Thanks, Saffron, for all your wanderings this morning. Thinking of yellow love, here is the first stanza from a poem, not really about love, but it reminded me of the yellow, yellow, yellow.
Ode To The Lemon
by Pablo Neruda (first stanza)
From blossoms
released
by the moonlight,
from an
aroma of exasperated
love,
steeped in fragrance,
yellowness
drifted from the lemon tree,
and from its plantarium
lemons descended to the earth.
I especially like 'from an aroma of exasperated love'
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Love Poems
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giselle
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saffron
Winter Memories
Within the circuit of this plodding life
There enter moments of an azure hue,
Untarnished fair as is the violet
Or anemone, when the spring stew them
By some meandering rivulet, which make
The best philosophy untrue that aims
But to console man for his grievences.
I have remembered when the winter came,
High in my chamber in the frosty nights,
When in the still light of the cheerful moon,
On the every twig and rail and jutting spout,
The icy spears were adding to their length
Against the arrows of the coming sun,
How in the shimmering noon of winter past
Some unrecorded beam slanted across
The upland pastures where the Johnwort grew;
Or heard, amid the verdure of my mind,
The bee's long smothered hum, on the blue flag
Loitering amidst the mead; or busy rill,
Which now through all its course stands still and dumb
Its own memorial, - purling at its play
Along the slopes, and through the meadows next,
Until its youthful sound was hushed at last
In the staid current of the lowland stream;
Or seen the furrows shine but late upturned,
And where the fieldfare followed in the rear,
When all the fields around lay bound and hoar
Beneath a thick integument of snow.
So by God's cheap economy made rich
To go upon my winter's task again.
Henry David Thoreau
I picked up your word "meander" which always makes me think of meandering streams and I found this Thoreau poem .. has some nice colour references too, "moments of an azure hue" ..right in the spirit of my morning's meander.
Winter Memories
Within the circuit of this plodding life
There enter moments of an azure hue,
Untarnished fair as is the violet
Or anemone, when the spring stew them
By some meandering rivulet, which make
The best philosophy untrue that aims
But to console man for his grievences.
I have remembered when the winter came,
High in my chamber in the frosty nights,
When in the still light of the cheerful moon,
On the every twig and rail and jutting spout,
The icy spears were adding to their length
Against the arrows of the coming sun,
How in the shimmering noon of winter past
Some unrecorded beam slanted across
The upland pastures where the Johnwort grew;
Or heard, amid the verdure of my mind,
The bee's long smothered hum, on the blue flag
Loitering amidst the mead; or busy rill,
Which now through all its course stands still and dumb
Its own memorial, - purling at its play
Along the slopes, and through the meadows next,
Until its youthful sound was hushed at last
In the staid current of the lowland stream;
Or seen the furrows shine but late upturned,
And where the fieldfare followed in the rear,
When all the fields around lay bound and hoar
Beneath a thick integument of snow.
So by God's cheap economy made rich
To go upon my winter's task again.
Henry David Thoreau
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realiz
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Here is a Russian love poem translated to English by Vladimir Nabocov.
Last Love
by Fyodor Tyutchev
Love at the closing of our days
is apprehensive and very tender.
Glow brighter, brighter, farewell rays
of one last love in its evening splendor.
Blue shade takes half the world away:
through western clouds alone some light is slanted.
O tarry, O tarry, declining day,
enchantment, let me stay enchanted.
The blood runs thinner, yet the heart
remains as ever deep and tender.
O last belated love, thou art
a blend of joy and of hopeless surrender.
Last Love
by Fyodor Tyutchev
Love at the closing of our days
is apprehensive and very tender.
Glow brighter, brighter, farewell rays
of one last love in its evening splendor.
Blue shade takes half the world away:
through western clouds alone some light is slanted.
O tarry, O tarry, declining day,
enchantment, let me stay enchanted.
The blood runs thinner, yet the heart
remains as ever deep and tender.
O last belated love, thou art
a blend of joy and of hopeless surrender.
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Saffron
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Hate Poem
Just for fun!
Hate Poem
Julie Sheehan
I hate you truly. Truly I do.
Everything about me hates everything about you.
The flick of my wrist hates you.
The way I hold my pencil hates you.
The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped
in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.
Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.
Look out! Fore! I hate you.
The blue-green jewel of sock lint I'm digging
from under by third toenail, left foot, hates you.
The history of this keychain hates you.
My sigh in the background as you explain relational databases
hates you.
The goldfish of my genius hates you.
My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.
A closed window is both a closed window and an obvious
symbol of how I hate you.
My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate.
My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate.
My pleasant "good morning": hate.
You know how when I'm sleepy I nuzzle my head
under your arm? Hate.
The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My wit
practices it.
My breasts relaxing in their holster from morning
to night hate you.
Layers of hate, a parfait.
Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate,
I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each one
individually and at leisure.
My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validity
of my hate, which can never have enough of you,
Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine.
Hate Poem
Julie Sheehan
I hate you truly. Truly I do.
Everything about me hates everything about you.
The flick of my wrist hates you.
The way I hold my pencil hates you.
The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped
in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.
Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.
Look out! Fore! I hate you.
The blue-green jewel of sock lint I'm digging
from under by third toenail, left foot, hates you.
The history of this keychain hates you.
My sigh in the background as you explain relational databases
hates you.
The goldfish of my genius hates you.
My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.
A closed window is both a closed window and an obvious
symbol of how I hate you.
My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate.
My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate.
My pleasant "good morning": hate.
You know how when I'm sleepy I nuzzle my head
under your arm? Hate.
The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My wit
practices it.
My breasts relaxing in their holster from morning
to night hate you.
Layers of hate, a parfait.
Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate,
I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each one
individually and at leisure.
My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validity
of my hate, which can never have enough of you,
Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine.
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realiz
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A Love Poem
Author unknown
Collards is green, my dog's name is Blue
And I'm so lucky to have a sweet thang like you.
Yore hair is like corn silk a-flapping in the breeze.
Softer than Blue's and without all them fleas.
You move like the bass, which excite me in May.
You ain't got no scales but I luv you anyway.
Yo're as satisfy'n as okry jist a-fry'n in the pan.
Yo're as fragrant as "snuff" right out of the can.
You have some'a yore teeth, for which I am proud;
I hold my head high when we're in a crowd.
On special occasions, when you shave under yore arms,
Well, I'm in hawg heaven, and awed by yore charms.
Still them fellers at work, they all want to know,
What I did to deserve such a purdy, young doe.
Like a good roll of duct tape, yo're there fer yore man,
To patch up life's troubles and fix what you can.
Yo're as cute as a junebug a-buzzin' overhead.
You ain't mean like those far ants I found in my bed.
Cut from the best cloth like a plaid flannel shirt,
You spark up my life more than a fresh load of dirt.
When you hold me real tight like a padded gunrack,
My life is complete; Ain't nuttin' I lack.
Yore complexion, it's perfection, like the best vinyl sidin'.
Despite all the years, yore age, it keeps hidin'.
Me 'n' you's like a Moon Pie with a RC cold drank,
We go together like a skunk goes with stank.
Some men, they buy chocolate for Valentine's Day;
They git it at Wal-Mart, it's romantic that way.
Some men git roses on that special day
From the cooler at Kroger. That's impressive," I say.
Some men buy fine diamonds from a flea market booth.
"Diamonds are forever," they explain, suave and couth.
But for this man, honey, these won't do.
Cause yor'e too special, you sweet thang you.
I got you a gift, without taste nor odor,
More useful than diamonds......IT'S A NEW TROLL'N MOTOR!
Author unknown
Collards is green, my dog's name is Blue
And I'm so lucky to have a sweet thang like you.
Yore hair is like corn silk a-flapping in the breeze.
Softer than Blue's and without all them fleas.
You move like the bass, which excite me in May.
You ain't got no scales but I luv you anyway.
Yo're as satisfy'n as okry jist a-fry'n in the pan.
Yo're as fragrant as "snuff" right out of the can.
You have some'a yore teeth, for which I am proud;
I hold my head high when we're in a crowd.
On special occasions, when you shave under yore arms,
Well, I'm in hawg heaven, and awed by yore charms.
Still them fellers at work, they all want to know,
What I did to deserve such a purdy, young doe.
Like a good roll of duct tape, yo're there fer yore man,
To patch up life's troubles and fix what you can.
Yo're as cute as a junebug a-buzzin' overhead.
You ain't mean like those far ants I found in my bed.
Cut from the best cloth like a plaid flannel shirt,
You spark up my life more than a fresh load of dirt.
When you hold me real tight like a padded gunrack,
My life is complete; Ain't nuttin' I lack.
Yore complexion, it's perfection, like the best vinyl sidin'.
Despite all the years, yore age, it keeps hidin'.
Me 'n' you's like a Moon Pie with a RC cold drank,
We go together like a skunk goes with stank.
Some men, they buy chocolate for Valentine's Day;
They git it at Wal-Mart, it's romantic that way.
Some men git roses on that special day
From the cooler at Kroger. That's impressive," I say.
Some men buy fine diamonds from a flea market booth.
"Diamonds are forever," they explain, suave and couth.
But for this man, honey, these won't do.
Cause yor'e too special, you sweet thang you.
I got you a gift, without taste nor odor,
More useful than diamonds......IT'S A NEW TROLL'N MOTOR!
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Saffron
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- I can has reading?
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Sorry for one more Emily Dickinson poem -- I can't help it.
My River
My river runs to thee.
Blue sea, wilt thou welcome me?
My river awaits reply.
Oh! Sea, look graciously.
I'll fetch thee brooks
From spotted nooks.
Say, sea,
Take me!
The funny thing is that when I first read this poem I read the first line of the last stanza as:
I'll fetch thee books
Just goes to show you where my head and heart are! What better thing could you bring your love anyway?
My River
My river runs to thee.
Blue sea, wilt thou welcome me?
My river awaits reply.
Oh! Sea, look graciously.
I'll fetch thee brooks
From spotted nooks.
Say, sea,
Take me!
The funny thing is that when I first read this poem I read the first line of the last stanza as:
I'll fetch thee books
Just goes to show you where my head and heart are! What better thing could you bring your love anyway?
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Thomas Hood
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Genuinely Genius
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A "nook" is a hidden or secluded spot. In Massachusetts, which is a hilly place (I think) with tree-covered brooks in small valleys -- brooks are in nooks. The nooks are "spotted", that is, dappled with sunlight. My reading.giselle wrote: Not sure I get "spotted nooks" though?
Oh, I forget the important part: Emily was freckled, wasn't she?
