Beija-me minha amante, beija-me mais: Pierre Ronsard

Beija-me minha amante, beija-me mais, estreita-me,
bafo contra bafo, e aquece-me esta vida,
dá-me assim beijos mil e mais mil de seguida,
amor quer tudo inúmero, amor leis não aceita.

Beija e beija outra vez, ó boca tão perfeita,
porque te hás-de guardar, sendo eu em livor jazida,
pra beijar (de Platão a dama ou a valida)
sem coração, nem já imagem que deleite?

De teus beiços de rosa em vida me cobrindo,
balbucia a beijar-me, a boca entreabrindo,
mil sons a entrecortar, morrendo entre os braços.

Eu morrerei nos teus, e, ressuscitada,
eu ressuscitarei, juntamos nossos passos:
o dia mesmo curto é mais do que a noitada.

Pierre Ronsard
(França 1524-1585)
Photo by Google

Ao Meu Querido e Adorado Marido

Se dois já foram um só,nós o fomos, sim.
Se um homem foi amado, foste-o tu por mim.
Se alguma de vós foi feliz com seu marido,
Nenhuma ousará comparar-se comigo.
Teu amor vale mais que o ouro reluzente,
Ou todas as riquezas vindas do oriente.
Não há rios que saciem paixão tão intensa,
Só do teu amor me pode vir recompensa.
Tão grande é o teu amor que o meu empalidece,
Que os céus te dêem tudo, eis a minha prece.
Que nunca em nossa vida esmoreça o amor,
Mortos, viveremos se ele vivo for.

Anne Bradstreet
(Reino Unido 1612-1672)
Photo by Google

O Primeiro Beijo: Rabindranath Tagore

Para a minha amada

O céu ficou silencioso e de olhos baixos,

Os pássaros calaram todos os seus cantos;

O vendo emudeceu; a música das águas acabou

De repente; o murmúrio da floresta

Morreu lentamente no coração da floresta.

Na margem deserta do rio tranquilo,

Nas sombras do anoitecer desceu silenciosamente

O horizonte sobre a terra muda.

Nesse momento no silencioso e solitário alpendre

Beijámo-nos pela primeira vez.

Nesse momento exacto, ao longe e perto

Repicaram os sinos e soaram os búzios

Nos templos dos deuses apelando ao culto.

Um estremecimento percorreu o infinito mundo das estrelas

E os nossos olhares encheram-se de lágrimas.

Rabindranath Tagore (Poesias Completas)

(India 1861-1941)

Photo by Google

To Romance by Lord Byron

Parent of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious Queen of childish joys,
Who lead'st along, in airy dance,
Thy votive train of girls and boys;
At length, in spells no longer bound,
I break the fetters of my youth;
No more I tread thy mystic round,
But leave thy realms for those of Truth.

And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams
Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Where every nymph a goddess seems,
Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;
While Fancy holds her boundless reign,
And all assume a varied hue;
When Virgins seem no longer vain,
And even Woman's smiles are true.

And must we own thee, but a name,
And from thy hall of clouds descend?
Nor find a Sylph in every dame,
A Pylades in every friend?
But leave, at once, thy realms of air i
To mingling bands of fairy elves;
Confess that woman's false as fair,
And friends have feeling for---themselves?

With shame, I own, I've felt thy sway;
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er;
No more thy precepts I obey,
No more on fancied pinions soar;
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,
And think that eye to truth was dear;
To trust a passing wanton's sigh,
And melt beneath a wanton's tear!

Romance! disgusted with deceit,
Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat,
And sickly Sensibility;
Whose silly tears can never flow
For any pangs excepting thine;
Who turns aside from real woe,
To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.

Now join with sable Sympathy,
With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds,
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh,
Whose breast for every bosom bleeds;
And call thy sylvan female choir,
To mourn a Swain for ever gone,
Who once could glow with equal fire,
But bends not now before thy throne.

Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears
On all occasions swiftly flow;
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,
With fancied flames and phrenzy glow
Say, will you mourn my absent name,
Apostate from your gentle train
An infant Bard, at least, may claim
From you a sympathetic strain.

Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!
The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
E'en now the gulf appears in view,
Where unlamented you must lie:
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen,
Convuls'd by gales you cannot weather,
Where you, and eke your gentle queen,
Alas! must perish altogether.

Lord Byron

(England 1788-1824)

Súplica: Florbela Espanca

Olha pra mim, amor, olha pra mim;
Meus olhos andam doidos por te olhar!
Cega-me com o brilho de teus olhos
Que cega ando eu há muito por te amar.

O meu colo é arrninho imaculado
Duma brancura casta que entontece;
Tua linda cabeça loira e bela
Deita em meu colo, deita e adormece!

Tenho um manto real de negras trevas
Feito de fios brilhantes d'astros belos
Pisa o manto real de negras trevas
Faz alcatifa, oh faz, de meus cabelos!

Os meus braços são brancos como o linho
Quando os cerro de leve, docemente...
Oh! Deixa-me prender-te e enlear-te
Nessa cadeia assim etermamente! ...

Vem para mim,amor...Ai não desprezes
A minha adoração de escrava louca!
Só te peço que deixes exalar
Meu último suspiro na tua boca!...

Florbela Espanca

(Portugal 1894-1930)

O jardim do amor: William Blake

Tendo ingressado no Jardim do Amor,
Deparei-me com algo inusitado:
haviam construído uma Capela
No meio, onde eu brincava no gramado.

E ela estava fechada; "Tu não podes"
Era a legenda sobre a porta escrita.
Voltei-me então para o Jardim do Amor,
Onde crescia tanta flor bonita,

E recoberto o vi de sepulturas
E lousas sepulcrais, em vez de flores;
E em vestes negras e hediondas os padres faziam rondas,
E atavam com nó espinhoso meus desejos e meu gozo.


William Blake
(England 1757-1827)

Sex without love by 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.

Sharon Olds

(USA)

Romance by Claude McKay

To clasp you now and feel your head close-pressed,

Scented and warm against my beating breast;

To whisper soft and quivering your name,
And drink the passion burning in your frame;

To lie at full length, taut, with cheek to cheek,
And tease your mouth with kisses till you speak

Love words, mad words, dream words, sweet senseless words,
Melodious like notes of mating birds;

To hear you ask if I shall love always,
And myself answer: Till the end of days;

To feel your easeful sigh of happiness
When on your trembling lips I murmur: Yes;

It is so sweet. We know it is not true.
What matters it? The night must shed her dew.

We know it is not true, but it is sweet --
The poem with this music is complete.

Claude McKay

(Jamaica 1889 – USA 1948)

The Pity of Love by William Butler Yeats

A pity beyond all telling
Is hid in the heart of love:
The folk who are buying and selling,
The clouds on their journey above,
The cold wet winds ever blowing,
And the shadowy hazel grove
Where mouse-grey waters are flowing,
Threaten the head that I love.

William Butler Yeats

(Irland 1865-1939)

The heart of the woman by William Butler Yeats

O what to me the little room
That was brimmed up with prayer and rest;
He bade me out into the gloom,
And my breast lies upon his breast.

O what to me my mother's care,
The house where I was safe and warm;
The shadowy blossom of my hair
Will hide us from the bitter storm.

O hiding hair and dewy eyes,
I am no more with life and death,
My heart upon his warm heart lies,
My breath is mixed into his breath.

William Butler Yeats

(Irland 1865-1939)

The Lover's Song by William Butler Yeats

Bird sighs for the air,
Thought for I know not where,
For the womb the seed sighs.
Now sinks the same rest
On mind, on nest,
On straining thighs.

William Butler Yeats

(Irland 1865-1939)

You love me - you are sure by Emily Dickinson

You love me -- you are sure --
I shall not fear mistake --
I shall not cheated wake --

Some grinning morn --
To find the Sunrise left --
And Orchards -- unbereft --
And Dollie -- gone!

I need not start -- you're sure --
That night will never be --
When frightened -- home to Thee I run --
To find the windows dark --
And no more Dollie -- mark --
Quite none?

Be sure you're sure -- you know --
I'll bear it better now --
If you'll just tell me so --
Than when -- a little dull Balm grown --
Over this pain of mine --
You sting -- again!

Emily Dickinson

(USA 1830-1886)

Rabindranath Tagore: Interminável Amor

Parece-me que te amei de inúmeras maneiras, inúmeras vezes,
Na vida após vida, em eras após eras eternamente.
O meu coração enfeitiçado fez e voltou a fazer o colar das canções
Que tomaste como uma prenda, usando-o à volta do pescoço de
tantas e tantas formas.
Na vida após vida, em eras após eras eternamente.
Sempre que oiço as antigas crónicas do amor, a sua antiga dor,
O seu antigo conto de estar só ou acompanhado,
Quando contemplo o passado, no fim tu apareces
Vestida com a luz da Estrela Polar que trespassa a escuridão do tempo:
Tornas-te uma imagem do que é recordado sempre.
Tu e eu flutuámos aqui na corrente que traz da nascente
Para o coração do tempo o amor de um pelo outro.
Representámos lado a lado milhões de amantes, partilhando
A mesma tímida doçura do encontro, as mesmas amarguradas
lágrimas do adeus -
Antigo amor, mas renovando-se e renovando-se sempre.
Hoje ele acumulou-se aos teus pés, encontrando o seu fim em ti,
O amor de todos os dias, de todos os homens, do passado e de sempre:
Universal Alegria, universal mágoa, universal vida,
As recordações de todos os amores surgindo com este nosso amor -
E as canções de todos os poetas do passado e de sempre.

Rabindranath Tagore
(India 1861-1941)

Poema Sobre o Amor de Jurgen Theobaldy

Hoje de manhã, ao acordar,

pensei:

hoje, o amor vai assaltar-te

embora não soubesse como ele é

nem o que vale.

Eu acho que as coisas realmente grandes na história

(tanto na história UNIVERSAL

como na história pessoal

mas talvez eu esteja errado)

de modo nenhum são feitas por amor

ou em amor ou qualquer coisa assim;

eu acho que as coisas realmente grandes

se fazem por razões completamente diferentes.

Por exemplo, a SIEMENS não constrói por amor

uma barragem em Cabora Bassa, e também

uma revolução do amor não

levará a nada.

Claro que se pode tentar

mas eu não acredito nisso.

E tentei

explicar isto à mulher-do-meu-amor

(que acordou logo a seguir a mim

talvez eu a tenha acordado

ao erguer-me para olhar para o despertador

passava pouco das onze e era sábado)

e ela disse

que não fazia SENTIDO

eu estar AGORA a explicar-lhe isto

e eu dei-lhe razão

e

ela

deitou a mão à minha piça. Depois

fizemos amor até ao meio-dia-e-meia

sem que daí

resultasse

nada de verdadeiramente grande

digamos: pelo menos com metade da grandeza

dos esforços de Leviné em Munique em 1919.

Jürgen Theobaldy

(Alemanha, n. 1944)

Sex With a Famous Poet by Denise Duhamel

I had sex with a famous poet last night
and when I rolled over and found myself beside him I shuddered
because I was married to someone else,
because I wasn't supposed to have been drinking,
because I was in fancy hotel room
I didn't recognize. I would have told you
right off this was a dream, but recently
a friend told me, write about a dream,
lose a reader and I didn't want to lose you
right away. I wanted you to hear
that I didn't even like the poet in the dream, that he has
four kids, the youngest one my age, and I find him
rather unattractive, that I only met him once,
that is, in real life, and that was in a large group
in which I barely spoke up. He disgusted me
with his disparaging remarks about women.
He even used the word "Jap"
which I took as a direct insult to my husband who's Asian.
When we were first dating, I told him
"You were talking in your sleep last night
and I listened, just to make sure you didn't
call out anyone else's name." My future-husband said
that he couldn't be held responsible for his subconscious,
which worried me, which made me think his dreams
were full of blond vixens in rabbit-fur bikinis.
but he said no, he dreamt mostly about boulders
and the ocean and volcanoes, dangerous weather
he witnessed but could do nothing to stop.
And I said, "I dream only of you,"
which was romantic and silly and untrue.
But I never thought I'd dream of another man--
my husband and I hadn't even had a fight,
my head tucked sweetly in his armpit, my arm
around his belly, which lifted up and down
all night, gently like water in a lake.
If I passed that famous poet on the street,
he would walk by, famous in his sunglasses
and blazer with the suede patches at the elbows,
without so much as a glance in my direction.
I know you're probably curious about who the poet is,
so I should tell you the clues I've left aren't
accurate, that I've disguised his identity,
that you shouldn't guess I bet it's him...
because you'll never guess correctly
and even if you do, I won't tell you that you have.
I wouldn't want to embarrass a stranger
who is, after all, probably a nice person,
who was probably just having a bad day when I met him,
who is probably growing a little tired of his fame--
which my husband and I perceive as enormous,
but how much fame can an American poet
really have, let's say, compared to a rock star
or film director of equal talent? Not that much,
and the famous poet knows it, knows that he's not
truly given his due. Knows that many
of these young poets tugging on his sleeve
are only pretending to have read all his books.
But he smiles anyway, tries to be helpful.
I mean, this poet has to have some redeeming qualities, right?
For instance, he writes a mean iambic.
Otherwise, what was I doing in his arms.

Denise Duhamel

(USA)

Love's Loneliness by William Butler Yeats

Old fathers, great-grandfathers,

Rise as kindred should.

If ever lover's loneliness

Came where you stood,

Pray that Heaven protect us

That protect your blood.

The mountain throws a shadow,

Thin is the moon's horn;

What did we remember

Under the ragged thorn?

Dread has followed longing,

And our hearts are torn.

William Butler Yeats

(Irland 1865-1939)

To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poems by Oscar Wilde

I can write no stately proem

As a prelude to my lay;

From a poet to a poem

I would dare to say.

For if of these fallen petals

One to you seem fair,

Love will waft it till it settles

On your hair.

And when wind and winter harden

All the loveless land,

It will whisper of the garden,

You will understand.

Oscar Wilde

(Irland 1854 – France 1900)

Sex Goddess by Maggie Estep

I am THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE

so don't mess with me

I've got a big bag full of SEX TOYS

and you can't have any

'cause they're all mine

'cause I'm

the SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE.

"Hey," you may say to yourself,

"who the hell's she tryin' to kid,

she's no sex goddess,"

But trust me,

I am

if only for the fact that I have

the unabashed gall

to call

myself a SEX GODDESS,

I mean, after all,

it's what so many of us have at some point thought,

we've all had someone

who worshipped our filthy socks

and barked like a dog when we were near

giving us cause

to pause and think: You know, I may not look like much

but deep inside, I am a SEX GODDESS.

Only

we'd never come out and admit it publicly

well, you wouldn't admit it publicly

but I will

because I am

THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE.

I haven't always been

a SEX GODDESS

I used to be just a mere mortal woman

but I grew tired of sexuality being repressed

then manifest

in late night 900 number ads

where 3 bodacious bimbettes

heave cleavage into the camera's winking lens and sigh:

"Big Girls oooh, Bad Girls oooh, Blonde Girls oooh,

you know what to do, call 1-900-UNMITIGATED BIMBO ooooh."

Yeah

I got fed up with the oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh

I got fed up with it all

so I put on my combat boots

and hit the road with my bag full of SEX TOYS

that were a vital part of my SEX GODDESS image

even though I would never actually use

my SEX TOYS

'cause my being a SEX GODDESS

it isn't a SEXUAL thing

it's a POLITICAL thing

I don't actually have SEX, no

I'm too busy taking care of

important SEX GODDESS BUSINESS,

yeah,

I gotta go on The Charlie Rose Show

and MTV and become a parody

of myself and make

buckets full of money off my own inane brand

of self-righteous POP PSYCHOLOGY

because my pain is different

because I am a SEX GODDESS

and when I talk,

people listen

why ?

Because, you guessed it,

I AM THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE

and you're not.

Maggie Estep

(USA)

I Said To Love by Thomas Hardy

I said to Love,

"It is not now as in old days

When men adored thee and thy ways

All else above;

Named thee the Boy, the Bright, the One

Who spread a heaven beneath the sun,"

I said to Love.

I said to him,

"We now know more of thee than then;

We were but weak in judgment when,

With hearts abrim,

We clamoured thee that thou would'st please

Inflict on us thine agonies,"

I said to him.

I said to Love,

"Thou art not young, thou art not fair,

No elfin darts, no cherub air,

Nor swan, nor dove

Are thine; but features pitiless,

And iron daggers of distress,"

I said to Love.

"Depart then, Love!

Man's race shall perish, threatenest thou,

WIthout thy kindling coupling-vow?

The age to come the man of now

Know nothing of?

We fear not such a threat from thee;

We are too old in apathy!

Mankind shall cease.. -

So let it be,"

I said to Love.

Thomas Hardy

(England 1840-1928)

Quem namora

Quem namora agrada a Deus.
Namorar é a forma bonita de viver um amor.
Não namora quem cobra nem quem desconfia.
Namora, quem lê nos olhos e sente no coração as vontades saborosas do outro.
Namora, quem se embeleza em estado de amor
A pele melhor, o olhar com brilho de manhã.


Namora, quem suspira, quem não sabe esperar, mas espera,
quem se sacode de taquicardia e timidez diante da paixão.
Namora, quem ri por bobagem, quem entra em estado de música da Metro,
quem sente frios e calores nas horas menos recomendáveis.


Não namora quem ofende, quem transforma a relação num inferno, ainda que por amor.
Amor às vezes entorta, sabia? E quando acontece, o feito pra bom faz-se ruim.
Não namora quem só fala em si e deseja o parceiro apenas para a glória do próprio eu.
Não namora quem busca a compreensão para a sua parte ruim.
O invejoso não namora. Tampouco o violento!

Namorados que se prezam tem a sua música.
E não temem se derreter quando ela toca.
Ou, se o namoro acabou, nunca mais dela se esquecem.


Namorados que se prezam gostam de beijo, suspiro,
morderem o mesmo pastel, dividir a empada, beber no mesmo copo.
Apreciam ternurinhas que matam de vergonha fora do namoro
ou lhes parecem ridículas nos outros.


Por falar em beijo, só namora quem beija de mil maneiras
e sabe cada pedaço e gostinho da boca amada.
Beijo de roçar, beijo fundo, inteirão, os molhados,
os de língua, beijo na testa,
beijo livre como o pensamento, beijo na hora certa e no lugar desejado.
Sem medo nem preconceito.
Beijo na face, na nuca e aquele especial atrás da orelha no lugar que só ele ou ela conhece.


Namora, quem começa a ver muito mais no mesmo que sempre viu e jamais reparou.
Flores, árvores, a santidade, o perdão, Deus, tudo fica mais
fácil para quem sabe de verdade o que é namorar.


Por isso só namora quem se descobre dono de um lindo amor,
tecido do melhor de si mesmo e do outro.
Só namora quem não precisa explicar, quem já começa a
falar pelo fim, quem consegue manifestar com clareza e facilidade
tudo o que fora do namoro é complicado.


Namora, quem diz: "Precisamos muito conversar"; 

e quem é capaz de perder tempo,
muito tempo, com a mais útil das inutilidades e pensar no ser amado,
degustar cada momento vivido e recordar palavras, fotos e carícias
com uma vontade doida de estourar o tempo e embebedar-se de flores astrais.

Namora, quem fala da infância e da fazenda das férias,
quem aguarda com aflição, o telefone tocar
e dá um salto para atendê-lo antes mesmo do primeiro trim.

Namora quem namora, quem à toa chora, quem rememora,
quem comemora datas que o outro esqueceu.
Namora quem é bom, quem gosta da vida, de nuvem,
de rio gelado e de parque de diversões.


Namora quem sonha, quem teima, quem vive morrendo de amor e quem morre vivendo de amar

Artur da Távola

(Brasil 1936-2008)

Tenho tanto sentimento: Fernando Pessoa

Tenho tanto sentimento

Que é frequente persuadir-me

De que sou sentimental,

Mas reconheço, ao medir-me,

Que tudo isso é pensamento,

Que não senti afinal.

Temos, todos que vivemos,

Uma vida que é vivida

E outra vida que é pensada,

E a única vida que temos

É essa que é dividida

Entre a verdadeira e a errada.

Qual porém é a verdadeira

E qual errada, ninguém

Nos saberá explicar;

E vivemos de maneira

Que a vida que a gente tem

É a que tem que pensar.

Fernando Pessoa

(Portugal 1888-1935)

On Woman by William Butler Yeats

That gives up all her mind,

A man may find in no man

A friendship of her kind

That covers all he has brought

As with her flesh and bone,

Nor quarrels with a thought

Because it is not her own.

Though pedantry denies,

It's plain the Bible means

That Solomon grew wise

While talking with his queens.

Yet never could, although

They say he counted grass,

Count all the praises due

When Sheba was his lass,

When she the iron wrought, or

When from the smithy fire

It shuddered in the water:

Harshness of their desire

That made them stretch and yawn,

pleasure that comes with sleep,

Shudder that made them one.

What else He give or keep

God grant me - no, not here,

For I am not so bold

To hope a thing so dear

Now I am growing old,

But when, if the tale's true,

The Pestle of the moon

That pounds up all anew

Brings me to birth again --

To find what once I had

And know what once I have known,

Until I am driven mad,

Sleep driven from my bed.

By tenderness and care.

pity, an aching head,

Gnashing of teeth, despair;

And all because of some one

perverse creature of chance,

And live like Solomon

That Sheba led a dance.

William Butler Yeats

(Irland 1865-1939)

Freedom of Love by André Breton

My wife with the hair of a wood fire

With the thoughts of heat lightning

With the waist of an hourglass

With the waist of an otter in the teeth of a tiger

My wife with the lips of a cockade and of a bunch of stars of the last magnitude

With the teeth of tracks of white mice on the white earth

With the tongue of rubbed amber and glass

My wife with the tongue of a stabbed host

With the tongue of a doll that opens and closes its eyes

With the tongue of an unbelievable stone

My wife with the eyelashes of strokes of a child's writing

With brows of the edge of a swallow's nest

My wife with the brow of slates of a hothouse roof

And of steam on the panes

My wife with shoulders of champagne

And of a fountain with dolphin-heads beneath the ice

My wife with wrists of matches

My wife with fingers of luck and ace of hearts

With fingers of mown hay

My wife with armpits of marten and of beechnut

And of Midsummer Night

Of privet and of an angelfish nest

With arms of seafoam and of riverlocks

And of a mingling of the wheat and the mill

My wife with legs of flares

With the movements of clockwork and despair

My wife with calves of eldertree pith

My wife with feet of initials

With feet of rings of keys and Java sparrows drinking

My wife with a neck of unpearled barley

My wife with a throat of the valley of gold

Of a tryst in the very bed of the torrent

With breasts of night

My wife with breasts of a marine molehill

My wife with breasts of the ruby's crucible

With breasts of the rose's spectre beneath the dew

My wife with the belly of an unfolding of the fan of days

With the belly of a gigantic claw

My wife with the back of a bird fleeing vertically

With a back of quicksilver

With a back of light

With a nape of rolled stone and wet chalk

And of the drop of a glass where one has just been drinking

My wife with hips of a skiff

With hips of a chandelier and of arrow-feathers

And of shafts of white peacock plumes

Of an insensible pendulum

My wife with buttocks of sandstone and asbestos

My wife with buttocks of swans' backs

My wife with buttocks of spring

With the sex of an iris

My wife with the sex of a mining-placer and of a platypus

My wife with a sex of seaweed and ancient sweetmeat

My wife with a sex of mirror

My wife with eyes full of tears

With eyes of purple panoply and of a magnetic needle

My wife with savanna eyes

My wife with eyes of water to he drunk in prison

My wife with eyes of wood always under the axe

My wife with eyes of water-level of level of air earth and fire

Andre Breton

(France 1896-1966)

Emblems of Love by Lascelles Abercrombie: Edward Thomas

She

ONLY to be twin elements of joy

In this extravagance of Being, Love,

Were our divided natures shaped in twain;

And to this hour the whole world must consent.

Is it not very marvellous, our lives

Can only come to this out of a long

Strange sundering, with the years of the world between us?

He

Shall life do more than God? for hath not God

Striven with himself, when into known delight

His unaccomplisht joy he would put forth,—

This mystery of a world sign of his striving?

Else wherefore this, a thing to break the mind

With labouring in the wonder of it, that here

Being—the world and we—is suffered to be!—

But, lying on thy breast one notable day,

Sudden exceeding agony of love

Made my mind a trance of infinite knowledge.

I was not: yet I saw the will of God

As light unfashion’d, unendurable flame,

Interminable, not to be supposed;

And there was no more creature except light,—

The dreadful burning of the lonely God’s

Unutter’d joy. And then, past telling, came

Shuddering and division in the light:

Therein, like trembling, was desire to know

Its own perfect beauty; and it became

A cloven fire, a double flaming, each

Adorable to each; against itself

Waging a burning love, which was the world;—

A moment satisfied in that love-strife

I knew the world!—And when I fell from there,

Then knew I also what this life would do

In being twin,—in being man and woman!

For it would do even as its endless Master,

Making the world, had done; yea, with itself

Would strive, and for the strife would into sex

Be cloven, double burning, made thereby

Desirable to itself. Contrivèd joy

Is sex in life; and by no other thing

Than by a perfect sundering, could life

Change the dark stream of unappointed joy

To perfect praise of itself, the glee that loves

And worships its own Being. This is ours!

Yet only for that we have been so long

Sundered desire: thence is our life all praise.—

But we, well knowing by our strength of joy

There is no sundering more, how far we love

From those sad lives that know a half-love only,

Alone thereby knowing themselves for ever

Sealed in division of love, and therefore made

To pour their strength always into their love’s

Fierceness, as green wood bleeds its hissing sap

Into red heat of a fire! Not so do we:

The cloven anger, life, hath left to wage

Its flame against itself, here turned to one

Self-adoration.—Ah, what comes of this?

The joy falters a moment, with closed wings

Wearying in its upward journey, ere

Again it goes on high, bearing its song,

Its delight breathing and its vigour beating

The highest height of the air above the world.

She

What hast thou done to me!—I would have soul,

Before I knew thee, Love, a captive held

By flesh. Now, inly delighted with desire,

My body knows itself to be nought else

But thy heart’s worship of me; and my soul

Therein is sunlight held by warm gold air.

Nay, all my body is become a song

Upon the breath of spirit, a love-song.

He

And mine is all like one rapt faculty,

As it were listening to the love in thee,

My whole mortality trembling to take

Thy body like heard singing of thy spirit.

She

Surely by this, Beloved, we must know

Our love is perfect here,—that not as holds

The common dullard thought, we are things lost

In an amazement that is all unware;

But wonderfully knowing what we are!

Lo, now that body is the song whereof

Spirit is mood, knoweth not our delight?

Knoweth not beautifully now our love,

That Life, here to this festival bid come

Clad in his splendour of worldly day and night,

Filled and empower’d by heavenly lust, is all

The glad imagination of the Spirit?

He

Were it not so, Love could not be at all:

Nought could be, but a yearning to fulfil

Desire of beauty, by vain reaching forth

Of sense to hold and understand the vision

Made by impassion’d body,—vision of thee!

But music mixt with music are, in love,

Bodily senses; and as flame hath light,

Spirit this nature hath imagined round it,

No way concealed therein, when love comes near,

Nor in the perfect wedding of desires

Suffering any hindrance.

She

Ah, but now,

Now am I given love’s eternal secret!

Yea, thou and I who speak, are but the joy

Of our for ever mated spirits; but now

The wisdom of my gladness even through Spirit

Looks, divinely elate. Who hath for joy

Our Spirits? Who hath imagined them

Round him in fashion’d radiance of desire,

As into light of these exulting bodies

Flaming Spirit is uttered?

He

Yea, here the end

Of love’s astonishment! Now know we Spirit,

And Who, for ease of joy, contriveth Spirit.

Now all life’s loveliness and power we have

Dissolved in this one moment, and our burning

Carries all shining upward, till in us

Life is not life, but the desire of God,

Himself desiring and himself accepting.

Now what was prophecy in us is made

Fulfilment: we are the hour and we are the joy,

We in our marvellousness of single knowledge,

Of Spirit breaking down the room of fate

And drawing into his light the greeting fire

Of God,—God known in ecstasy of love

Wedding himself to utterance of himself

Edward Thomas (Lascelles Abercrombie)

(England 1878 – France 1917)