Famous Love Poems

Live With Me On Earth Under the Invisible Daylight Moon

Live with me on Earth among red berries and the bluebirds
And leafy young twigs whispering
Within such little spaces, between such floors of green, such
figures in the clouds
That two of us could fill our lives with delicate wanting:

Where stars past the spruce copse mingle with fireflies
Or the dayscape flings a thousand tones of light back at the
sun—
Be any one of the colours of an Earth lover;
Walk with me and sometimes cover your shadow with mine.

I Shout Love

I shout love in a blizzard's
scarf of curling cold,
for my heart's a furred sharp-toothed thing
that rushes out whimpering
when pain cries the sign writ on it.

I shout love into your pain
when skies crack and fall
like slivers of mirrors,
and rounded fingers, blued as a great rake,
pluck the balled yarn of your brain.

I shout love at petals peeled open
by stern nurse fusion-bomb sun,
terribly like an adhesive bandage,
for love and pain, love and pain
are companions in this age.

The Island

Since I'm Island-born home's as precise
as if a mumbly old carpenter,
shoulder-straps crossed wrong,
laid it out, refigured
to the last three-eighths of shingle.

Nowhere that plowcut worms
heal themselves in red loam;
spruces squat, skirts in sand
or the stones of a river rattle its dark
tunnel under the elms,
is there a spot not measured by hands;
no direction I couldn't walk
to the wave-lined edge of home.

Quiet shores -- beaches that roar
but walk two thousand paces and the sea
becomes an odd shining
glimpse among the jeweled
zigzag low hills. Any wonder
your eyelashes are wings
to fly your look both in and out?
In the coves of the land all things are discussed.

In the ranged jaws of the Gulf,
a red tongue.
Indians say a musical God
took up his brush and painted it,
named it in His own language
"The Island".

I Should Love To Be Loved

I am neither infant nor happy grandfather
Nor parent, nor lover
Of anyone, of anyone.
I am, as every man is, Majesty,
The North Pole, the Secret, the Stranger,
The will-o'-the-wisp in the distance, the will-o'-the-wisp in the distance.
But alas! I cannot remain this way.
I should like to show myself to the world,
So that someone sees me, so that someone sees me.

This is why I sing and I torment myself.
I should love to be loved.
I wish to be of someone, I wish to be of someone.

Because You Love Me

Your eyes are mirrors
of blessed marvels,
for they have seen me;
you are the mistress,
the cunning woman
of the caress.
A thousand times blessed
are you as woman,
for you have seen me
and looked at me.
Because you love me
I also love you,
because you love me
you are the woman,
you are the fair.

The Magyar Fallow

I walk on meadows run to weed,
on fields of burdock and mallow.
I know this rank and ancient ground -
this is the Magyar fallow.
I bow down to the sacred soil;
this virgin ground is gnawed I fear.
You skyward groping seedy weeds,
are there no flowers here?
While I look at the slumbering earth,
the twisting vines encircle me,
and scent of long dead flowers steep
my senses amorously.
Silence. I am dragged down and roofed
and lulled in burdock and in mallow.
A mocking wind goes whisking by
above the mighty fallow.

Behold My Treasures, Darling

Behold my treasures, darling,
they are less than a Biblical farthing,
behold the fate of a true and faithful life,
look at my grey hairs departing.
I didn't wander afar
sadly I was proud to be a Magyar,
and I got a misery, woe, misfortune
and I have reaped troubles galore.
At loving I was pretty good
couldn't be outdone even by a God
as I conceived of it as a child.
Look at me now, in pain, blood, and fever defiled.
If you hadn't come mt way
my lamenting mouth would have nothing to say
behold the mockers of integrity
sending me into the coffin.
Behold me with your love, my darling,
it was you I found while fleeing,
and if there's a smile left in this loathsome world
you are the smile of my heart.
Behold my treasures, my darling,
they're less than the Biblical farthing,
let them be dark and youthful to you,
look at my grey hairs departing.

In Front Of Good Prince Silence

I walk the forest in the moonlight
Whistle through my chattery teeth
Stalking behind me ten feet tall
Good Prince Silence
Mercy, I tremble, dare not turn.

Mercy, I tremble, dare not turn,
And dare not gaze up, up to the moon:
One false movement, one needless sound
Good Prince Silence
Would step on me and tread me down.

Longing For Love

Neither the issue nor the sire,
neither fulfilment nor desire
am I for anyone,
am I for anyone.
I am as all men, the sunless sea,
the alien thule, mystery,
a fleeing wisp of light,
a fleeing wisp of light.
But I must look for friends and brothers;
I want to show myself to others
that seeing they will see,
that seeing they will see.
For this my lyric masochism;
I long to close the gaping schism,
and thus belong somewhere,
and thus belong somewhere.

I Guard Your Eyes

With my old man's wrinkled hand,
with my old man's squinting eyes,
let me hold your lovely hand,
let me guard your lovely eyes.
Worlds have tumbled, through their fall
like a wild beast chased by fright
I came, and I on you did call
scared, I wait with you inside.
With my old man's wrinkled hand,
with my old man's squinting eyes,
let me hold your lovely hand,
let me guard your lovely eyes.
I do not know why, how long
can I thus remain for you -
but I hold your lovely hand
and I guard your lovely eyes.

Life Terrifies Me

Holy ecstasy-swans on great glad Waters
Seize me, but in vain.
I hear the gaggling of sensible ganders,
Nothing can remain,
There is nothing to last.

I hear my future faltering sobs
When I'm still smiling,
And when dark ravens are cawing in my soul
A chirpy starling
Will cheerily chime in.

My longings frighten me. Fulfilment follows
And I'll feel defiled.
I dread contentment. Behind it storms the steed
Of passion, the Wild.
Oh, life terrifies me.

The Lost Rider

We hear the blind and aimless galloping
Of an errant rider from the days gome by:
The shackled souls of sunken forests moan
As ancient marshes waken with a sigh.

Where here and there the thickets, coppices
Are choked in patches, densely in a strife,
The spectres of the ancient wintry tales
Are now awakened to a sudden life.

Here are the thickets, here the coppices.
Here are the dismal tunes of bygone choirs:
They have been hidden in a murky fog
Since martial times of our grim, gallant sires.

Dreary and haunted are the autumn days,
The people numbert less and always less;
And on the hill-surrounded swampy plain
November walks encloaked in foggy dress.

The naked plain begins quite suddenly
To nurture reeds and marsh of rotten trees,
Concealing its November foggy self
In gloomy mists of bygone centuries.

Nothing but blood, nothing but mystery,
Nothing but pressures, forefathers mystify;
Nothing but forests, marshes, reeds and canes,
Nothing but madmen of the days gone by.

The errant rider from the long ago
Follows the path along the recent swale;
There is mo light, there are no burning lamps,
There are no villages along the trail.

The villages are mutely slumbering,
Freezing they dream of bygones in their lair
As from the foggy thickets rush and fun
The bison, wolf and, ragingly, the bear.

We hear the blind and aimless galloping
Of an errant rider from the days gone by;
The shackled souls of sunken forests moan
As ancient marshes waken with a sigh.

Path

Near the open road
And woods under the snow
A point that lifts the night
A lamp keeps watch
Upon the white face
the lowered eyelids
Upon the bare wall
the closed shutters
Ruts in the soil come together
The bridge nearer
And cubes all about
Shapes
Objects
The mystery of doors
We step across emotion barring the road
And without turning we continue onward
The house will not follow
The house is watching us
From between two trees
its red topknot
and white brow
Silence lingers

To Double Lock

I am so far from the voices
From the festival’s distant murmur
The foaming mill wheel turns back
The sob of spring water ceases
The hour has painfully glided
Over the moon’s great beaches
And in the cramped warm spaces without a crevice
I sleep head upon elbow
In the calm desert within the lamp’s circle
Terrible time inhuman time
Hunted along muddy sidewalks
Far from the limpid amphitheatre that declines glasses
Far from the decanted song born of leisure
In a bitter tussle of laughter between the teeth
A faded sorrow quaking at your roots
I prefer death forgetfulness dignity
I am so far away when I contemplate all I love

The Deeper Shadow

Not they not anything not even He
Stairs in the branches climbing the clouds
You can’t find the number or the street or the name
of the blue roads traced by roof corners and by
straight lines of balconies
But the wall stretches from the door to the ramp that
mounts swiftly without stirring
The same motion makes us bend toward smoke that
distorts stiff houses in the foreground
And my gaze falls from on high over the city where
streets all conform to the same pattern
Sky hangs crooked over the water
We have to be ready for anything
At this still untidy point of the horizon
A magnetic steeple draws a dark bird wheeling with
night
A cloud passes a little lower and an airplane as
lithe as a wave and a horse leaps noiselessly
And men in hiding animals that gaze the drooping
trees even stones come asunder
Then the huge bird flies off once more
Swollen with the wind
His wings wounded by stars

Tourist

'Twas in a village in Lorraine

Whose name I quite forget,

I found I needfully was fain

To buy a serviette.

I sought a shop wherein they sell

Such articles as these,

And told a smiling mademoiselle;

'I want a towel, please.'

'Of kinds,' said she, 'I've only two,'

And took the bundles down;

And one was coloured azure blue,

And one was khaki brown.

With doubt I scratched my hoary head;

The quality was right;

The size too, yet I gravely said:

'Too bad you haven't white.'

That pretty maid had sunny hair,

Her gaze was free from guile,

And while I hesitated there

She watched me with a smile.

Then as I went to take the blue

She said 'Non' meaning no.

'Ze khaki ones are best, M'sieu:

Ze dirts zey do not show.'

The Black Dudeen

Humping it here in the dug-out,

Sucking me black dudeen,

I'd like to say in a general way,

There's nothing like Nickyteen;

There's nothing like Nickyteen, me boys,

Be it pipes or snipes or cigars;

So be sure that a bloke

Has plenty to smoke,

If you wants him to fight your wars.

When I've eat my fill and my belt is snug,

I begin to think of my baccy plug.

I whittle a fill in my horny palm,

And the bowl of me old clay pipe I cram.

I trim the edges, I tamp it down,

I nurse a light with an anxious frown;

I begin to draw, and my cheeks tuck in,

And all my face is a blissful grin;

And up in a cloud the good smoke goes,

And the good pipe glimmers and fades and glows;

In its throat it chuckles a cheery song,

For I likes it hot and I likes it strong.

Oh, it's good is grub when you're feeling hollow,

But the best of a meal's the smoke to follow.

There was Micky and me on a night patrol,

Having to hide in a fizz-bang hole;

And sure I thought I was worse than dead

Wi' them crump-crumps hustlin' over me head.

Sure I thought 'twas the dirty spot,

Hammer and tongs till the air was hot.

And mind you, water up to your knees.

And cold! A monkey of brass would freeze.

And if we ventured our noses out

A "typewriter" clattered its pills about.

The Field of Glory! Well, I don't think!

I'd sooner be safe and snug in clink.

Then Micky, he goes and he cops one bad,

He always was having ill-luck, poor lad.

Says he: "Old chummy, I'm booked right through;

Death and me 'as a wrongday voo.

But . . . 'aven't you got a pinch of shag? --

I'd sell me perishin' soul for a fag."

And there he shivered and cussed his luck,

So I gave him me old black pipe to suck.

And he heaves a sigh, and he takes to it

Like a babby takes to his mammy's tit;

Like an infant takes to his mother's breast,

Poor little Micky! he went to rest.

But the dawn was near, though the night was black,

So I left him there and I started back.

And I laughed as the silly old bullets came,

For the bullet ain't made wot's got me name.

Yet some of 'em buzzed onhealthily near,

And one little blighter just chipped me ear.

But there! I got to the trench all right,

When sudden I jumped wi' a start o' fright,

And a word that doesn't look well in type:

I'd clean forgotten me old clay pipe.

So I had to do it all over again,

Crawling out on that filthy plain.

Through shells and bombs and bullets and all --

Only this time -- I do not crawl.

I run like a man wot's missing a train,

Or a tom-cat caught in a plump of rain.

I hear the spit of a quick-fire gun

Tickle my heels, but I run, I run.

Through crash and crackle, and flicker and flame,

(Oh, the packet ain't issued wot's got me name!)

I run like a man that's no ideer

Of hunting around for a sooveneer.

I run bang into a German chap,

And he stares like an owl, so I bash his map.

And just to show him that I'm his boss,

I gives him a kick on the parados.

And I marches him back with me all serene,

Wiv, tucked in me grup, me old dudeen.

Sitting here in the trenches

Me heart's a-splittin' with spleen,

For a parcel o' lead comes missing me head,

But it smashes me old dudeen.

God blast that red-headed sniper!

I'll give him somethin' to snipe;

Before the war's through

Just see how I do

That blighter that smashed me pipe.

Winnie

When I went by the meadow gate

The chestnut mare would trot to meet me,

And as her coming I would wait,

She'd whinney high as if to greet me.

And I would kiss her silky nose,

And stroke her neck until it glistened,

And speak soft words: I don't suppose

She understand; but how she listened!

Then in the war-net I was caught,

Returning three black winters older;

And when the little mare I sought

The farmer told me he had sold her.

And so time passed; when in the street

One day I heard a plaintive whinney

That roused a recollection sweet,

So then I turned and there was Winnie.

I vow she knew me, mooning there.

She raised her nose for me to fondle,

And though I'd lost an arm I'll swear

She kissed the empty sleeve a-dangle.

But oh it cut me to the heart,

Though I was awful glad to meet her,

For lo! she dragged a tinker's cart

And stumbled weakly as he beat her.

Just skin and bone, a sorry hack!

Say, fellow, you may think it funny:

I made a deal and bought her back,

Though it took all my bonus money.

And she'll be in the meadow there,

As long as I have dough for spending . . .

Gee! I'll take care of that old mare -

"Sweetheart! you'll have a happy ending."

Two Graves

First Ghost

To sepulcher my mouldy bones

I bough a pile of noble stones,

And half a year a sculptor spent

To hew my marble monument,

The stateliest to rear its head

In all this city of the dead.

And generations passing through

Will gape, and ask: What did he do

To earn this tomb so rich and rare,

In Attic grace beyond compare?

How was his life in honour spent,

To worthy this proud monument?

What did I do" Well, nothing much.

'Tis true I had the Midas touch.

A million pounds I made wherewith

To glorify the name: John Smith;

Yet not a soul wept for me when

Death raft me from my fellow men.

My sculptor wins undying fame,

While I, who paid, am just a name.

Second Ghost

A wooden cross surveys my bones,

With on it stenciled: Peter Jones.

And round it are five hundred more;

(A proper job did old man War!)

So young they were, so fresh, so fit,

So hopeful; that's the hell of it.

The old are sapped and ripe to die,

But in the flush of Spring was I.

I might have fathered children ten,

To come to grips with sterling men;

And now a cross in weeds to rot,

Is all to show how fierce I fought.

The old default, the young must pay;

My life was wasted, thrown away.

While people gladden, to forget

The bitterness of vein regret,

With not a soul to morn for me

My skull grins up in mockery.

. . . Pale crosses greet the grieving stars,

And always will be; War and Wars.

Remorse

That scathing word I used in scorn

(Though half a century ago)

Comes back to me this April morn,

Like boomerang to work me woe;

Comes back to me with bitter blame

(Though apple boughs are blossoming),

And oh! the anguish of my shame

Is sharper than a serpent's sting!

Age sensitizes us to pain,

And when remembrance of some word

We spoke in wrath return again,

It stab is like a driven sword. . . .

And if in some celestial span

Our hearts in penitence may bleed

For all the hurt we've done to man -

Ah, that would be a hell indeed!

So friends, be careful of your words,

Though other breasts may meet their steel,

Lest they return like vengeful swords,

Till yours the wounds that never heal,

For Age the heart to mercy mellows;

Foul memories haunt like evil elves:

let us be gentle to our fellows,

And win God's mercy for ourselves.

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