and some pomes:
Wild Geese – Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains, and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
After Awhile – by Veronica A. Shoffstall
After awhile you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul
And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning,
And company doesn't mean security,
And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts,
And presents aren't promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes open,
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And learn to build your roads on today because tomorrow's ground
is too uncertain for plans, and futures have a way of falling down in mid–flight.
After awhile you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone else to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure...
That you really are strong,
And you really do have worth.
And you learn and learn...
With every goodbye, you learn.
Cri de Couer – Virginia Graham (Punch)
With an escort on whom I am keen to make an impression
I behave like a fool, and grovel and drool,
With a worshipping spaniel expression.
When my escort is boring, my poise never flags for a minute,
I'm a roaring success when I couldn't care less –
There's no future in it!
Attempting to Learn the Language of Love – Steven Reinke
I. I only. I only want. I only want you. I only want you to. I only want you to tell. I only want you to tell me what. I only want you to tell me what you. I only want you to tell me what you want. Only want you to tell me what you want. Want you to tell me what you want. You tell me what you want. To tell me what you want. Tell me what you want. Me what you want. What you want. You want. Want.
Not That It Matters In The Least (Punch)
O, the sun is making magic on the sea–embroidered sand
And the water's making music of her wild and wayward will
And the world is warm and war–less and the sandwiches are grand,
And the sight of you is more exciting still!
Coloured bubbles come and caper to the waves' unruly beat
While the rocks lie back and wriggle in the sullage of the sea
And the sunlight and the sea–light and the smell of potted meat
Are the only things that count for you and me.
You can see the sponges squirming in the still, sequestered pools
That are foundlings of the ocean they can echo with a lisp,
And the porpoises proceeding in their solemn public schools,
And the lettuces – so curly, cool and crisp.
You can find the quaintest sea–shells with the queerest sort of mess
In the complicated catacombs of almost every one
And the slightly shocking sea–weed with its slithery caress
And the cider scintillating in the sun.
And it's here among the starfish I am wanting rather badly
To embrace you with the breezes and the surf discreetly sprayed
To inform you that I love you and would perish for you gladly
And to mention, just in passing, that the corkscrew's been mislaid.
Seagulls – Humbert Wolfe
The gifts of song and flight are separate,
The thrush and blackbird are content to be
Pedestrians of the air. Of her own weight,
It seems, the lark falls upward precipitously.
But over the ice of the wind the swallows skate
On their wings' outside edge their flawless 3,
Nor could old Euclid's self assimilate
The gull's celestial geometry.
When birds were still at twilight in February
I watched while rain was flogging Thames with looped
And windy thongs, diagonally dull,
How suddenly through gloom and sleet and flurry
With motion bright as torches, rose and stooped
The Phoenix resurrection of a gull.
A Love Poem – Virginia Graham (from Punch)
When I am in the desert of a dinner party,
or sitting on some tired, smoke–wreathed committee,
or listening to a speech about the United Nations,
my thoughts run to you, my darling, as swiftly as winged antelopes.
In the noise and confusion I come to you who are quiet,
from the impermeable boredom of conversation
I turn to the sound of your voice,
and the horrible secret faces of strangers
merge into yours which I know and love so well.
You will understand this, and yet when I tell you
that yesterday I was swept with a wild wave of love for you
standing beside a counter of pickled peaches
in Portman and Jason's,
you will not understand. Indeed, it was very surprising.
