Some love poems and some poems of despair (2)

Some love poems and some poems of despair (2)

a selection of despaired love poems.

Foto: C Tranter

 

LOVE (‘Spheare’)

If I enjoy you much too much
And you deplore my loitering where
Loitering you concede its touch
And languidly deride the air

If air it is that floods your mouth
Breathe rather in than further out
Your broken rules are breath enough
If I enjoy you much too much

 

DESPAIR (‘The Pyrrhonist’)

‘I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.’

The book to make of me will be pages long.
I don’t know there’s much I do I don’t do wrong.

My belly is my honest side.
It wouldn’t say, ‘They say that Betelgeuse died

‘five centuries ago and we can watch it die.
‘It will imitate the moon

‘which is the débris of its own formation’
but ‘What predicament of existence, we’ve got porn’.

It is there I collect
opportunities I didn’t take:

memories of what didn’t happen
they yawn unbroached, as though through floors.

But burst like periodic flares:
I turn inwards in surprise

and retire and cut the lights. The duvet
bites but isn’t hungry. I stare down death, death stares me down.

My faults crack jokes like kids who come from money:
I face it down every night at night.

They crack me up and put the dead in pan.
I face them down: I have their face.

If I do know what I don’t want to do
I don’t know what I do.

Everything I have failed at I tried.
The thing to consider is the looped tide

then Betelgeuse not really in the sky
not dishonest but in our dishonest ken.

I stepped back out in rain and missed a step.
The book to make of me has pages yet:

my civilised feet are soft.
So many things to be mindful of

that fill you but have little extra to add.
And I am deeply sad.

 

LOVE (‘In Shoreditch’)

No longer unnameable now unnamed
Came something between us in our eyes:

That minute as a hostage that it claimed
But the falling of the clock could cut its ties

But everything except everything is in place
The punchline and the jest so justly timed:

Not nothing but a not that is a trace
Of a chord we made in Shoreditch as it chimed

 

DESPAIR (‘Diurne’)

‘Ile rant as well as thou.’

Empson said he was blank upon it but called death the complete fire.
And what was it that actor said right after raising the idea to escape
through the room where they stock sacks?
In the pit of my soul I am profoundly scared

isn’t what it was. And nobody says nothing.
From a scientist I heard that orbiting is falling.
Through the room the necessary words are Let’s lie
for orbiting is falling. Nobody knows anything.

Through the room the thing to know, they say –
even if I am profoundly scared and orbiting is falling
forever, and death the complete fire.
Say nothing. From a scientist I heard

We exert tides on each other.
Nobody knows anything and nobody says nothing
so it is possibly how we know what to say.
We exert tides on each other

right through the room. The poetry cleans the money
but nobody knows anything except the thing to say.
The elementary words are the words Let’s lie
and the words Forget about today.

At the helms of ourselves but we want to fly.
The poetry cleans the money is a thing to say.
Man falling wants to fly or to clear
the clean veins full of money. The sugar sings.

Then somebody raised the idea of escape
if nobody says anything. Or seeing the complete fire
driven deep beneath memory. Or whether it’s the thing to say
that we are memory. We are the tides we exert

and in the pit of my soul I am profoundly scared.
It is possibly how we know what to say.
Man falling wants to fly
but gravity is why.

Night holds the poetry clear of money.
The sugar sings on the tongue.
Man falling wants to fly
but gravity is why.

Say the poetry cleans the money.
Nobody knows anything except the thing to say.
The elementary words are gravity
so say nothing. And say nothing. Let’s lie.

 


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