Not mine but yours...

I've been reading love poems, lately; which is understandable, I guess, what with tomorrow's holiday (valentine's day) and my upcoming nuptials. I wanted to share some of my favorites.

Me and the following poem have been together so long, we might as well celebrate anniversaries. Lord Byron was some of the first "real" poetry I was exposed to, as a youngster. Most of his stuff didn't resonate- but this poem jumped out at me and clung for dear life.

She Walks in Beauty  
by George Gordon Byron
I.
She walks in beauty, like the night
   Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
   Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
   Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
II.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
   Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
   Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
   How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
III.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
   So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
   But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
   A heart whose love is innocent!

This one is new. I found it today. I love it so much, already.

syntax
by Maureen N. McLane 

and if
I were to say 

I love you and
I do love you 

and I say it
now and again 

and again
would you say 

parataxis
would you see 

the world revolves
anew 

its axis
you

Pam McClure introduced me to the next poem (as she did hundreds of other young, impressionable kids). It's not love, but after-love- and it will haunt you like her ghost. The poem makes me think of crooning and weird modern runes; but most of all, it makes me think of Pam.

One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster. 

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master. 

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster. 

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master. 

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. 

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

And then one more poem. I just found it 3 minutes ago. It's beautiful and confusing. I want to read it a couple more times, so this one is for posterity...

Hey You  
by Adrian Blevins

Back when my head like an egg in a nest
was vowel-keen and dawdling, I shed my slick beautiful
and put it in a basket and laid it barefaced at the river
among the taxing rocks. My beautiful was all hush
and glitter. It was too moist to grasp. My beautiful
had no tongue with which to lick—no discernable
wallowing gnaw. It was really a breed of destruction
like a nick in a knife. It was a notch in the works
or a wound like a bell in a fat iron mess. My beautiful
was a drink too sopping to haul up and swig!
Therefore with the trees watching and the beavers abiding
I tossed my beautiful down at the waterway against
the screwball rocks. Even then there was no hum.
My beautiful was never ill-bred enough, no matter what
you say. If you want my blue yes everlasting, try my
she, instead. Try the why not of my low down,
Sugar, my windswept and wrecked.