Poems that mean something to you
Anonymous
little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
I won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
I won't blame you,
instead
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and I won't use it
yet.
“Raw With Love”
by Charles Bukowski
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
I won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
I won't blame you,
instead
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and I won't use it
yet.
“Raw With Love”
by Charles Bukowski
For Annie
Thank Heaven! the crisis,
The danger, is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last—
And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length—
But no matter!—I feel
I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead—
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:—ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
The sickness—the nausea—
The pitiless pain—
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain—
With the fever called "Living"
That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:—
I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst:—
Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground—
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed—
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting, its roses—
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies—
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies—
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie—
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast—
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead—
And I rest so contentedly,
Now in my bed
(With her love at my breast).
That you fancy me dead—
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead:—
But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie—
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie—
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
I was a fan of EA Poe for a while, at school at least.
Thank Heaven! the crisis,
The danger, is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last—
And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length—
But no matter!—I feel
I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead—
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:—ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
The sickness—the nausea—
The pitiless pain—
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain—
With the fever called "Living"
That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:—
I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst:—
Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground—
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed—
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting, its roses—
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies—
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies—
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie—
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast—
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead—
And I rest so contentedly,
Now in my bed
(With her love at my breast).
That you fancy me dead—
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead:—
But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie—
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie—
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
I was a fan of EA Poe for a while, at school at least.
Sonnet Xvii
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Pablo Neruda
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Pablo Neruda
I came to DUP to read a couple of comments of one of my poems, crossed that off the list and was about to log off when I saw this one tiny little thing on the notifications bar and I thought, hell, it might be something really special and so I came and the Neruda just knocked me haywire over teakettle. Wonderful. I must soon read it in Spanish.
So thank you so much for sharing that. One of my faves, just for you, is "Blue Girls" by John Crowe Ransom. I am four months shy of turning 80, and the Ransom poem has been with me for over four decades now. Hope you like it. --mrd
So thank you so much for sharing that. One of my faves, just for you, is "Blue Girls" by John Crowe Ransom. I am four months shy of turning 80, and the Ransom poem has been with me for over four decades now. Hope you like it. --mrd
Thank you for sharing. I love the British romantic poets best, and none more than Wordsworth. I was once asked at a job interview for a law-teaching position early in my career by the provost who interviewed me what book had the greatest impact on me, and I replied the collected works of William Wordsworth, especially Ode: Intimations of Immortality. It is one of the relatively few times in my life interviewing foe an academic post that I did not get an offer. I smile recalling that interview because the poor guy must still be scratching his head wondering what kind of fool alludes to poetry as the most important work he's every read when interviewing for a legal studies professorship. Well, I went on to greener pastures and did just fine in my field, but that answer still holds true whether or not anyone appreciates it.
I've dreamt of you so much, by Robert Desnos
I’ve dreamt of you so much you’re losing your reality.
Is there still time left to reach this living flesh and to kiss on that mouth the birth of the voice I hold so dear?
I’ve dreamt of you so much that my arms accustomed to, when embracing your shadow, to cross themselves on my chest wouldn’t shape to the contours of your body, perhaps.
And that, in front of the real face of what’s haunted me and governed me for days and years, I’d doubtless turn to shadow.
Oh sentimental scales.
I’ve dreamt of you so much there’s no more time, I fear, for me to wake. I sleep standing, my body exposed to all of the shapes of life and of love and you, the only one I care for anymore, I could no more touch your forehead or your lips than the first lips and the first forehead come.
I’ve dreamt of you so much, and walked, talked, slept with your ghost that I’ve nothing left perhaps, and yet, but to be a ghost among the ghosts and more shadow a hundred times more than the shadow that walks and will walk happily over the sundial of your life.
I’ve dreamt of you so much you’re losing your reality.
Is there still time left to reach this living flesh and to kiss on that mouth the birth of the voice I hold so dear?
I’ve dreamt of you so much that my arms accustomed to, when embracing your shadow, to cross themselves on my chest wouldn’t shape to the contours of your body, perhaps.
And that, in front of the real face of what’s haunted me and governed me for days and years, I’d doubtless turn to shadow.
Oh sentimental scales.
I’ve dreamt of you so much there’s no more time, I fear, for me to wake. I sleep standing, my body exposed to all of the shapes of life and of love and you, the only one I care for anymore, I could no more touch your forehead or your lips than the first lips and the first forehead come.
I’ve dreamt of you so much, and walked, talked, slept with your ghost that I’ve nothing left perhaps, and yet, but to be a ghost among the ghosts and more shadow a hundred times more than the shadow that walks and will walk happily over the sundial of your life.
