Subscribe: by Email | in Reader

The Shrinking Lonesome Sestina -- Miller Williams

(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.
-- 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.
-- James Fenton

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.
-- Pablo Neruda

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? 
-- Tom Waits