When she says margarita she means daiquiri. When she says quixotic she means mercurial. And when she says, “I’ll never speak to you again,” she means, “Put your arms around me from behind as I stand disconsolate at the window.”

He’s supposed to know that.

When a man loves [...]]]> WHEN A WOMAN LOVES A MAN

When she says margarita she means daiquiri.
When she says quixotic she means mercurial.
And when she says, “I’ll never speak to you again,”
she means, “Put your arms around me from behind
as I stand disconsolate at the window.”

He’s supposed to know that.

When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia
or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading,
or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he
    is raking leaves in Ithaca
or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing disconsolate
at the window overlooking the bay
where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on
while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway.

When a woman loves a man it is one ten in the morning
she is asleep he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels
drinking lemonade
and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed
where she remains asleep and very warm.

When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks.
When she says, “We’re talking about me now,”
he stops talking. Her best friend comes over and says,
“Did somebody die?”

When a woman loves a man, they have gone
to swim naked in the stream
on a glorious July day
with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle
of water rushing over smooth rocks,
and there is nothing alien in the universe.

Ripe apples fall about them.
What else can they do but eat?

When he says, “Ours is a transitional era,”
“that’s very original of you,” she replies,
dry as the martini he is sipping.

They fight all the time
It’s fun
What do I owe you?
Let’s start with an apology
Ok, I’m sorry, you dickhead.
A sign is held up saying “Laughter.”
It’s a silent picture.
“I’ve been fucked without a kiss,” she says,
“and you can quote me on that,”
which sounds great in an English accent.

One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it
    another nine times.

When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the
    airport in a foreign country with a jeep.
When a man loves a woman he’s there. He doesn’t complain that
    she’s two hours late
and there’s nothing in the refrigerator.

When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake.
She’s like a child crying
at nightfall because she didn’t want the day to end.

When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking:
as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved.
A thousand fireflies wink at him.
The frogs sound like the string section
of the orchestra warming up.
The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes.

  — David Lehman (b. 1948)

It’s rained every day since you Went away. I’ve been lonely, Lonely, empty, tenderness — Longing to kiss the corners Of your mouth as you smile Your special, inward, sensual, And ironic smile I love Because I know it means you Are content — content in French — A special, inward, sensual, [...]]]> AN EASY SONG

It’s rained every day since you
Went away. I’ve been lonely,
Lonely, empty, tenderness —
Longing to kiss the corners
Of your mouth as you smile
Your special, inward, sensual,
And ironic smile I love
Because I know it means you
Are content — content in French —
A special, inward, sensual,
And ironic state of bliss.
Tu es contente, ma chérie?
I am, even if lonely
Because I can call to mind
Your body in a warm room.
In the rainy winter night,
A rose on the hearth of winter,
A rose cloud standing naked,
In the perfume of your flesh.
Moi aussi, je suis content.

— Kenneth Rexroth

Tell me no more of minds embracing minds,       And hearts exchang’d for hearts; That spirits spirits meet, as winds do winds,       And mix their subt’lest parts; That two unbodied essences may kiss, And then like Angels, twist and feel one Bliss.

I was that silly thing that once [...]]]> NO PLATONIC LOVE

Tell me no more of minds embracing minds,
      And hearts exchang’d for hearts;
That spirits spirits meet, as winds do winds,
      And mix their subt’lest parts;
That two unbodied essences may kiss,
And then like Angels, twist and feel one Bliss.

Come, I will undeceive thee, they that tread
      Those vain aerial ways
Are like young heirs and alchemists misled
      To waste their wealth and days,
For searching thus to be for ever rich,
They only find a med’cine for the itch.

  — William Cartwright

In the wild soft summer darkness How many and many a night we two together Sat in the park and watched the Hudson Wearing her lights like golden spangles Glinting on black satin. The rail along the curving pathway Was low in a happy place to let us cross, And down the [...]]]> SUMMER NIGHT, RIVERSIDE

In the wild soft summer darkness
How many and many a night we two together
Sat in the park and watched the Hudson
Wearing her lights like golden spangles
Glinting on black satin.
The rail along the curving pathway
Was low in a happy place to let us cross,
And down the hill a tree that dripped with bloom
Sheltered us,
While your kisses and the flowers,
Falling, falling,
Tangled in my hair….

To-night what girl
Dreamily before her mirror shakes from her hair
This year’s blossoms, clinging to its coils?

  — Sara Teasdale (1884 – 1933), American poet.

                        1 On sunny days there in the shade Between the trees reclined a maid Who lifted up her dress (she said) To keep the moonbeams off her head.

                        2 A hundred times they kiss, and then      A thousand time embrace, And stop only to start again; There’s no tautology in such a [...]]]> THREE POEMS

                        1
On sunny days there in the shade
Between the trees reclined a maid
Who lifted up her dress (she said)
To keep the moonbeams off her head.

                        2
A hundred times they kiss, and then
     A thousand time embrace,
And stop only to start again;
There’s no tautology in such a case.

                        3
He held her face, and would not let her go:
She tried to say, ‘Oh no! No, no! Oh no,
No, no!’ But through the kiss no sound would come
Except ‘Hmm-hmm-hmm hm hm hmm hm hmmmm!’

  — Bhartrhari (c. 5th Century)

Blue, but you are Rose, too, and buttermilk, but with blood dots showing through. A little salty your white nape boy-wide. Glinting hairs shoot back of your ears’ Rose that tongues like to feel the maze of, slip into the funnel, tell a thunder-whisper to. When I kiss, your eyes’ straight lashes down crisp [...]]]> BLUE

Blue, but you are Rose, too,
and buttermilk, but with blood
dots showing through.
A little salty your white
nape boy-wide. Glinting hairs
shoot back of your ears’ Rose
that tongues like to feel
the maze of, slip into the funnel,
tell a thunder-whisper to.
When I kiss, your eyes’ straight
lashes down crisp go like doll’s
blond straws. Glazed iris Roses,
your lids unclose to Blue-ringed
targets, their dark sheen-spokes
almost green. I sink in Blue-
black Rose-heart holes until you
blink. Pink lips, the serrate
folds taste smooth, and Rosehip-
round, the center bud I suck.
I milknip your two Blue-skeined
blown Rose beauties, too, to sniff
their berries’ blood, up stiff
pink tips. You’re white in
patches, only mostly Rose,
buckskin and saltly, speckled
like a sky. I love your spots,
your white neck, Rose, your hair’s
wild straw splash, silk spools
for your ears. But where white
spouts out, spills on your brow
to clear eyepools, wheel shafts
of light, Rose, you are Blue.

  — May Swenson (1913 – 1989), Utah poet

You are not me, and I am never you except for thirty seconds in a year when ecstasy of coming, laughing at the same time or being cruel to know for certain what the other’s feeling charge some recognition.

Not often when we talk though. Undressing to the daily logs of [...]]]> THE ECSTASY

You are not me, and I am never you
except for thirty seconds in a year
when ecstasy of coming,
laughing at the same time
or being cruel to know for certain
what the other’s feeling
charge some recognition.

Not often when we talk though.
Undressing to the daily logs
of this petty boss, that compliment,
curling our lips at half-announced ambitions.

Sleep on while I am talking
I am just arranging the curtains
over your naked breasts.
Love doesn’t look too closely…
love looks very closely
the shock of beauty you gave me
the third rail that runs through our hospitality.
When will I follow you
over the fence to your tracks?

— Phillip Lopate (b. 1943)

Composing words of romance, verses as yet unformed.

Visions of hair, long, dark and curled, Of laughing Van Morrison eyes.

Freckled skin, kissed by the sun, Slender curves, longing to be caressed.

A heart, offered freely, given totally, Not [...]]]> … for National Poetry Day (Thursday, October 7, 2010):

SAGE FRANCIS – THE BEST OF TIMES

It’s been a long and lonely trip but I’m glad that I took it because it was well worth it. I got to read a couple books and do some research before I reached my verdict. Never thought that I was perfect. Always thought that I had [...]]]>

SAGE FRANCIS – THE BEST OF TIMES

It’s been a long and lonely trip but I’m glad that I took it because it was well worth it.
I got to read a couple books and do some research before I reached my verdict.
Never thought that I was perfect.
Always thought that I had a purpose.
Used to wonder if I’d live to see my first kiss.

“Don’t listen when they tell you that these are your best years.
Don’t let anybody protect your ears.
It’s best that you hear what they don’t want you to hear.
It’s better to have pressure from peers than not have peers.
Beer won’t give you chest hair.
Spicy food won’t make it curl.
When you think you’ve got it all figured out and then your universe collapses…trust me, kid…
It’s not the end of the world.”

Lying here quietly beside you, My cheek against your firm, quiet thighs, The calm music of Boccherini Washing over us in the quiet, As the sun leaves the housetops and goes Out over the Pacific, quiet— So quiet the sun moves beyond us, So quiet as the sun always goes, So quiet, our bodies, [...]]]> QUIETLY

Lying here quietly beside you,
My cheek against your firm, quiet thighs,
The calm music of Boccherini
Washing over us in the quiet,
As the sun leaves the housetops and goes
Out over the Pacific, quiet—
So quiet the sun moves beyond us,
So quiet as the sun always goes,
So quiet, our bodies, worn with the
Times and the penances of love, our
Brains curled, quiet in their shells, dormant,
Our hearts slow, quiet, reliable
In their interlocked rhythms, the pulse
In your thigh caressing my cheek. Quiet.

  — Kenneth Rexroth (1905 – 1982), American Beat poet and translator

LIGHT LISTENED

O what could be more nice
Than her ways with a man?
She kissed me more than twice
Once we were left alone.
Who’d look when he could feel?
She’d more sides than a seal.

We met to leave again
The time we broke from time;
A cold air brought its rain,
The singing of a stem.
She sang a final song;
Light listened when she sang.

  — Theodore Roethke (1908 – 1963), American poet.