These are the facts, nothing here but the facts. I was on the road to Damascus via a street in the West Village in New York City, when, in an instant, barometric pressure had dropped 100 MB. Darkness enveloped an eleven-o’clock-morning sun. It may have been a trick of the mind, or some kind of serious panic disorder. Although I could no longer see, I pictured myself a child on a visit to my great grandmother's house in La Salle, Illinois. In my head I felt as though a tornado was approaching...
Showing posts with label poem about love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem about love. Show all posts
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SWEET TALK Out in Arizona my Dad grew roses. He embraced the great merit, Loved to say, How he enjoyed cultivating his own garden. That spot he tended along side the house, It was the love of his retirement. I saw those roses disporting, Performing and they were real pretty, Showing off their tightly petaled spiraling centers. Seems they climbed the trellises just to flaunt, Dazzle the onlooker with the grace of their towering ascent, And what beauty in their many colors, Their outfits boasting red, and pink, And the truest bright of yellow, While others bore garb, Which were infussed with hues of gold and orange. With that said, and knowlingly I set to rivalry with nature, What once for me had remained secret and unspoken, This time I’ll express my feelings loud and clear, Now one and all will hear. Those roses never flowered like you. No! They never looked the way, The way you looked tonight, darling. No doubt some may find this verse coy, No more than borrowed phrase and imagery, Notions common in the language of the heart, Yet I swear to it. I tell the truth, The same as if I stood in court of law My right hand raised, the left upon the Holy Book. By solemn oath I declare, My flattery means to please your heart, The same as would the wrappings on any special gift. So help me, honey, know these words, My terms of endearment, honest and sincere.
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ETTA, 1958
He had twisted his ankle. His foot was swollen and it ached. It hurt to the degree that he could no longer concentrate. He had lost the capacity to figure. His mind no longer able to grasp even very simple things, His eyes appeared vacant, as if in a trance. He was young and he kissed the back of her hand, He kissed her about the face, He kissed her eyelids, And he rested his lips at the base of her neck. He had kissed the skin all-over both her shoulders. He and she were minors, and their ardency, Its possible consequence worried their parents. There was no question about the boy being strong. Within the warmth of a late August, summer night, The couple walked hand in hand along a dirt path. They followed a trail along side truck-farm fields, Alternate tracts of cabbage and corn, Which then became a shortcut, A line through an expanse of crabgrass scrub. The land rose a few inches, Slightly above the counter-sunk, worn-earth channel, Suggesting a beaten path, a safe passage, Perhaps once a native American footway, Of an age older than most would dream. They headed toward an old Dutch Elm. The tree grew beside the muddy bank of a creek, Whose occasional flow emptied west into a river, A river the early French settlers had named Des Plaines. They thought that they might sail away upon the waters. The Milky Way seemed to stretch out across The vault of deep space more like some Will-o-wisp patch of terrestrial weather Than the starry edge of our own galaxy. Yet more, much more than the taste of salt -- The tiny sweat above her brows, more than how Moisture had collected and now had formed Fetchingly to glisten upon her shoulders, It was a night whose such awesome, absolute clarity Enhanced a once-in-a-life-time, white light streak, At its end a mighty, bright flash erased the sky. Though now near midnight, all nature cast a quick shadow. The day's heat permeated the late summer evening. They were standing before the great Dutch Elm, The tree beside the muddy bank of the creek, The small, occasional water emptying west into the river, The river the early French settlers had named Des Plaines. In a momentary all-over illumination, The youths saw their silhouette. They were merged as one. They saw themselves fused into a single shade. A snap of thunder followed, and, there, in the instant, All of heavenly influence fell upon their embrace. And when they turned and gazed upon each other, Before either of them spoke a word, They had come to believe that In a book all their days had been written. The verse which enfolds telling of this one moment Had already been composed. Though still no gathering of the waters into the seas, Prior to Earth's becoming the name for dry land, Likewise before the glory of first morning or first sun's set, Even before the beginning when the Spirit of God Announced light and illuminated the darkness, They had been granted affection. Before the beginning, Before the Lord brought into being The blazing brilliance across the infinite deep, And called it good, They had been blessed with ever grateful remembrance. This one moment had already been written.
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PEARL NECKLACE I shall travel to Hyderabad, And there select for you the very best of pearls. The stars have already wrought anklets to adore your feet. I plan to use the power of my tears To knot a strand of special luster to lay about your neck. Wealth and fame will come from you; These are things that Destiny has ordained. Yet this my sorrow remains absolutely my own. Behold the luminosity of the nacre, and appraise How the space tied between each of the jewels conspires, Enhances the subtlety of the array now falling upon your breasts. Touch
with your fingers the magic of the spherical splendor. Walk
to the mirror, look upon yourself -- what value, What
elegance yours at the expense of my misery!
I
call upon you. Turn your heart about. Hurry
home! Hurry back to my lips,
And
let me hold you in my arms again.
*An
Original Poem Adapted After Tagore’s “Chain of
Pearls,” Rabindranath
Thakur, anglicised to Tagore, He sometimes is refered to by his
nickname, Gurudev. An Inidian poet, Bengali, he
had been awarded the Noble Prize for Literature in 1913.
