What's your favorite love poem by a famous author?
Anonymous
Woman by Charles Bukowski
This head like a saucer
decorated with everything
as lip to lip we hang
in mechanical joy;
my hands blaze with arias
but I think of books
on anatomy,
and I fall from you
as nations burn in anger…
to recover from most pitiful error
and rebuild, this is it
loss and mending
until they take us in
the glory of a saturday afternoon
like biting into an old peach
and you walk across the room
heavy with everything
except my love.
This head like a saucer
decorated with everything
as lip to lip we hang
in mechanical joy;
my hands blaze with arias
but I think of books
on anatomy,
and I fall from you
as nations burn in anger…
to recover from most pitiful error
and rebuild, this is it
loss and mending
until they take us in
the glory of a saturday afternoon
like biting into an old peach
and you walk across the room
heavy with everything
except my love.
I memorised this poem during high school days and have never forgotten it. I was not constrained by school assignment or compulsory analysis: rather, I stumbled upon the sonnet and fell in love with love loftier than I could myself express it.
Let Me Not to the Marriage of True Minds (Sonnet 116), by William Shakespeare
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixéd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Let Me Not to the Marriage of True Minds (Sonnet 116), by William Shakespeare
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixéd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Anonymous
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My favorite love poem is Bright Star by John Keats......
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
zosogirl7 said:My favorite love poem is Bright Star by John Keats......
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
The Rose In The Deeps Of His Heart - Poem by William Butler Yeats
All things uncomely and broken,
All things worn-out and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway,
The creak of a lumbering cart,
The heavy steps of the ploughman,
splashing the wintry mould,
Are wronging your image that blossoms
A rose in the deeps of my heart.
The wrong of unshapely things
Is a wrong too great to be told;
I hunger to build them anew
And sit on a green knoll apart,
With the earth and the sky and the water,
Remade, like a casket of gold
For my dreams of your image that blossoms
A rose in the deeps of my heart.
I came across this one some years ago and never forgot it.
The Invitation by Oriah
It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon...
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.
I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.
I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.
It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.
I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”
It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.
I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.
By Oriah © Mountain Dreaming,
from the book The Invitation
published by HarperONE, San Francisco,
1999 All rights reserved
The Invitation by Oriah
It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon...
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.
I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.
I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.
It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.
I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”
It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.
I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.
By Oriah © Mountain Dreaming,
from the book The Invitation
published by HarperONE, San Francisco,
1999 All rights reserved
Bride and Groom Lie Hidden for Three Days
by Ted Hughes
She gives him his eyes, she found them
Among some rubble, among some beetles
He gives her her skin
He just seemed to pull it down out of the air and lay it over her
She weeps with fearfulness and astonishment
She has found his hands for him, and fitted them freshly at the wrists
They are amazed at themselves, they go feeling all over her
He has assembled her spine, he cleaned each piece carefully
And sets them in perfect order
A superhuman puzzle but he is inspired
She leans back twisting this way and that, using it and laughing
Incredulous
Now she has brought his feet, she is connecting them
So that his whole body lights up
And he has fashioned her new hips
With all fittings complete and with newly wound coils, all shiningly oiled
He is polishing every part, he himself can hardly believe it
They keep taking each other to the sun, they find they can easily
To test each new thing at each new step
And now she smoothes over him the plates of his skull
So that the joints are invisible
And now he connects her throat, her breasts and the pit of her stomach
With a single wire
She gives him his teeth, tying the the roots to the centrepin of his body
He sets the little circlets on her fingertips
She stiches his body here and there with steely purple silk
He oils the delicate cogs of her mouth
She inlays with deep cut scrolls the nape of his neck
He sinks into place the inside of her thighs
So, gasping with joy, with cries of wonderment
Like two gods of mud
Sprawling in the dirt, but with infinite care
They bring each other to perfection.
by Ted Hughes
She gives him his eyes, she found them
Among some rubble, among some beetles
He gives her her skin
He just seemed to pull it down out of the air and lay it over her
She weeps with fearfulness and astonishment
She has found his hands for him, and fitted them freshly at the wrists
They are amazed at themselves, they go feeling all over her
He has assembled her spine, he cleaned each piece carefully
And sets them in perfect order
A superhuman puzzle but he is inspired
She leans back twisting this way and that, using it and laughing
Incredulous
Now she has brought his feet, she is connecting them
So that his whole body lights up
And he has fashioned her new hips
With all fittings complete and with newly wound coils, all shiningly oiled
He is polishing every part, he himself can hardly believe it
They keep taking each other to the sun, they find they can easily
To test each new thing at each new step
And now she smoothes over him the plates of his skull
So that the joints are invisible
And now he connects her throat, her breasts and the pit of her stomach
With a single wire
She gives him his teeth, tying the the roots to the centrepin of his body
He sets the little circlets on her fingertips
She stiches his body here and there with steely purple silk
He oils the delicate cogs of her mouth
She inlays with deep cut scrolls the nape of his neck
He sinks into place the inside of her thighs
So, gasping with joy, with cries of wonderment
Like two gods of mud
Sprawling in the dirt, but with infinite care
They bring each other to perfection.
The Place Above Time
My Law
(Attributed to the Maori)
The sun may be clouded, yet ever the sun,
Will sweep on its course till the Cycle is run.
And when into chaos the system is hurled,
Again shall the Builder reshape a new world.
Your path may be clouded, uncertain your goal,
Move on -- for your orbit is fixed to your soul.
And though it may lead into darkness of night,
The torch of the Builder shall give it new light.
You were, You will be! Know this while you are,
Your spirit has traveled both long and afar.
It came from the Source, to the Source it returns,
The spark which was lighted eternally burns.
It slept in a jewel, it leapt in a wave,
It roamed in the forest, it rose from the grave.
It took on strange garbs for eons of years,
And now in the soul of yourself it appears.
From body to body your spirit speeds on,
It seeks a new form when the old one is gone.
And the form that it finds is the fabric you wrought,
From the lives you’ve had, and the loves you’ve lost.
As dew is drawn upwards, in rain to descend,
Your thoughts drift away and in destiny blend.
You cannot escape them for petty or great,
Or evil or noble, they fashion your Fate.
Somewhere on some planet, sometime and somehow,
Your life will reflect your thoughts of your Now.
My Law is unerring, no blood can atone,
The structure you build, you will live in -- alone.
From cycle to cycle through time and space,
Your lives with your longings will ever keep pace.
And all that you ask for, and all you desire,
Must come at your bidding, as flame out of fire.
Once list’ to that voice and all tumult is done,
Your life is the life of the Infinite one.
In the hurrying race you are conscious of pause,
With Love for the Purpose, and Love for the Cause:
You are your own Devil, you are your own God,
You fashion the paths your footsteps have trod.
And no one can save you from error or SIN,
Until you have harked to the Spirit within...
~ Tieme Ranapiri
My Law
(Attributed to the Maori)
The sun may be clouded, yet ever the sun,
Will sweep on its course till the Cycle is run.
And when into chaos the system is hurled,
Again shall the Builder reshape a new world.
Your path may be clouded, uncertain your goal,
Move on -- for your orbit is fixed to your soul.
And though it may lead into darkness of night,
The torch of the Builder shall give it new light.
You were, You will be! Know this while you are,
Your spirit has traveled both long and afar.
It came from the Source, to the Source it returns,
The spark which was lighted eternally burns.
It slept in a jewel, it leapt in a wave,
It roamed in the forest, it rose from the grave.
It took on strange garbs for eons of years,
And now in the soul of yourself it appears.
From body to body your spirit speeds on,
It seeks a new form when the old one is gone.
And the form that it finds is the fabric you wrought,
From the lives you’ve had, and the loves you’ve lost.
As dew is drawn upwards, in rain to descend,
Your thoughts drift away and in destiny blend.
You cannot escape them for petty or great,
Or evil or noble, they fashion your Fate.
Somewhere on some planet, sometime and somehow,
Your life will reflect your thoughts of your Now.
My Law is unerring, no blood can atone,
The structure you build, you will live in -- alone.
From cycle to cycle through time and space,
Your lives with your longings will ever keep pace.
And all that you ask for, and all you desire,
Must come at your bidding, as flame out of fire.
Once list’ to that voice and all tumult is done,
Your life is the life of the Infinite one.
In the hurrying race you are conscious of pause,
With Love for the Purpose, and Love for the Cause:
You are your own Devil, you are your own God,
You fashion the paths your footsteps have trod.
And no one can save you from error or SIN,
Until you have harked to the Spirit within...
~ Tieme Ranapiri
"Are you the new person drawn toward me?"
Are you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with, take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?
Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy'd satisfaction?
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
Do you see no further than this facade, this smooth and tolerant manner of me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic man?
Have you no thought, O dreamer, that it may be all maya, illusion?
------Walt Whitman
i posted this on my Facebook profile about 13 hrs ago -- definitely a favorite of mine among hundreds of authors
Are you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with, take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?
Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy'd satisfaction?
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
Do you see no further than this facade, this smooth and tolerant manner of me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic man?
Have you no thought, O dreamer, that it may be all maya, illusion?
------Walt Whitman
i posted this on my Facebook profile about 13 hrs ago -- definitely a favorite of mine among hundreds of authors
