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I agree.
I super love British people, the sun comes out and we're off to the beach. It may be a freezing March day but we'll have an ice cream because we are at the seaside (Obvs we don't get many sunny days) 😂.
I
I sit at my desk.
What can I write to you?
Sick with love,
I long to see you in the flesh.
I can write only,
“I love you. I love you. I love you.”
Love cuts through my heart
And tears my vitals.
Spasms of longing suffocate me
And will not stop.
II
If I thought I could get away
And come to you,
Ten thousand miles would be like one mile.
But we are both in the same city
And I dare not see you,
And a mile is longer then a million miles.
III
Oh the anguish of these secret meetings
In the depth of night,
I wait with the shoji open.
You come late, and I see your shadow
Move through the foliage
At the bottom of the garden.
We embrace--hidden from my family.
I weep into my hands.
My sleeves are already damp.
We make love, and suddenly
The fire watch loom up
With clappers and lantern.
How cruel they are
To appear at such a moment.
Upset by their apparition,
I babble nonsense
And can't stop talking
Words with not connection.
IV
You ask me what I thought about
Before we were lovers.
The answer is easy.
Before I met you
I didn't have anything to think about.
VII
Making Love with you
Is like drinking sea water.
The more I drink
The thirstier I become,
Until nothing can slake my thirst
But to drink the entire sea.
VIII
A single ray in the dawn,
The bliss of our love
Is incomprehensible.
No sun shines there, no
Moon, no stars, no lightning flash,
Not even lamplight.
All things are incandescent
With love which lights up all the world.
IX
You wake me,
Part my thighs, and kiss me.
I give you the dew
Of the first morning of the world.
XII
Come to me, as you come
Softly to the rose bed of coals
Of my fireplace
Glowing through the night-bound forest.
XV
Because I dream
Of you every night,
My lonely days
Are only dreams.
XVI
Scorched with love, the cicada
Cries out. Silent as the firefly,
My flesh is consumed with love.
XVIII
Spring is early this year.
Laurel, plums, peaches,
Almonds, mimosa,
All bloom at once. Under the
Moon, night smells like your body.
XXV
Your tongue thrums and moves
Into me, and I become
Hollow and blaze with
Whirling light, like the inside
Of a vast expanding pearl.
XXVII
As I came from the
Hot bath, you took me before
The horizontal mirror
Beside the low bed, while my
Breasts quivered in your hands, my
Buttocks shivered against you.
XXIX
Love me. At this moment we
Are the happiest
People in the world.
XXXI
Some day in six inches of
Ashes will be all
That's left of our passionate minds,
Of all the world created
By our love, its origin
And passing away.
XXXII
I hold your head tight between
My thighs, and press against your
Mouth, and float away
Forever, in an orchid
Boat on the River of Heaven.
XXXIII
I cannot forget
The perfumed dusk inside the
Tent of my black hair,
As we awoke to make love
After a long night of love.
XXXIV
Every morning, I
Wake alone, dreaming my
Arm is your sweet flesh
Pressing my lips.
XLIV
The disorder of my hair
Is due to my lonely sleepless pillow.
My hollow eyes and gaunt cheeks
Are your fault.
Kenneth Rexroth
I broke off a branch from love
buried the dead in the earth
now look
my garden has blossomed
it is not possible to kill love
if you bury her in the earth
she grows back
if you throw her in the air
she leafs with wings
if into the water
she flashes with gill
if into the night
she shines
so I wished to bury her in my heart
but the heart became a home for my love
my heart opened its heart doors
and rang its heart walls with song
my heart danced on tiptoe
so I buried my love in my head
and the people asked
why is my head the shape of a flower
and why do my eyes shine like two stars
and why are my lips redder than dawn
I grasped love so as to smash it up
but supple it was and braided my hands
and people ask my hands tied by love
whose captive am I
Halina Poświatowska
so many hearts run towards you
that you could be
and most generously
gild my misery with your sunshine
look - I pray to you again
for tenderness
mighty one
who else will so believe in you to whom will you be so necessary as to me
neediest one
stripped of splendor like a January tree
burning with shame
inside the chestnut body of a tree
hear me out
I beg for tenderness
deliver unto me salty drops of grace extravagant
arms lips' warmth
Halina Poświatowska
At times,
it seems I'm so close, close to things, I tremble to set foot on the earth. All you people I've seen no more into than into things seeing you merely as movement, poetry just as a raindrop will spill from a brimming cloud, not of its own force, or heat, yet in seperable from both. Just what makes you so different, or better, more independent, or free, and what from? Nothing I can say. From the brink of dreams, I look into the rain as into myself, my eyes fix on things and so merge
with things I look at as at myself, just as remote from both so the fault right there is my own fault. My own wretched head.
Jonas Mekas
A tangled orchard where dark damsons drop in the heavy grass, an overgrown little wood, the chance of a snake or two, a pool that nobody's fathomed the depth of, and paths threaded with flowers planted by the mind.
Katherine Mansfield
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=60oNN45U9c0" rel="noreferrer nofollow">Paese Mio · Nino Rota · Elio Mauro
</a>
You were talking recently about the meaning... of our... life... unselfishness of art... Let's take music... It's really least of all connected; to say the truth, if it is connected at all, then in an idealess way, mechanically, with an empty sound... Without... without associations... Nonetheless the music miraculously penetrates into the very soul! What is resonating in us in answer to the harmonized noise? And turns it for us into the source of great delight... And unites us, and shakes us? What is its purpose? And, above all, for whom? You will say: for nothing, and... and for nobody, just so. Unselfish. Though it's not so... perhaps... For everything, in the end, has its own meaning... Both the meaning and the cause...
I look for you in the cat's soft fur
in raindrops
in a picket fence
and, leaning on the kind fencepost,
obscured by sunlight
- a fly in a spider's web -
I wait...
Halina Poświatowska
