I sang my songs for the rest,
For you I am still;
The tree of my song is bare
On its shining hill.
For you came like a lordly wind,
And the leaves were whirled
Far as forgotten things
Past the rim of the world.
The tree of my song stands bare
Against the blue —
I gave my songs to the rest,
Myself to you.
– Sara Teasdale
Tagged: imagery, love poetry, religion, Sara Teasdale
Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devils foot;
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy’s stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be’st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights
Till Age snow white hairs on thee;
Thou, when thou return’st wilt tell me
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear
No where
Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find’st one let me know;
Such a pilgrimage were sweet.
Yet do not; I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet.
Though she were true when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two or three.
– John Donne
Ah, sweet misogyny, where would we be without thee?
I read the first part of the poem in a lovely book called "Howl's Moving Castle" by Diana Wynne Jones where it was central to the plot, and fell in love with its fantastical whimsy. The other stanzas detract from the poem's appeal as far as I'm concerned, though they're nicely done as these things go. It's sort of amusing and horrifying all at once.
Tagged: dark humor, gender, John Donne, love poetry
Not a red rose or a satin heart.
I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.
Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.
I am trying to be truthful.
Not a cute card or a kissogram.
I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.
Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.
Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.
– Carol Ann Duffy
We've had enough of red roses and satin hearts, yes? An onion, now there's a real gift.
Tagged: Carol Ann Duffy, imagery, love poetry