Penguin's Poems for Love (Penguin Classics)

by Laura Barber

MAY THEIL GAARD WATTS Vision To-day there have been lovely things I never saw before; Sunlight through a jar of marmalade; A blue gate; A rainbow In soapsuds on dishwater; Candlelight on butter; The crinkled smile of a little girl Who had new shoes with tassels; A chickadee on a thorn-apple; Empurpled mud under a willow, Where white geese slept; White ruffled curtains sifting moonlight

BRIAN PATTEN Forgetmeknot She loves him, she loves him not, she is confused: She picks a fist of soaking grass and fingers it: She loves him not. The message passing from her head to heart Has in her stomach stopped, She cannot quite believe the information is correct: She loves him not. She knows her needs and yet There is no special place where they can rest. To be loved alone is not enough, She feels something has been lost. She picks a fist of soaking grass. Her world is blank, she thinks perhaps it’s meaningless.

THOM GUNN Jamesian Their relationship consisted In discussing if it existed.

JACOB SAM-LA ROSE Things That Could Happen 1. She swoons, falls into his arms and they live together happily ever after. 2. She kisses him: the restaurant applauds. 3. There’s a pin-drop silence. She turns the knife in her hand, slowly. 4. His heart bursts in his mouth before he can say the words. It splatters the table, ruins her dress, and she never forgives him. 5. He’s interrupted by a handsome man from another table who asks if he can cut in. She accepts, of course, and waltzes off to an orchestra of cutlery, side-plates,

OLIVIA MCCANNON Timing It’s now my love for you is perfect as an egg Soft-boiled – a quail’s egg with a mottled shell Whose markings are the landscape of our world. I peel – the skin is soft between my teeth I roll it on my tongue and taste its heat Then I choose to bite and eat or keep it whole.

EPHELIA To One That Asked Me Why I Loved J.G. Why do I love? go ask the glorious sun Why every day it round the world doth run: Ask Thames and Tiber why they ebb and flow: Ask damask roses why in June they blow: Ask ice and hail the reason why they’re cold: Decaying beauties, why they will grow old: They’ll tell thee, Fate, that everything doth move, Inforces them to this, and me to love. There is no reason for our love or hate, ’Tis irresistible as Death or Fate; ’Tis not his face; I’ve sense enough to see, That is not good, though doated on by me: Nor is’t his tongue, that has this conquest won, For that at least is equalled by my own: His carriage can to none obliging be, ’Tis rude, affected, full of vanity: Strangely ill natur’d, peevish and unkind, Unconstant, false, to jealousy inclin’d: His temper could not have so great a power, ’Tis mutable, and changes every hour: Those vigorous years that women so adore Are past in him: he’s twice my age and more; And yet I love this false, this worthless man, With all the passion that a woman can; Doat on his imperfections, though I spy Nothing to love; I love, and know not why. Since ’tis decreed in the dark book of Fate, That I should love, and he should be ingrate.

ROBERT GRAVES Not to Sleep

Not to sleep all the night long, for pure joy, Counting no sheep and careless of chimes, Welcoming the dawn confabulation Of birds, her children, who discuss idly Fanciful details of the promised coming – Will she be wearing red, or russet, or blue, Or pure white? – whatever she wears, glorious: Not to sleep all the night long, for pure joy, This is given to few but at last to me, So that when I laugh and stretch and leap from bed I shall glide downstairs, my feet brushing the carpet In courtesy to civilized progression, Though, did I wish, I could soar through the open window And perch on a branch above, acceptable ally Of the birds still alert, grumbling gently together.

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON She Walks in Beauty She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow’d to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair’d the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling place. And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

SIMON ARMITAGE Let me put it this way: if you came to lay your sleeping head against my arm or sleeve, and if my arm went dead, or if I had to take my leave at midnight, I should rather cleave it from the joint or seam than make a scene or bring you round. There, how does that sound?