Love poems
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Babi Yar
© Yevgeny Yevtushenko
No monument stands over Babi Yar.
A drop sheer as a crude gravestone.
I am afraid.
Today I am as old in years
Pad, Pad
© Stevie Smith
I always remember your beautiful flowers
And the beautiful kimono you wore
When you sat on the couch
With that tigerish crouch
And told me you loved me no more.
Infelice
© Stevie Smith
Walking swiftly with a dreadful duchess,
He smiled too briefly, his face was pale as sand,
He jumped into a taxi when he saw me coming,
Leaving my alone with a private meaning,
Edmonton, thy cemetery
© Stevie Smith
Edmonton, thy cemetery
In which I love to tread
Has roused in me a dreary thought
For all the countless dead,
Ah me, the countless dead.
Away, Melancholy
© Stevie Smith
Are not the trees green,
The earth as green?
Does not the wind blow,
Fire leap and the rivers flow?
Away melancholy.
Exeat
© Stevie Smith
How can a poet commit suicide
When he is still not listening properly to his Muse,
Or a lover of Virtue when
He is always putting her off until tomorrow?
Skunk Cabbage
© Mary Oliver
And now as the iron rinds over
the ponds start dissolving,
you come, dreaming of ferns and flowers
and new leaves unfolding,
On Winter's Margin
© Mary Oliver
On winters margin, see the small birds now
With half-forged memories come flocking home
To gardens famous for their charity.
The green globes broken; vines like tangled veins
Hang at the entrance to the silent wood.
Hummingbird Pauses at the Trumpet Vine
© Mary Oliver
Who doesnt love
roses, and who
doesnt love the lilies
of the black ponds
Snow Geese
© Mary Oliver
Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
What a task
to ask
of anything, or anyone,
Where Does the Dance Begin, Where Does It End?
© Mary Oliver
Don't call this world adorable, or useful, that's not it.
It's frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.
The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.
The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.
Toward The Space Age
© Mary Oliver
We must begin to catch hold of everything
around us, for nobody knows what we
may need. We have to carry along
the air, even; and the weight we once
Walking To Oak-Head Pond, And Thinking Of The Ponds I Will Visit In The Next Days And Weeks
© Mary Oliver
What is so utterly invisible
as tomorrow?
Not love,
not the wind,
Dogfish
© Mary Oliver
Some kind of relaxed and beautiful thing
kept flickering in with the tide
and looking around.
Black as a fisherman's boot,
with a white belly.
Beyond the Snow Belt
© Mary Oliver
And what else might we do? Les us be truthful.
Two counties north the storm has taken lives.
Two counties north, to us, is far away, -
A land of trees, a wing upon a map,
A wild place never visited, - so we
Forget with ease each far mortality.
