(Poem #157)The Shrinking Lonesome Sestina Somewhere in everyone's head something points toward home, a dashboard's floating compass, turning all the time to keep from turning. It doesn't matter how we come to be wherever we are, someplace where nothing goes the way it went once, where nothing holds fast to where it belongs, or what you've risen or fallen to. What the bubble always points to, whether we notice it or not, is home. It may be true that if you move fast everything fades away, that given time and noise enough, every memory goes into the blackness, and if new ones come- small, mole-like memories that come to live in the furry dark- they, too, curl up and die. But Carol goes to high school now. John works at home what days he can to spend some time with Sue and the kids. He drives too fast. Ellen won't eat her breakfast. Your sister was going to come but didn't have the time. Some mornings at one or two or three I want you home a lot, but then it goes. It all goes. Hold on fast to thoughts of home when they come. They're going to less with time. Time goes too fast. Come home. Forgive me that. One time it wasn't fast. A myth goes that when the years come then you will, too. Me, I'll still be home. |
The Shrinking Lonesome Sestina -- Miller Williams
In Paris with You -- James Fenton
(Poem #156)In Paris with You Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two. I'm one of your talking wounded. I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded. But I'm in Paris with you. Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled And resentful at the mess that I've been through. I admit I'm on the rebound And I don't care where are we bound. I'm in Paris with you. Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre, If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame, If we skip the Champs Elysées And remain here in this sleazy Old hotel room Doing this and that To what and whom Learning who you are, Learning what I am. Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris, The little bit of Paris in our view. There's that crack across the ceiling And the hotel walls are peeling And I'm in Paris with you. Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris. I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do. I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth, I'm in Paris with ... all points south. Am I embarrassing you? I'm in Paris with you. |
Sonnet XVII: Love -- Pablo Neruda
(Poem #155)Sonnet XVII: Love I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries hidden within itself the light of those flowers, and thanks to your love, darkly in my body lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close. |
If I Have To Go -- Tom Waits
(Poem #154)If I Have To Go And if I have to go, will you remember me? Will you find someone else, while I'm away? There's nothing for me, in this world full of strangers It's all someone else's idea I don't belong here, and you can't go with me You'll only slow me down Until I send for you, don't wear your hair that way If you cannot be true, I'll understand Tell all the others, you'll hold in your arms That I said I'd come back for you I'll leave my jacket to keep you warm That's all that I can do And if I have to go, will you remember me? Will you find someone else, while I'm away? |