Love Poems

[oblivion]

Okay, I'm back home here. Sorry for the absence.
I just wanted to mention that one of his collections is called "Pecked to Death by Swans".....I haven't read it but I adore the title. I think it is similar to his use of "bone" that you were talking about. Very catchy.

[Saffron]

Okay, I'm back home here. Sorry for the absence.
I just wanted to mention that one of his collections is called "Pecked to Death by Swans".....I haven't read it but I adore the title. I think it is similar to his use of "bone" that you were talking about. Very catchy.

I will have to go looking for "Pecked to..." I could not find the poem online. Maybe my library system has the book. I want to post another by Lux, here is one that is appropriate for this thread:

A Kiss

One wave falling forward meets another wave falling
forward. Well-water,
hand-hauled, mineral, cool, could be
a kiss, or pastures
fiery green after rain, before
the grazers. The kiss — like a shoal of fish whipped
one way, another way, like the fever dreams
of a million monkeys — the kiss
carry me — closer than your carotid artery — to you.

[DWill]

Okay, I'm back home here. Sorry for the absence.
I just wanted to mention that one of his collections is called "Pecked to Death by Swans".....I haven't read it but I adore the title. I think it is similar to his use of "bone" that you were talking about. Very catchy.

Welcome back! You were missed. I have to agree with you that the title of the collection is most unusual, very strange indeed.

[giselle]

Thought I would share this poem, I guess its a love poem so I put it in this thread .. its by a Canadian poet with a, well, typically Canadian theme that is seasonally appropriate:

Twenty and Thirty Five Below

twenty and thirty-five below for weeks it feels like and me
my skin scaling and cracking, you itching, both of us watching
the ice creep up the inside of the window

what is it you want, and me, what rough path are we taking this time
unplowed, paved over with drip ice from back before it froze
then melted, then froze again
why are you staring, what is it you want
comae back to bed I'm bleeding

love, this cold is too harsh, the winter too long, I'm sick
of this country, trucks passing in the slow lane when I'm creeping
creeping uphill home, and you, itching to be gone

I'm dreaming of the last time we spoke so close our lips were echoes
each of the other, come back to this, the cold's ferocious
love, what is it you want, and me

Gillian Wigmore

[Penelope]

That is such an atmospheric poem, giselle.

Ferocious cold.

my skin scaling and cracking, you itching, both of us watching
the ice creep up the inside of the window


I suppose the ice creeping up the window signifies their growing inability to communicate....

Bleak midwinter.

[Saffron]

That is such an atmospheric poem, giselle.

Ferocious cold.

my skin scaling and cracking, you itching, both of us watching
the ice creep up the inside of the window


I suppose the ice creeping up the window signifies their growing inability to communicate....

Bleak midwinter.

Thanks, for the post, giselle. A poignant and sad poem. Penny, I think the line you quoted is the hinge of the poem.

[Penelope]

Saffron I have missed you. ((((((Saffron))))))) hugs.

Today, we have been to the funeral of the husband of one of my friends. I don't have a lot of friends....but Eileen is special, another antiquarian bookdealer and we have known one another for half our lives.

It was a Humanist Funeral, very green. They made up their own ceremony.

It was held in a little village called Mobberly. It was a Quaker graveyard. (The quakers plant trees over their graves and surround the trees with a stone wall). My childhood on the moors in Lancashire made me quite familiar with quaker graveyards. I used to think they built the walls to stop the trees from escaping.

There was a bio-degradable coffin for Clifford. They lowered the coffin into the grave to Simon and Garfunkel.

Then a man of the Humanist faith (if it is a faith) read out, first what the humanists believe, and then all about Clifford - his life story. Now, this graveyard is on Graveyard Lane, right next to Graveyard Farm - and the ducks, geese and guinea fowl joined us.
All the while we were standing around listening to the life of Clifford, and how he met and married my friend, Eileen, the ducks were pecking about unconcernedly around our feet. And....towards the end, he gave us a few minutes to ponder, or pray if you are that way inclined (which I am)...and just as he began to speak again... and some one played music.....Time it was, Oh what a time it was, a time of innocence....the sun came out. It had been a fairly grey and dismal day up until then. I want a funeral like that.

Eileen quoted:

Goodnight, sweet Prince.
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."


And that made me cry. And this deserves to be in 'Love Poems'.

[Saffron]

Saffron I have missed you. ((((((Saffron))))))) hugs.

Today, we have been to the funeral of the husband of one of my friends. I don't have a lot of friends....but Eileen is special, another antiquarian bookdealer and we have known one another for half our lives......And that made me cry. And this deserves to be in 'Love Poems'.

Hello, Penny, hugs right back to you! I haven't been completely gone, just quiet. That funeral sounds just what I'd like too.

[giselle]

That is such an atmospheric poem, giselle.

Ferocious cold.

my skin scaling and cracking, you itching, both of us watching
the ice creep up the inside of the window


I suppose the ice creeping up the window signifies their growing inability to communicate....

Bleak midwinter.

Thanks, for the post, giselle. A poignant and sad poem. Penny, I think the line you quoted is the hinge of the poem.

Yes, I think 'Twenty and Thirty Five Below' is sad and poignant as well .. its from a small collection of Gillian Wigmore's poetry called Dirt of Ages .. I think many of the other poems in the collection are poignant as well. It is an atmospheric poem .. and 'ice creeping up windows' is a great image ... also its no exaggeration, at 35 below, ice often does creep up the inside of windows!

[tbarron]

Today, we have been to the funeral of the husband of one of my friends. I don't have a lot of friends....but Eileen is special, another antiquarian bookdealer and we have known one another for half our lives.

It was a Humanist Funeral, very green. They made up their own ceremony.

It was held in a little village called Mobberly. It was a Quaker graveyard. (The quakers plant trees over their graves and surround the trees with a stone wall). My childhood on the moors in Lancashire made me quite familiar with quaker graveyards. I used to think they built the walls to stop the trees from escaping.
...
Eileen quoted:

Goodnight, sweet Prince.
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."


And that made me cry. And this deserves to be in 'Love Poems'.

That's a very touching story, Penelope. It made me tear up, too. Thank you for sharing it.

I've always been fascinated by graveyards. Not far from the small town where I live, there's a cemetery accessed by a road called Lively Cemetery Lane.