love poetry

Well, it’s Valentine’s Day , so it seems a good day to post some love poetry. That concept always takes me back to something I read back in 2002 in an interview with Jenaro Talens in the El País literary supplement under the headline “Toda poesía es poesía de amor”. Although I don’t have the original newspaper any more, at the time I made a rough translation of the phrase that leapt out at me:

“All poetry is love poetry. But not in the conventional romantic approach; rather as seen in the impulse of desire towards an otherness…”

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autumn

It’s the first day of autumn, and last night there was a harvest moon. That makes me think I should be posting some poetry, but I can’t find anything particularly suitable.

Still, the weather really is quite autumnal today, and if it stays this way, it wouldn’t surprise me if the swallows started gathering early for migration. I’ve had telephone wires and communications on my mind a lot recently, so maybe this will fit the bill:
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of love and toothbrushes

in the glass beside the sink
my toothbrush
kisses yours

Having come across the above snippet in an old notebook, I was reminded of a definition of true love.

I couldn’t quite remember it, though, and it’s taken me nearly an hour to track it down; it wasn’t Shaw, as I had thought, but Somerset Maugham, in The Constant Wife.

Maugham’s works are presumably still in copyright, so not so easy to find on-line, and although I have the complete short stories and a couple of novels, I don’t have the plays. Finally, though, I have found the piece I was looking for.
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incubus

He comes to her at dawn,
sweet-nothings her awake
as he nuzzles past her ear,
whispering his desire, telling
how her sweat draws him, how
he would risk his life to serenade her,
to tangle through her hair and kiss
the smooth curve of her neck.

I’m not exactly bubbling over with new ideas at the moment, so I’m looking back over old notebooks and reviewing pieces that I never thought sufficiently polished to submit for comment and critique, let alone for publication. So this is still a draft, but it amuses me, as does the idea of writing a poem to a mosquito. Of course, if you’ve interpreted it as meaning something different, that’s your prerogative as reader.

the spaces between

The heart nests in the bone tree.
She chatters idly, then sings
when the sun touches her. In Spring
she seeks a mate, peeping
from behind a complex foliage
of words and silences.

(An old poem posted because the photo reminded me of the ‘complex foliage’. Having found it, I thought I’d try and remember something about how and why I wrote it.)

It was Castaneda’s Don Juan who talked of not seeing the shapes of the tree and its leaves, but instead looking at the spaces between them.
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