I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way
that this: where I does not exist, not you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep
Mayakovsky by Frank O'Hara
Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern.
The country is grey and brown and white in trees, snows and skies of laughter always diminishing, less funny not just darker, not just grey.
It may be the coldest day of the year, what does he think of that?I mean, what do I?And if I do, perhaps I am myself again.
Six Years Later by Joseph Brodsky
So long had life together been that now The second of January fell again On Tuesday, making her astonished brow Lift like a windshield wiper in the rain, So that her misty sadness cleared, and showed A cloudless distance waiting up the road.
So long had life together been that once The snow began to fall, it seemed unending; That, lest the flakes should make her eyelids wince, I'd shield them with my hand, and they, pretending Not to believe that cherishing of eyes, Would beat against my palm like butterflies.
So alien had all novelty become That sleep's entanglements would put to shame Whatever depths the analysts might plumb; That when my lips blew out the candle flame, Her lips, fluttering from my shoulder, sought To join my own, without another thought.
So long had life together been that all That tattered brood of papered roses went, And a whole birch grove grewupon the wall, And we had money, by some accident, And tonguelike on the sea, for thirty days, The sunset threatened Turkey with its blaze.
So long had life together been without Books, chairs, utensils--only that ancient bed-- That the triangle, before it came about, Had been a perpendicular, the head Of some acquaintance hovering above Two points which had been coalesced by love.
So long had life together been that she And I, with our joint shadows, had composed A double door, a door which even if we Were lost in work or sleep, was always closed: Somehow, it would appear, we drifted right On through it into the future, into the night.
Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
that this: where I does not exist, not you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep
Mayakovsky by Frank O'Hara
Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.
The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.
It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that?I mean, what do I?And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.
Six Years Later by Joseph Brodsky
So long had life together been that now
The second of January fell again
On Tuesday, making her astonished brow
Lift like a windshield wiper in the rain,
So that her misty sadness cleared, and showed
A cloudless distance waiting up the road.
So long had life together been that once
The snow began to fall, it seemed unending;
That, lest the flakes should make her eyelids wince,
I'd shield them with my hand, and they, pretending
Not to believe that cherishing of eyes,
Would beat against my palm like butterflies.
So alien had all novelty become
That sleep's entanglements would put to shame
Whatever depths the analysts might plumb;
That when my lips blew out the candle flame,
Her lips, fluttering from my shoulder, sought
To join my own, without another thought.
So long had life together been that all
That tattered brood of papered roses went,
And a whole birch grove grewupon the wall,
And we had money, by some accident,
And tonguelike on the sea, for thirty days,
The sunset threatened Turkey with its blaze.
So long had life together been without
Books, chairs, utensils--only that ancient bed--
That the triangle, before it came about,
Had been a perpendicular, the head
Of some acquaintance hovering above
Two points which had been coalesced by love.
So long had life together been that she
And I, with our joint shadows, had composed
A double door, a door which even if we
Were lost in work or sleep, was always closed:
Somehow, it would appear, we drifted right
On through it into the future, into the night.
Reply
Leave a comment