Valentine's Day 2010

Happy Valentine's Day, dear reader.
Here is a chaotic mess of love quotes, links, and poems.
Enjoy what you'd like to, ignore what you don't.

"I heard what you said. I’m not the silly romantic you think. I don’t want the heavens or the shooting stars. I don’t want gemstones or gold. I have those things already. I want…a steady hand. A kind soul. I want to fall asleep, and wake, knowing my heart is safe. I want to love, and be loved."
~ Shana Abé

Those Who Love
Sara Teasdale

Those who love the most,
Do not talk of their love,
Francesca, Guinevere,
Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak if at all
Of fragile inconsequent things.

And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.

"I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman."
~ Anaïs Nin

Check out the July 3, 2008 post, Crazy Little Thing called Love, for more love quotes.

Sometimes with One I Love
Walt Whitman

Sometimes with one I love, I fill myself with rage, for fear I effuse unreturn’d love;
But now I think there is no unreturn’d love—the pay is certain, one way or another;
(I loved a certain person ardently, and my love was not return’d;
Yet out of that, I have written these songs.)

Love love poetry? Check out the works of John Donne here, love poems among others.

"I do not want to be the leader. I refuse to be the leader. I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness. I want a man lying over me, always over me. His will, his pleasure, his desire, his life, his work, his sexuality the touchstone, the command, my pivot. I don’t mind working, holding my ground intellectually, artistically; but as a woman, oh, --- , as a woman I want to be dominated. I don’t mind being told to stand on my own feet, not to cling, be all that I am capable of doing, but I am going to be pursued, ------, possessed by the will of a male at his time, his bidding."
~ Anaïs Nin

Photo by: Valerie Owens. Please do not use without permission.

Click here for a favorite love quote of mine, orignally posted in June 2008.

"There are three possible parts to a date, of which at least two must be offered: entertainment, food, and affection. It is customary to begin a series of dates with a great deal of entertainment, a moderate amount of food, and the merest suggestion of affection. As the amount of affection increases, the entertainment can be reduced proportionately. When the affection IS the entertainment, we no longer call it dating. Under no circumstances can the food be omitted."
~ Judith Martin

True Love
Judith Viorst

It is true love because
I put on eyeliner and a concerto and make pungent observations about the great issues of the day
Even when there's no one here but him,
And because
I do not resent watching the Green Bay Packers
Even though I am philosophically opposed to football,
And because
When he is late for dinner and I know he must be either having an affair or lying dead in the middle of the street,
I always hope he's dead.

It's true love because
If he said quit drinking martinis but I kept drinking them and the next morning I couldn't get out of bed,
He wouldn't tell me he told me,
And because
He is willing to wear unironed undershorts
Out of respect for the fact that I am philosophically opposed to ironing,
And because
If his mother was drowning and I was drowning and he had to choose one of us to save,
He says he'd save me.

It's true love because
When he went to San Francisco on business while I had to stay home with the painters and the exterminator and the baby who was getting the chicken pox,
He understood why I hated him,
And because
When I said that playing the stock market was juvenile and irresponsible and then the stock I wouldn't let him buy went up twenty-six points,
I understood why he hated me,
And because
Despite cigarette cough, tooth decay, acid indigestion, dandruff, and other features of married life that tend to dampen the fires of passion,
We still feel something
We can call
True love.

Check out the L-O-V-E label for more love poetry, both recent and past posts.

"I am only responsible for my own heart, you offered yours up for the smashing my darling. Only a fool would give out such a vital organ"
~ Anaïs Nin

Love Poem With Toast
Miller Williams

Some of what we do, we do
to make things happen,
the alarm to wake us up, the coffee to perc,
the car to start.

The rest of what we do, we do
trying to keep something from doing something,
the skin from aging, the hoe from rusting,
the truth from getting out.

With yes and no like the poles of a battery
powering our passage through the days,
we move, as we call it, forward,
wanting to be wanted,
wanting not to lose the rain forest,
wanting the water to boil,
wanting not to have cancer,
wanting to be home by dark,
wanting not to run out of gas,

as each of us wants the other
watching at the end,
as both want not to leave the other alone,
as wanting to love beyond this meat and bone,
we gaze across breakfast and pretend.

In Love Again and Always

My apologies for slacking on L-O-V-E posts. Thank you, dear readers, for sharing your favorite love poetry with me. I will be sure to post your suggestions on Valentine's Day or shortly prior to. If you have any more love poems, quotes, or even songs to share, please do!

I've posted before from Carol Lynn Pearson's In Love Again and Always. It's a beautiful little collection love poems, a little fluffy, but enjoyable. I particularly like the definition of love this simple gem presents.

Like The Weather

Carol Lynn Pearson

Drenched and dripping

I tell you

That love is rather 

Like the weather--

Something you can 

Report on,

But not very well

Control.

Response

In yesterday's post, I shared two poems about the anxiety a wife might feel waiting for the return of a husband. Tonight, let me share with you what perhaps might be on the mind of the husband during time apart.

When Will I Be Home?

Li Shang-Yin (813?-858)

Trans. Kenneth Rexroth

When will I be home? I don't know. 

In the mountains, in the rainy night,

The Autumn lake is flooded. 

Someday we will be back together again.

We will sit in the candlelight by the West window. 

And I will tell you how I remembered you 

Tonight on the stormy mountain.

And one more, along the same lines, this time translated from Sanskrit.

My Husband before Leaving
Anonymous
Trans. J Moussaieff Masson and W.S. Merwin

My husband
before leaving on a journey
is still in the house speaking
to the gods and already
separation is climbing like
bad monkeys to the windows.

Both poems were found, again, in Enduring Ties, edited by Grant Hardy. I love the way these poems show emotion without spelling it out. It's beautiful.

You Have Been Gone Five Months

Tonight, I present to you Ezra Pound's translation of an eighth century poem by Li Po, "The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter." What strikes me most particularly about this poem is that it tells a love story without ever mentioning love. Rather than simply post the poem, I will accompany it with a great reading by Jodie Foster through Poetic Touch's YouTube channel.

The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter

Ezra Pound, translated from the work of Li Po

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
Played I about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.

At fourteen I married My Lord you,
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?

At sixteen you departed,
You went into fat Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noises overhead.

You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early in autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
                        As far as Cho-fu-Sa.

By Rihaku

I was reminded as well of a small poem originating from the Baule tribe of the Ivory Coast, as  found in Grant Hardy's anthology, Enduring Ties. I will share that with you as well. The message, to me, seems to be the same, yet told in fewer words. Interesting that such themes stretch across cultures. 

Song of a Woman Whose Husband Had Gone to the Coast to Earn Money

Whenever I go out of the village

and see a stone

or a tree in the distance,

I think:

It is my husband.

Anonymous

(Twelfth Century)

Adapted from a German translation of the original Baule by Willard R. Trask

L-O-V-E... Kind of.

I want to share with you poems in celebration of love. But the poems that seem draw me in are not those of celebratory praise, but those of melancholy longing. So, this isn't much a love poem, but I hope you like it nonetheless.

Fight 

Laurel Blossom

That is the difference between me and you.
You pack an umbrella, #30 sun goo
And a red flannel shirt.  That's not what I do.

I put the top down as soon as we arrive.
The temperature's trying to pass fifty-five.
I'm freezing but at least I'm alive.

Nothing on earth can diminish my glee.
This is Florida, Florida, land of euphoria,
Florida in the highest degree.

You dig in the garden.  I swim in the pool.
I like to wear cotton.  You like to wear wool.
You're always hot.  I'm usually cool.

You want to get married.  I want to be free.
You don't seem to mind that we disagree.
And that is the difference between you and me.

Jenny Kissed Me

Tonight's selection is a simple, adorable classic.

Jenny Kissed Me
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in:
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.

~ Leigh Hunt (1784 - 1859)

I also like this YouTube clip of the same poem. Brief and sweet, like the poem itself.

 

Poetry Valentines

POETRY VALENTINES, free to print, link, or attach.

How cool is that?

Click here to check it out.

Share the L-O-V-E

I have an idea.

On February 14, 2010 I would like to barrage this poor blog with love poetry--your favorite love poetry. Please share! Comment with a poem title and poet and a link if available or feel free to email me at owensval@gmail.com. Ask your family, friends, and lovers for their favorite love poetry and share that as well. I will post all poetry suggestions on Valentine's Day.

(Please keep it G rated).

Twelve days? I think we can gather plenty of love poetry. What do you think?

And now for today's love poem.

Midsummer 

Sidney King Russell

 

You loved me for a little,

Who could not love me long;

You gave me wings of gladness

And lent my spirit song.

You loved me for an hour
But only with your eyes;
Your lips I could not capture
By storm or by surprise.

Your mouth that I remember
With rush of sudden pain
As one remembers starlight
Or roses after rain...

Out of a world of laughter
Suddenly I am sad...
Day and night it haunts me,
The kiss I never had.

A Little L-O-V-E

Happy February, the month of L-O-V-E. Please, don't gag. Love is a beautiful thing. It is such a beautiful thing, in fact, that I'm devoting fourteen days to love poetry. (That can be read two ways--neat.) Don't worry, it won't be all gushy. There are lots of different love poems.

To start off the month, please welcome Richard Brautigan to the blog.

It's Raining In Love

Richard Brautigan

I don't know what it is,
but I distrust myself
when I start to like a girl
     a lot.

It makes me nervous.
I don't say the right things
or perhaps I start
      to examine,
            evaluate,
                  compute
      what I am saying.

If I say, "Do you think it's going to rain?"
and she says, "I don't know,"
I start thinking:  Does she really like me?

In other words
I get a little creepy.

A friend of mine once said,
"It's twenty times better to be friends
        with someone
than it is to be in love with them."

I think he's right and besides,
it's raining somewhere, programming flowers
and keeping snails happy.
      That's all taken care of.

BUT
if a girl likes me a lot
and starts getting real nervous
and suddenly begins asking me funny questions
and looks sad if I give the wrong answers
and she says things like,
"Do you think it's going to rain?"
and I say, "It beats me,"
and she says, "Oh,"
and looks a little sad
at the clear blue California sky,
I think: Thank God, it's you, baby, this time
       instead of me.

The Rain is Full of Ghosts Tonight

I recently moved back to a college town I lived in last school year. It's good to be back, really good to be back, but this place is a ghost town of memories. This poem doesn't really have much to do with my move, but the lines "...the rain / Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh / Upon the glass and listen for reply" keep running through my mind. So tonight, I give you a little Millay. I tend to turn to her when I am, as Wordsworth would describe, "in vacant or in pensive mood."

Edna St. Vincent Millay 

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

Love is so short; forgetting is so long...

Beautiful visual representation of Pablo Neruda's "Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines."

Audio Recording of "The Philosopher"

Click here for a public domain audio recording of "The Philosopher," as posted below. I think it's a great reading. Hopefully I will be able to post recordings of my own readings soon!

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
Image from http://www.usm.maine.edu

And What Am I?

Last week I visited a fabulous bookstore in Carlsbad, California called Farenheit 451 (I believe it is purposely spelled without an "h" before "n"). There I found a 1959 copy of Edna St. Vincent Millay's Collected Lyrics. Loved the collection. I read her work while watching the sunset over the Pacific. Beautiful sunset. Beautiful poetry. I couldn't have been happier.

Photo by: Lisa Owens

I posted Millay's "Recuerdo" a couple months ago, but other than that I have been largely unfamilar with her work. There is so much Millay I would love to post. But for today I give you "The Philosopher."

The Philosopher
Edna St. Vincent Millay

And what are you that, wanting you,
I should be kept awake
As many nights as there are days
With weeping for your sake?

And what are you that, missing you,
As many days as crawl
I should be listening to the wind
And looking at the wall?

I know a man that's a braver man
And twenty men as kind,
And what are you, that you should be
The one man in my mind?

Yet women's ways are witless ways,
As any sage will tell,—
And what am I, that I should love
So wisely and so well?

Have You No Thought, O Dreamer?

I know, I know, I promised sunshine and such. But it's a harder promise to fulfill than I realized.

Summertime. I love summer nights. The past couple nights I've driven my car out to a good view of the sunset. I've parked and read poetry aloud, letting my little car absorb my words. Oh what poems that car has heard!

Whitman is a recent favorite of mine. I reread Mary Downing Hahn's The Wind Blows Backward just a few short weeks ago. The novel was loaded with Whitman's work. It launched me into giving him a closer look. There is something so moving, so raw, so familiar about Whitman. I hope you enjoy tonight's poem. It certainly lingered in my mind long after I read it.

Are You the New Person Drawn Toward Me?
Walt Whitman

ARE you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what you
suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?
Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy'd satisfaction?
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
Do you see no further than this facade, this smooth and tolerant
manner of me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real
heroic man?
Have you no thought O dreamer that it may be all maya, illusion?

Very Tired, Very Merry

Spring has finally arrived! I simply cannot get enough of the sunshine. I had forgotten how passionately blue the sky could be. The blossoms on the trees and newly planted flowers delight me incessantly. I am in love with spring. I am thinking of poems previously posted, Gerard Manley Hopkins, "Pied Beauty" and e.e. cummings' "little you-i" and "i thank you God for most this amazing;" poems that speak to me of beauty and spring.

So why then am I not posting poetry about spring? Because I'm finicky and want to post this one. I enjoy the feel of the poem, that melancholy beauty that prevails through life.

Recuerdo
Edna St. Vincent Millay

WE were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

Nothing explicitly states the two as lovers, but it can be felt. I enjoy the tangibility of their relationship. I would like a lover such as that. I am waiting for a man who likes long drives, blue skies, sunsets, and star gazing. I am waiting for the man who likes to rest his head upon my lap, while I idly read poetry, sitting against a tree with the grass beneath and the blue sky above me. But, I'd be happy with the guy who is able to smile about my love for poetry without understanding, just as I will smile about his love for basketball, or whatever it might be.

And that has nothing to do with anything. Apologies for the scattered nature of recent posts.

Might Have Beens

.
I recently splurged half a week's worth of grocery money to purchase Garrison Keillor's Good Poems, a purchase well made. The book appropriately titled! There are a few poems that keep echoing through my head. On my mind tonight is Dana Gioia's "Summer Rain." Actually, it has been on my mind the past few weeks. The last couple paragraphs keep swirling through my head. It seems a fitting poem to read as the leaves fall quietly outside my window. Gioia beautifully explores that strange little world of the what might have beens.

My own recent what might have been? On campus I frequently see a young man with a guitar case slung over his shoulder. Today, I found him on the lawn. The guitar was at his lap, the case set aside. He was not yet playing. I wanted very much to hear his music. I sat on a patch of lawn nearby and pulled out a book, half reading, half waiting. I wanted badly to go and sit by him. There was much I wanted to know. What was his name? Why was the guitar his constant companion? How long had he been playing-- if I suppose, he played at all? What sort of music did he love? Did he write his own music? But, I remained rooted to my spot, my nose in the book. I waited patiently, looking up once to seem him softly stroking the strings without producing sound. When I looked up again, he was gone. "There are so many might have beens..."

Summer Storm

Dana Gioia

We stood on the rented patio
While the party went on inside.
You knew the groom from college.
I was a friend of the bride.

We hugged the brownstone wall behind us
To keep our dress clothes dry
And watched the sudden summer storm
Floodlit against the sky.

The rain was like a waterfall
Of brilliant beaded light,
Cool and silent as the stars
The storm hid from the night.

To my surprise, you took my arm–
A gesture you didn't explain–
And we spoke in whispers, as if we two
Might imitate the rain.

Then suddenly the storm receded
As swiftly as it came.
The doors behind us opened up.
The hostess called your name.

I watched you merge into the group,
Aloof and yet polite.
We didn't speak another word
Except to say goodnight.

Why does that evening's memory
Return with this night's storm–
A party twenty years ago,
Its disappointments warm?

There are so many might have beens,
What ifs that won't stay buried,
Other cities, other jobs,
Strangers we might have married.

And memory insists on pining
For places it never went,
As if life would be happier
Just by being different.

I Wish I Could Remember....

Every great love story begins with something along the lines of, "I remember the first time I laid eyes on her..." In reality life doesn't often merit fireworks upon first introductions. People slip quietly in and out of our lives, their presence rarely recognized until that point that you can't live without it. So, here is an anthem to all lovers who can't remember the moment their love story begin, or, if it had a beginning at all.

Sonnet

by Christina Rossetti

I wish I could remember that first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me,
If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or Winter for aught that I can say;
So unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and to foresee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it, such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much;
If only now I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand.--Did one but know!

How did your love story begin? Do you remember? Or, did you fall slowly into it?

Don't Touch

I recently purchased a copy of Carol Lynn Pearson's In Love Again And Always. The book is a collection of love poems, simple, sweet, and tender. I don't have much to say on the book. It's not deep poetry, but an enjoyable read. I find Carol Lynn Pearson to lead a fascinating life; Google her. She seems set apart from perhaps the "trite" nature of a good deal of LDS fiction. Pearson divorced her husband for good reason, remained friends, and stayed by his side as he died of AIDS. Interesting to have that background to read her love poems.

Don't Touch
Carol Lynn Pearson

It's all right, really,
That I touch you?

Somehow I look around
For signs you might see
In a museum
Or wherever else they
House the world's
Extraordinary things.

I could only look
At the Rembrandts
And the Chinese vases,
And I could not
Get closer than three feet
To the crown jewels.

Well, I didn't even want to.
But you?
It would be asking too much
For me to be in a room with you
And not touch.

It's all right?
I can sit on this couch
With your head in my lap
And trace your eyebrows
And lips and face?
I can play with your hair like this?
And even kiss
And tickle if I want
And no one will call a guard?

Why do I smile
Like I'm getting away
With something bold?

There were alarms fixed in case
I should try to touch
King Tut's face--
And his was only gold.

Crazy Little Thing Called Love

I owe you poetry. I owe you words from the lips of the greats. And, I will. But today, a few quotations on love, which I guess in their own right are pretty poetic. They are different quotes, ones not heard that often. Your favorite love quotes?

After all these years, I see that I was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better to live outside the Garden with her than inside it without her. ~ Adam, in Adam's Diary, by Mark Twain

Do you want me to tell you something really subversive? Love is everything it's cracked up to be. That's why people are so cynical about it. It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don't risk everything, you risk even more.
—Erica Jong

Women was made from man’s rib, not his head to be higher than him, not his foot to be stepped upon, she was made from his rib under his arm for protection, by his side and close to his heart.

Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired. ~ Robert Frost

What! No star, and you are going out to sea? Marching, and you have no music? Traveling, and you have no book? What! No love, and you are going out to live? ~ French Proverb

If I had a single flower for every time I think about you, I could walk forever in my garden. ~Attributed to Claudia Ghandi

Grow Old Along With Me

In behalf of my parent's 24th wedding anniversary...

Grow Old Along With Me
Robert Browning 

Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith "A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"