Are leanness, jealousy,
Are omens and nightmares—
Listening for a knock,
Waiting for a sign:
For a touch of her fingers
In a darkened room,
For a searching look.
Take courage, lover!
Could you endure such grief
At any hand but hers?
—Robert Graves (b.1895- d.1985)
Note: This is not my work. The image belongs to Wikipedia.
The Plague Doctor speaks French
Scratch wall, restrain truth
A second rain
This ache vexes me
Je ne sais pas!
She will always be my fever
because of her Goddamn lyrical breath
I’ve never had the pleasure
of knowing her against a wall
Only in her well,
where she is caked in earth
and imaginary dust
Her voice makes a cross
and her passions make me cross
my legs on Tequila.
What a lovely burn that is
and a shame that I cannot set it free.
I’m afraid to ask God about the apples. If I asked, I’m certain he would say, Maybe it doesn’t make sense now. Just wait. No, nothing about this makes any sense. These apples are poisoned, draining me in the prime of my youth. But I will say this: I have never tasted anything sweeter.
My love is of a birth as rare
As ’tis for object strange and high;
It was begotten by Despair
Magnanimous Despair alone
Could show me so divine a thing
Where feeble Hope could ne’er have flown,
But vainly flapp’d its tinsel wing.
And yet I quickly might arrive
Where my extended soul is fixt,
But Fate does iron wedges drive,
And always crowds itself betwixt.
For Fate with jealous eye does see
Two perfect loves, nor lets them close;
Their union would her ruin be,
And her tyrannic pow’r depose.
And therefore her decrees of steel
Us as the distant poles have plac’d,
(Though love’s whole world on us doth wheel)
Not by themselves to be embrac’d;
Unless the giddy heaven fall,
And earth some new convulsion tear;
And, us to join, the world should all
Be cramp’d into a planisphere.
As lines, so loves oblique may well
Themselves in every angle greet;
But ours so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
Therefore the love which us doth bind,
But Fate so enviously debars,
Is the conjunction of the mind,
And opposition of the stars.
— Andrew Marvell (b.1621-d.1678)
This is one of my favorite poems. I just thought I’d share it with you.
Note: This is not my work and the image belongs to Wikipedia.
Tuesday Anne, I call her
I hold no candles to her burning urgency
She is vivid and couldn’t be any more vivid
when she tells me I am colorblind
If I could touch her, just once,
maybe only then,
would I wake up in the dark
and finally begin.