love poetry

It"s now all about money
about which poetry rarely reaches
transcendence. But love must still fester
even under that. Everyone I know
frets if poetry can still matter,
but what about love? It"s all become
too much for them, and they"re all
on the soma. It makes sense
with these pills when the someone
they thought they loved for years
by never thinking about it says,
" I don"t love you anymore,
but let"s stay friends in that mellow
woebegone way poetry now
sings without singing. " Of course,

Change is the new,

improved

word for god,

lovely enough
to raise a song

or implicate

a sea of wrongs,
mighty enough,

like other gods,

to shelter,
bring together,

and estrange us.

Please, god,
we seem to say,

change us.

Birds of our joy,
Irradiate, irradiate upward,
Upward opening like the fan of the sunrise till the sky is a burst
Of birds,
A storm of song ...

Wing higher,
Wing and wheel,
Dew-scatterers,
Sparkle-flingers!

O heavy with the night of sorrow,
My white-faced, my pale love,
Gather your moon-remembering hair in a glory about your head,
And put on the shining of your silks,
And turn and find me: my love, my love, I love you forever ...

In an old square, in an old city square
Autumn is passing through us,
And we are in love ...

We are in love's deep passion, and sighing, we dream
The moon up, and the stars out, and the tree-tops into song.
We dream a city into being beyond the iron gratings,
An ancient moon-lamp'd city, maybe in Asia,
Where lovers kissed and Solomon sang ...

We dream the mighty top of the tower piercing golden into the heaven
Where a pebble falls in that pool of sky
And circles of silver bell-ripples widen and run

I have been felled by beauty ...
O the amazed wonder of my soul ...
The wild-rose wonder, and wine-wonder, and moon-wonder ...

I have been snared by a white body with pointed breasts and the curves that only water and song can echo ...

The golden manacles of love on my wrists and ankles have given me freedom ...

Fire-dance of wonder! Star-dance of joy!
Such is my beloved, such is my love ...

How wonderful is love,
And how wonderful, how wonderful,
How wonderful is the belov'd ...

O my heart, melt in my body in that miracle by which blood turns into wine,
And the wine of passion becomes a music,
And the music is love ...

Let me be an instrument, let me be a stringed instrument, a violin,
And let the god breathe on it, breath of the deeps, breath of those windy stars that dance with immortal feet where all is light,
That the song of my body enter the belov'd with divine pulsations ...

O Miracle of love —
I came clamorously conquering ...
I conquered the God for love of whom I went a weakling,
For love of whom I crawled and crept,
Whose shelter and strong protection I craved ...

Mighty monster, I conquered him. . . .

Lo, then, he appeared before me as a maiden,
Yea, as a Divine Child ...

And now at last, I surrendered to love ...
I stooped down and knelt: I cried, " My soul, lead me, I follow" ...
I cried: " I that am above thee, thy conqueror, willingly become thy slave" ...

Let now my soul
Ascend with the song of glorious love to the skies of the morning,
Let now my lark-soul, sun of the darkness, dawn toward the sun of the day,
Earth is too narrow: give me a sky to sing in:
Give me a sky for a golden love-song ...

I arose from the bed of night and from the arms of my beloved in the darkness:
I arose: I tasted resurrection:
The god, struggling in my breast, became a lark ...
" This is what the Earth means," I cried,
" Why our planet goes with singing down the sky-road of the stars."

This is love's proof:
That it is more wonderful to be together, than to be parted:
That distance does not touch each other with a glamour
Half so beautiful as the witchery of nearness:
That the hours together go all too soon, too soon:
That morning trips on the heels of evening, and the dark is juggled with the light:
That we never have time enough to say all the things that we must say:
That parting makes us aware of hunger and desire:
That the thousandth touch of lips has the fine intoxication of the first:

Are you in my arms, my bird,
Are you here? are you here, in the hollow beside my cheek?
Slender Pocahontas was your great-great-grandmother,
The pines and the waters soothed her into slumber,
Soothed her, caressed her, and murmured her asleep ...

Let me be the pines and the waters,
And the dark, the summer Earth,
Let me be caressing South-Wind
Starry and melodious ...
Let me gather you, let me be your enfolding into a nest,
Let me be the waters where you slip to the dark and cease,