Today's poet

[Mossdog]

ummmm...that Riches, not Iches, but then again....!

[Derby Tup]

THE POTTER

Your whole body holds
a goblet or gentle sweetness destined for me

When I let my hand climb
in each place I find a dove
that was looking for me, as if
my love, they had made you out of clay
for my very own potter's hands.

Your knees, your breasts,
your waist
are missing in me, like in the hollow
of a thirsting earth
where they relinquished
a form
and together
we are complete like one single river,
like one single grain of sand

Pablo Neruda

[freckle]

Nice one DT, and you've prompted me to seek out a few others from our Emily.

THE OLD STOIC

by: Emily Brontë (1818-1848)

ICHES I hold in light esteem,
And Love I laugh to scorn;
And lust of fame was but a dream
That vanish'd with the morn:

And, if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me
Is, 'Leave the heart that now I bear,
And give me liberty!'

Yea, as my swift days near their goal,
'Tis all that I implore:
In life and death a chainless soul,
With courage to endure.

abosolytely loving it Mossy! and DT...you have outdone yourself yet again with that neruda poem, i thought i had seen them all but not that one!.......ah...i love this here thread!

[Mossdog]

THE POTTER

Your whole body holds
a goblet or gentle sweetness destined for me

When I let my hand climb
in each place I find a dove
that was looking for me, as if
my love, they had made you out of clay
for my very own potter's hands.

Your knees, your breasts,
your waist
are missing in me, like in the hollow
of a thirsting earth
where they relinquished
a form
and together
we are complete like one single river,
like one single grain of sand

Pablo Neruda

Corrrrrr...... DT shouldn't that have been held back until after the 9 o'clock watershed? I mean the PC Thought Police will be Nee-Nah, Nee-Nah and blue-lighting it to your door at this very moment - hide!

[Mountain Goatess]

THE POTTER

Your whole body holds
a goblet or gentle sweetness destined for me

When I let my hand climb
in each place I find a dove
that was looking for me, as if
my love, they had made you out of clay
for my very own potter's hands.

Your knees, your breasts,
your waist
are missing in me, like in the hollow
of a thirsting earth
where they relinquished
a form
and together
we are complete like one single river,
like one single grain of sand

Pablo Neruda

Oooh errrr missus!
DT is hot hot hot!!!!

[Derby Tup]

The Potter is from 'The Essential Neruda' available from Amazon. 50poems in Spanish and English

[XRunner]

Is it too early for this poem?

Sex With a Famous Poet (by Denis Duhamel - modified by me)

I had sex with a famous poet last night
and when I rolled over and found myself beside her I shuddered
because I was married to someone else,
because I wasn't supposed to have been drinking,
because I was in fancy hotel room
I didn't recognize. I would have told you
right off this was a dream, but recently
a friend told me, write about a dream,
lose a reader and I didn't want to lose you
right away. I wanted you to hear
that I really did like the poet in the dream, that I find her
rather attractive, that I only met her once,
that is, in real life, and that was in a large group
in which I barely spoke up. She pleased me
with her disparaging remarks about men.
She even used the word "Fell"
which I took as a direct insult to my wife who's Asian.
When we were first dating, I told her
"You were talking in your sleep last night
and I listened, just to make sure you didn't
call out anyone else's name." My future-wife said
that she couldn't be held responsible for her subconscious,
which worried me, which made me think her dreams
were full of blond men in boxer shorts,
but she said no, she dreamt mostly about boulders,
and the ocean, and fell running, dangerous weather
she witnessed but could do nothing to stop.
And I said, "I dream only of you,"
which was romantic and silly and untrue.
But I never thought I'd dream of another woman,
my wife and I hadn't even had a fight,
my head tucked sweetly in her armpit, my arm
around her belly, which lifted up and down
all night, gently like water in a lake.
If I passed that famous poet on the street,
she would walk by, famous in her sunglasses
and blazer with the suede patches at the elbows,
without so much as a glance in my direction.
I know you're probably curious about who the poet is,
so I should tell you the clues I've left aren't
accurate, that I've disguised her identity,
that you shouldn't guess I bet it's her,
because you'll never guess correctly
and even if you do, I won't tell you that you have.
I wouldn't want to embarrass Freckle
who is, after all, probably a nice person,
who was probably just having a bad day when I met her,
who is probably growing a little tired of her fame.
which my wife and I perceive as enormous,
but how much fame can a fell running poet
really have, let's say, compared to a rock star,
or film director of equal talent? Not that much,
and the famous poet knows it, knows that she's not
truly given her due. Knows that many
of these young poets tugging on her sleeve
are only pretending to have read all her poems.
But she smiles anyway, tries to be helpful.
I mean, this poet has to have some redeeming qualities, right?
For instance, she writes a mean iambic.
Otherwise, what was I doing in her arms.

[freckle]

Well all I can say X runner is it is a good job that I have a bloody good sense of humour!!!!!!.............

If only my life was as exciting as the poet described! :-)

[freckle]

The Potter is from 'The Essential Neruda' available from Amazon. 50poems in Spanish and English

Thanks for that DT i'll add that to my wish list

[freckle]

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop