love on the brain - meow poems

[sumtinsumtin]

Sex Without Love
Sharon Olds

How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health--just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.


this one is fun, sigh...

The elephant, the huge old beast,
is slow to mate;
he finds a female, they show no haste
they wait

for the sympathy in their vast shy hearts
slowly, slowly to rouse
as they loiter along the river-beds
and drink and browse

and dash in panic through the brake
of forest with the herd,
and sleep in massive silence, and wake
together, without a word.

So slowly the great hot elephant hearts
grow full of desire,
and the great beasts mate in secret at last,
hiding their fire.

Oldest they are and the wisest of beasts
so they know at last
how to wait for the loneliest of feasts
for the full repast.

They do not snatch, they do not tear;
their massive blood
moves as the moon-tides, near, more near
till they touch in flood.

[lakebottom]

Symptoms of Love

by Robert Graves


Love is a universal migraine,
A bright stain on the vision
Blotting out reason.

Symptoms of true love
Are leanness, jealousy,
Laggard dawns;

Are omens and nightmares
Listening for a knock,
Waiting for a sign:

For a touch of her fingers
In a darkened room,
For a searching look.

Take courage lover!
Could you endure such grief
At any hand but hers?

^one of my all-time favourite poets EVAR!!!!!

Black drinks the sun and draws all colours to it.
I am bleached white, my truant love. Come back,
And stain me with intensity of black.

-Robert Graves

[lakebottom]

I wish he were still alive so he could knock me out with his big strong boxer's hands.

[sumtinsumtin]

something poopy i wrote today to try this out:


i have always been like a shiny thing you find in the trashcan, a mild facination at first, then a slight obsession with a hint
of playful infatuation at best

slowly the intrest fades with its luster, and you come
to your sences and remember,
i was always just a piece of trash.

the end


oh, and i wanted to use the word sanguine, i thought of it while writing but couldnt make it work well enough, its sounded too grandiloquent.

[cabbagechild]

Originally posted by cabbagechild
canto XXXII

Greeting card manufacturers
and children mascots
in giant racoon costumes
are no more against
raping deaf girls
than we are.

[35ft6]

Roses are read
Violets are blue
This poem is meow
Now make me a sandwich, bitch

[lakebottom]

you're a misogynistic bitch ass, why don't you consider making her a sandwich, then maybe she'll love you.

[shammy718]

Love Calls Us to the Things of This World
Richard Wilbur

The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple
As false dawn.
Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with angels.

Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,
Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.
Now they are rising together in calm swells
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;

Now they are flying in place, conveying
The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving
And staying like white water; and now of a sudden
They swoon down into so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.
The soul shrinks

From all that is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every blessed day,
And cries,
``Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven.''

Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the world's hunks and colors,
The soul descends once more in bitter love
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,

``Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,
And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating
Of dark habits,
keeping their difficult balance.''

[randall fairbrook]

oh meow!





from The Retired Architect

3

I tried to complete a life circumstance like a building, loose in space on
used land.

I made a shape against sky on flat land like a cut in the weeds, but I got
bored and didn't finish.

Concrete surfaces need support, and my illness made calculations difficult,
shadows fell like hinges on erasures.

This site is riddled with plastic wood panelling, plastic ducks and
discarded coach lamps.

The iconography doesn't ethically correspond to its cut up and eroded
state.

I make something which as it changes and falls apart, offers no clues to
itself before, as if all shots were mobility frames.

Small daisies grow in the cut, preserving the shape.

Physical significance becomes an area lacking objects, a changing surface
as limit, like the surface and mass of a lake.

Nothing was completed, but there are a lot of sketches.

Actually, I designed two bungalows: the gold leaf, and one later, because
I had missed something.

Gilding was decoration, irrelevant to her private space.

Now, when my work expresses loss or failure, I no longer say, get rid of
that.


mei-mei berssenbrugge

[randall fairbrook]

meow love you long tyme!

[lakebottom]

seriously, I'm almost getting to the point where I'm sick to death of all the testosterone and perverted, locker room talk that's going on around here lately.

[35ft6]

Witch-Wife

She is neither pink nor pale,
___ And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
___ And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;
___ In the sun ’tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of colored beads,
___ Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can,
___ And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
___ And she never will be all mine.

I read a Vanity Fair article about her a long time ago. Way way way ahead of her time, if not in terms of poetry then definitely in the way she lived her life.

THURSDAY

And if I loved you Wednesday,
___ Well, what is that to you?
I do not love you Thursday–_
___ So much is true._

And why you come complaining
___ Is more than I can see.
I loved you Wednesday,–yes–but what_
___ Is that to me?

Edna St. Vincent Millay

[shammy718]

I write the lips of the moon upon her shoulders. In a
temple of silvery farawayness I guard her to rest.

For her bed I write a stillness over all the swans of the
world. With the morning breath of the snow leopard I
cover her against any hurt.

Using the pen of rivers and mountaintops I store her
pillow with singing.

Upon her hair I write the looking of the heavens at
early morning.

-- Away from this kingdom, from this last undefiled
place, I would keep our governments, our civilization, and
all other spirit-forsaken and corrupt institutions.

O cold beautiful blossoms of the moon moving upon
her shoulders . . . the lips of the moon moving there . . .
where the touch of any other lips would be a profanation.


THERE ARE NOT MANY KINGDOMS LEFT - Kenneth Patchen