love poetry. also, pictures.


Hey, remember that thing I did with my breakup poetry? Yeah, I thought I’d do the same with these love poems here. It is Valentine’s day after all… Time to drag out old verses and give them a spotlight before they’re put out to die a slow death.

I’ve thought about this a bit. I’ve only once fallen in love, but I do have infatuations. And whenever I discover a new one, I tend to jump into a poetry lake and swim in it for a week. It’s a type of madness, but I can now understand why the idea of poets and their Muses has become such a cliche thing. It’s very easy to write a poem about a crush. Easy to write about rain. Easy to write about death. Those are all zoomed out, vague. They’re fireflies in a summer night. A good poem, it seems, lives a long life all while being specific, detailed and universal at the same time. The only time I feel like I’ve done justice to someone is in the book I’m finishing. Somehow, with prose, it’s been easier… It might also be that I’m just not good enough of a poet yet. But at 24, who is? Right?

Here she is
color in her eyes
lips are powerful and enticing
her thoughts are crashing
onto mine
linking its rhythm
it is eerie
and oh so right
a poem cannot do it justice
a poem cannot fly across the ocean
a poem can’t be so electric
a poem can’t be so prophetic
as her vast thoughts
all inside and out
towards the universe
here she is
color in her eyes
one human
all everywhere and inside

Mhm. Written on a cocktail napkin when I saw someone cool. I can’t tell if that makes it creepy or… Yeah, you’re right. Definitely creepy.

fuck my brain please
you’ve got blonde hair
and
in Rome there is the Sistine Chapel
ever only seen it on pictures
it’s got a blue hue
and… that’s
enough to fall in love
right?
or in Paris there are
lillies swaying
mad kisses in cozy corners
vast love
in the dream-crowded walls

fuck my brain please
or leave me alone

Ever had that thing, when you like someone, but they’re with someone else? It’s one of those invasive thoughts, you see?

Ended up making this into something completely different.

rimbaud wrote about a girl
murmured about his lips against hers
a selfish thing, a poet
ink runs beneath the skin
talks sincere and honest
but his thoughts lie
drunk on your blood
he needs it

I think we’ve all felt like this at times. Seems I just stopped mid way, maybe I ran out of napkins?

One morning on the street
a girl was walking past a store window
and in my mind I heard an imaginary sound
where everybody yelled and jumped
and the whole world jumbled around
“Hey” I wanted to say
or play piano off-key
make strange notes and my mind dizzy
I look at her and see myself immemorial
running home to write poems
about the way her black hair hides her eyes
or whatever
Christ, girls
1st, 2nd, 3rd circle
I read in some acting book
a way to ground yourself
and lean back into reality and a solid base
surround yourself in immense choruses
but fuck, it would get lonely
this inner sense of…
lack of girls?

Five minutes later you don’t care
I still care
cold and broke and poor
high on the wild sound of the wind
rambling down the mountains
centuries of the same thing
all that cracking the hot, weird asphalt
the hot black smoke
I’m dreaming
her whatever-colored eyes
on me
and everything stops
she’s wild and humane and beautiful
lips shining at my direction
And it is sincere even with
spikes around her neck
But it was that silent, clarity, fantastic
hum of those eyes like rain
end of the world love
that got me that time

—-

This is one of the better ones. I like how it ends too. It’s got that fast-rush-adrenaline of a crush down. Hey! Love ain’t bad!

Well, here we go
some dark night with streetlights throwing shadows
the gas heater coughs as I try to write poetry
on command
for a girl with colour in her eyes
that’s still a mystery to me
because all the pictures
and the lights and angles
make them switch from blue to brown
Trying to match her speed
or what she wants
to create some perfect form of poetry
for her
with beautiful tunes and hums and rain
and all the worlds I could tell her
contained inside
trying to answer those eyes
the impending rush of dumb attraction
pouring in
cutting my room short with streetlights
while the heater punctuates

I wish it would rain
But then again I wish for a lot of things

About the same girl. She made for some good poetry.

Other planets
make me forget the moons
and what I cannot tell
make me forget her name
and her sweet look

are you one of those lives
that pass and stumble by me
never a chance to meet
time, a man’s doom to die
and the future a dim naked space

it has taken me my entire life
to soften and blur the edges of regret
to call my dreams into a state of being
to imagine lifetimes
between people that never met

the world is what light becomes
passing sunlight beyond future and past
changing our skin and clothes
pulling heaven into its arms
there is no end to what we never were

This is an oldie. Thought I might as well throw it in here. It’s a bit… loose. Maybe because it’s about someone, again, that I knew absolutely nothing about.

It’s snowing (big flakes)
and I love you
the river flows through the branches
held aloft and frozen
stars echo in the dark sky
the world is (suddenly) meaningful
without end
going nowhere

Quite like this haiku-esque thing. The opening is stolen from Iris Murdoch’s beautiful love letters. I suggest you go read them.

So, what did we learn? Love is tough, love poetry is tougher still. Here’re some pictures from when I went to Estonia for new years and hung out with my friend Mari!

 

Much, much, much love,

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