Thirty
Once we had made up
our minds that you
should leave at morning —
we each in our way
prayed dawn should never
come.
Poems on the topic: longing
Poems on the topic “longing” on Poets.by.
Twenty-Seven
When you asked
if you might
walk with me,
I said yes,
then looked
away. It is ...
a thing we do.
Twenty-Six
As I pass through,
I may touch ash,
Hemlock, fir,
spruce, alder,
maple, cedar,
madrone, yew,
willow, dark
myrtle, but —
not you.
Twenty-Two
The mountain wind
comes to me,
speaking your
wild thoughts.
Eighteen
Even to dream
may shatter
my world.
What name
did I speak to
the night?
Mr. Brown
The truth is the basketball coach
assigned to teach geometry disliked
both sports and angles. Plays
he drew on chalkboards looked like
problems, problems like plays. He
calculated the area of the rectangular
court to be most pleasant when
empty and only echoes cheered.
He coached his classes best when
a fire-drill called time-out and he
might stand shyly in the courtyard
next to her, the English teacher—close
enough to look, for instance, at her ears,
or smell her sweet breath,
care for her tender shoulders.
His job was an amorphous shape between
Soap
I watch her body wet and
dry her moods at dusk at
dawn she sips lemon tea
lemon shampoos blonde hair
lemon slice between glass and
blue eyes, a goddess of love
night and day. Beautiful
clothes shape silken breasts
swaddle golden child
intelligent conversation in
business in bed unmarried then
wed unavailable but saleable
relationship with her
one hour a day which is
everything, or nothing, or love.
The Bed
Hollows map
your body
gone.
My body drinks
your fading
warmth.
Your ghost
is mute.
I smoke.
A touch,
did I feel
a touch
of a wrapping
thigh?
Silence deepens.
I sleep.
Eyes
O strange devices that alone divide
The seër from the seen--
The very highway of earth's pomp and pride
That lies between
The traveller and the cheating, sweet delight
Of where he longs to be,
But which, bound hand and foot, he, close on night,
Can only see.
In Japan Beyond
Do you not hear the sighing of a willow in Japan,
(In Japan beyond, in Japan beyond)
In the voice of a wind searching the Sun lost,
For the old faces with memory in eyes ?
Do you not hear the sighing of a bamboo in Japan,
(In Japan beyond, in Japan beyond)
In the voice of a sea urging with the night,
For the old dreams of a twilight tale ?
Do you not hear the sighing of a pine in Japan
(In Japan beyond, in Japan beyond)
In the voice of a river in quest of the Unknown,
For the old ages with gold in heart ?
Do you not hear the sighing of a reed in Japan,
(In Japan beyond, in Japan beyond)
In the voice of a bird who long ago flew away,
For the old peace with velvet-sandalled feet ?
The Night Koto Player
The thought of her presence (a bit of flesh and love)
Makes the dusk of night the dusk of perfume.
Sudden as a kiss her rings glow ;
Over the dusk strings her fingers flow as a wave.
O the breeze of melody of her heart and that of the night,
The ghost musical that dies into the pang of dream !
Idyll
Not the wise, quiet pine nor the amorous, blonde oak
Nor the tall, pale, lady elm tree,
But you, who came invisible in a magic cloak,
You, who were the wind, chose me.
I, the white little birch, who had stood alone, serene,
Content to listen and to stare —
And I never saw your hands that tore my veils of green.
Nor your lips that laughed in my hair.
You held me and kissed me, I knew your strength and grace
And dreams rose like sap in the spring.
I trembled as with buds, but I never saw your face,
I only heard you whispering.
So yawning and careless you went on to field and sea,
So here I am lonely and still —
Oh wind, wind, better to have broken me
Than leave me with roots in the hill.
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