Posts tagged: love
And though the memory of Amina standing in the dark by the courtyard door was still warm in his hands, he could already feel it cooling into something more quiescent, a fond treasure to be unwrapped at a quiet moment.
(Abdulrazak Gurnah)
You exhale a fist of memory.
I love you like weathering wood
in a room of empty pianos.
When you return to something you love,
it’s already beyond repair.
You wear it broken.
once. what does it matter
when or who, i knew
of love.
i fixed my body
under his and went
to sleep in love
all trace of me
was wiped away
(Sonia Sanchez)
excoriated: crooked heart by aepocrypha on Flickr.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
(Pablo Neruda)
When I point
out to you that
the flat face of the lake’s water in
stillness is made suddenly
more striking for how a wind
just now, coming, spoils it,
I have in mind
only how even a least
disturbance, strangely
heightening a thing’s
beauty, can at last
define it.
(Carl Phillips)
my best, though human cruelty made no sense
to me, though love was inexplicable, more
phantom than reality.”
-Eric Gamalinda, from “Labyrinth
We are a meadow where the bees hum,
mind and body are almost one
as the fire snaps in the stove
and out eyes close,
and mouth to mouth, the covers
pulled over our shoulders,
we drowse as the horses drowse afield,
in accord; though the fall cold
surrounds our warm bed, and though
by day we are singular and often lonely.
(Denise Levertov)
Sometimes a crumb falls
From the tables of joy,
Sometimes a bone
Is flung.
To some people
Love is given,
To others
Only heaven.
(Langston Hughes)
Into which state enters Love, the crowning sun:
Beneath whose light the shadow loses form.
We are the lords of life, and life is warm.
(George Meredith)
And for him, gloomy, overwhelmed with himself,
her brightness was more beautiful than beauty
and he basked in it. But when his turn came to shine back
it seemed her feelings were a storm of flowers
he could not gather, and the story gets ordinary:
he is angry at his heart and hurts her.
(James Richardson)
My love,
What may never not be strange? What,
This morning, will wake & make me new?
(averill curdy)
That animal loved you, his captor,
whom he hated. I know just how he felt.
(michael robbins)
27.
It is with poetry as with love: forcing yourself is useless, you have to want to. Yet how tiresome and ungenerous is the one sprawled among flowers waiting for his impulse. There’s such a thing as knowing how to make yourself want to.
(james richardson - Even More Aphorisms and 10-Second Essays From Vector 3.0)
