Economy
In the red, I eat as little as I can
of old candle.
See how they come to double
the price of things.
I am troubled
with a secret dispute:
who I will marry
and in which ink.
Gedichten over het onderwerp: marriage
Gedichten over het onderwerp “marriage” op Poets.by.
Husbandry
O my fat found wife to walk with!
In, in I walk.
Pillow talk
Talking in bed
about our frugal life.
What I would do
if I were a knight:
keep hope
we live to save
something from time,
go out alone to the garden
and see East India—
which we are to meet
tomorrow
in bed.
* * *
you've been stuck in my mind like a song,
your name going round and round in circles,
something else too...
something just waiting to be said like it's the first time,
I love you.
I'm impossibly in love with you,
it's the sort of love where I can see a future by your side,
not a childish naïve kind of future;
no, one where we struggle for months just to move in together.
one where we get married but it's simple,
extravagance isn't our thing.
it wouldn't be a fairy tale it would be real,
we'd stress over the messiness of pets but not give a care at the end of the day,
that mess and the re scheduled dinner dates is what I want.
I don't want a dream I want real life,
#82 Apr 2 67
the man in the street so
many disturbed
persons
in married life
that bird there, it's a gull?
the boys are
mimicking it
Sleeping Ace in Texas
Sleeping Ace was sad in Texas with his wife. Money
can save you said his wife. And days, weeks of soli-
tude will strengthen your hair as you make it grow.
But that was disappointing really, because Sleeping
Ace already had millions. They were located high above
the earth's atmosphere where no one could wake them,
The brightness of these little critters was sense it-
self. How frail they are, wondered Sleeping Ace. He
did not say it though, because he was talking to his
wife on the telephone about education, I'm getting an
education just moving my car said Mrs. Sleeping Ace.
Sleeping Ace sat around and did nothing. Texas is too
hot, they used to complain. That was before Sleeping
Love and a Question
A Stranger came to the door at eve,
And he spoke the bridegroom fair.
He bore a green-white stick in his hand,
And, for all burden, care.
He asked with the eyes more than the lips
For a shelter for the night,
And he turned and looked at the road afar
Without a window light.
The bridegroom came forth into the porch
With ‘Let us look at the sky,
And question what of the night to be,
Stranger, you and I.’
The woodbine leaves littered the yard,
The woodbine berries were blue,
Autumn, yes, winter was in the wind;
‘Stranger, I wish I knew.’
Goldie Blackwell
My three sisters and I
traded virginity
for comfort
my three sisters
got rings and Mrs.
and respectability
I got two dollars
and independence
and kept respectability
to myself.
Other
When I draped it around myself I found it wasn’t fur it was alive and
wouldn’t let go
So I danced with the bear and got to know the lightness and
seriousness of its hands
Delicately with cultured paws it tore at my flesh and stopped for
some other thought
What does a half-wed do
What can a half-wed do
Keep the wound lush
Smile in secret
Stay in bed
By day freckles pop mustard seeds
By night moon glosses grain on lake rims
Victory
At the party the husband tried to defeat
his young son.
At croquet, perhaps. Or table tennis.
The wife at the party watched the husband
leaning over the game
or leaning into talk, setting his jaw, winning.
She turned to a listener. Dusk chilled her.
Breezes dragged
her hair across her face. She said,
“My husband is very competitive.”
The listener watched
a highway of loss and fatigue
form in her mind, stretch for miles.
All the women
in that neighborhood are deciduous wives
married to evergreen husbands.
The Collar-Bone of a Hare
Would I could cast a sail on the water
Where many a king has gone
And many a king's daughter,
And alight at the comely trees and the lawn,
The playing upon pipes and the dancing,
And learn that the best thing is
To change my loves while dancing
And pay but a kiss for a kiss.
I would find by the edge of that water
The collar-bone of a hare
Worn thin by the lapping of water,
And pierce it through with a gimlet and stare
At the old bitter world where they marry in churches,
And laugh over the untroubled water
At all who marry in churches,
Through the white thin bone of a hare.
Indian Weavers
Weavers, weaving at break of day,
Why do you weave a garment so gay? . . .
Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild,
We weave the robes of a new-born child.
Weavers, weaving at fall of night,
Why do you weave a garment so bright? . . .
Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green,
We weave the marriage-veils of a queen.
Weavers, weaving solemn and still,
What do you weave in the moonlight chill? . . .
White as a feather and white as a cloud,
We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.