BELIEVING
Beside you,
leaves, petals and the scattering lights
pall or they keen
in the careless night
and funeral world where what has never been
will never be.
We are sat at a table of dugs and drapes, television
mules, fools and mulled food, never clean
fruit – entertainment to have spat
out slow maggots. What should be done
when earth splits and the castigating sun
rues mournfully, lights run?
Though there has never been –
no, nor ever was –
love, shod in a hammering
lyreful of crystalline whorls,
yet do not abuse yourself, your bruise-nippled breasts,
(a “delicate” violence there in those words)
and neither hit the poor brute, love,
nor break the flowering leaves
and lavender-thronging sprays, nor kick the stale
joke dead that yet
mourns mysteriously and maintains
love in a paradox of regret.
Now what has never been can be,
and dream (not out of
shamed perversity like me), dream that where
the folded swan suddenly,
from the clear streams and unwritten rainbows,
rises, and seemingly stuns the air,
in the rushed beat of his wings,
from the clear margins and shivering shades,
such unmechanical activity and uncluttering things
are daily shaken, and, though
we can never belong to such swan-like wanderings,
yet we can sing songs no winding-sheet knows.
(from “”Love” Poems For Kathy / Green. Laced. Leaves”)
<a href="https://pixabay.com/en/animal-pond-waterside-waterweed-2829563/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Source</a>
nice poems i love to read it