Today's poet

[Hes]

Sat on the edge,
of a huge vista,
of a fresh start, a new beginning.
What we both wanted,
what we've both wished for

Sat on the edge,
of a dream,
it started off as a dream,
but now it closes ever nearer.
Dreams come true; if you dream hard enough

Sat on the edge,
of an exciting adventure,
so much to share, so much to do.
I'm thrilled for you; thrilled for us.
Who knows where this could lead? Who knows?

Brilliant DT! That has made me happy, you give hope to us single people out here. Wishing you a very exciting and fulfilling adventure.

[Hes]

Having read some amazing poetry over the last few days and some heartfelt, genuine ones about love...I found this and liked it.

These poems she said

These poems, these poems,
these poems, she said, are poems
with no love in them. These are the poems of a man
who would leave his wife and child because
they made noise in his study. These are the poems
of a man who would murder his mother to claim
the inheritance. These are the poems of a man
like Plato, she said, meaning something I did not
comprehend but which nevertheless
offended me. These are the poems of a man
who would rather sleep with himself than with women,
she said. These are the poems of a man
with eyes like a drawknife, with hands like a pickpocket's
hands, woven of water and logic
and hunger, with no strand of love in them. These
poems are as heartless as birdsong, as unmeant
as elm leaves, which if they love love only
the wide blue sky and the air and the idea
of elm leaves. Self-love is an ending, she said,
and not a beginning. Love means love
of the thing sung, not of the song or the singing.
These poems, she said. . . .
You are, he said,
beautiful.
That is not love, she said rightly.

Robert Bringhurst

[Mossdog]

Words, Wide Night

Somewhere, on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.

This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.

La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine
the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you and this

is what it is like or what it is like in words.

Carol Ann Duffy.

[freckle]

Words, Wide Night

Somewhere, on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.

This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.

La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine
the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you and this

is what it is like or what it is like in words.

Carol Ann Duffy.

aye, she sure is good....I like the last line very much, I think she is inferring that there are aspects of love which cannot be translated into words?...beautiful .....Hes liked your offering too

[freckle]

This room
Imtiaz Dharker

This room is breaking out
of itself, cracking through
its own walls
in search of space, light,
empty air.

The bed is lifting out of
its nightmares.
From dark corners, chairs
are rising up to crash through clouds.

This is the time and place
to be alive:
when the daily furniture of our lives
stirs, when the improbable arrives.
Pots and pans bang together
in celebration, clang
past the crowd of garlic, onions, spices,
fly by the ceiling fan.
No one is looking for the door.

In all this excitement
I'm wondering where
I've left my feet, and why

my hands are outside, clapping.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

I stumbled across this lady's website, I think her poems and artwork are interesting

http://www.imtiazdharker.com/poems

[Harry H Howgill]

That is one of my favourites Mossy. A good post.

Words, Wide Night

Somewhere, on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.

This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.

La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine
the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you and this

is what it is like or what it is like in words.

Carol Ann Duffy.

[Harry H Howgill]

To his lost lover

Simon Armitage


Now they are no longer
any trouble to each other

he can turn things over, get down to that list
of things that never happened, all of the lost

unfinishable business.
For instance… for instance,

how he never clipped and kept her hair, or drew a hairbrush
through that style of hers, and never knew how not to blush

at the fall of her name in close company.
How they never slept like buried cutlery –

two spoons or forks cupped perfectly together,
or made the most of some heavy weather –

walked out into hard rain under sheet lightning,
or did the gears while the other was driving.

How he never raised his fingertips
to stop the segments of her lips

from breaking the news,
or tasted the fruit

or picked for himself the pear of her heart,
or lifted her hand to where his own heart

was a small, dark, terrified bird
in her grip. Where it hurt.

Or said the right thing,
or put it in writing.

And never fled the black mile back to his house
before midnight, or coaxed another button of her blouse,

the another,
or knew her

favourite colour,
her taste, her flavour,

and never ran a bath or held a towel for her,
or soft-soaped her, or whipped her hair

into an ice-cream cornet or a beehive
of lather, or acted out of turn, or misbehaved

when he might have, or worked a comb
where no comb had been, or walked back home

through a black mile hugging a punctured heart,
where it hurt, where it hurt, or helped her hand

to his butterfly heart
in its two blue halves.

And never almost cried,
and never once described

an attack of the heart,
or under a silk shirt

nursed in his hand her breast,
her left, like a tear of flesh

wept by the heart,
where it hurts,

or brushed with his thumb the nut of her nipple,
or drank intoxicating liquors from her navel.

Or christened the Pole Star in her name,
or shielded the mask of her face like a flame,

a pilot light,
or stayed the night,

or steered her back to that house of his,
or said “Don’t ask me how it is

I like you.
I just might do.”

How he never figured out a fireproof plan,
or unravelled her hand, as if her hand

were a solid ball
of silver foil

and discovered a lifeline hiding inside it,
and measured the trace of his own alongside it.

But said some things and never meant them –
sweet nothings anybody could have mentioned.

And left unsaid some things he should have spoken,
about the heart, where it hurt exactly, and how often.

[freckle]

Harry this is so beautiful, i love the line about sleeping like buried cutlery..........sigh permission for bottom lip to wobble?...i hope he reads this one out, do you reckon he will take requests?

[Stef F]

A glint in the eye
rich brown, warm, deep, inviting
trust me touch me hold me
I am yours for the taking

A twitch at the corner of the mouth
deep pink, soft, open, inviting
trust me kiss me caress me
choose me I'm here for the awakening

A toss of the head
shiny, smooth, sleek, inviting
trust me love me keep me
For you my love is awaiting

A full on cheeky grin
eyes bright cheeks glowing
face lit up with love and understanding
You picked me for a happy ending

[Stef F]

Harry this is so beautiful, i love the line about sleeping like buried cutlery..........sigh permission for bottom lip to wobble?...i hope he reads this one out, do you reckon he will take requests?

Good evening Freckle

Bottom lip wobble
for Simon Armitages
romantic cutlery