Poem on her birthdayYour gifts to me are of the lasting kind, Emblems of secret blazonry; Messages in hieratic: Hieric, irenic.
Practical gifts from you are in my house, Indistinct in that dim fell gestalt. Quiet keyholders they, Serving, standing waiting.
Your most private gift, of warmth, of love, (Fingers with a moth's touch; And as iron bars—sweet cage) Is evanesced to a shade.
This ghost is in the earth and sky about Wherever you have been. Your imprint is on English land, An eyefleck?—Just a dream?
A haunt is in my head, and in my house By dim sentinels unlocked; In my sometime drowning; And in my understanding.
This my gift to you is offered, Awkward, slow. In unequal recompense For greater.
Contrary ladyWhen first your fair face I saw I lost my heart, Completely
After that time I did learn To expect nothing (Resignedly)
Leaning forward revealingly You looked at me - Invitingly?
I asked you did you? would you? You flew at me Furiously.
I half woke to your caresses, But torpor held me (Regretfully).
I woke you with my caresses: You glared at me Self righteously.
Boredom in the shops I showed: You berated me (Unnecessarily?)
In the bargain bookshop I browsed: You stamped your foot Impatiently.
And I also remember you Gazing at me Lovingly.
On meeting after thirty yearsWords of convention (our ready shield) Set next impulsive revelation Half said, half changed or hid in caution:
Approach, withdraw, the natural shape Of merely five small hours, that meeting Compressed charged vortices containing
(Potent and bewitching) compelling To long winds of half a life, entranced, Alchemy of gene and circumstance
A crucible on whose coals years past We briefly met and, briefly, parted, The furnace fueled, but gold not started.
Blown by the past, anchoring our present, We did well, in five long hours, and went.
Begins my dayI wake each morning with the memory Of you (your body's fineness: delicate, Sweet, smooth and strong) actual against me; Firm softness—fingers with a careful touch, Small hesitance deepest feelings stirring.
These things deserve not any wordiness, Except our spirits intermingled are, Through the wide doors of our bodies' wholeness: Not spirits only, bodies merely, but Both in one—fingers with a prayerful touch;
Spirits weaving. The windows of the soul Still trustful shut, I wake each morning with Your spirit, bodily against me, whole. So, deeply touched, a smile begins my day.
Your aurora borealisAt your northerly end Leonine locks Frame warmest brown eyes, And—a warning: Be sure don't transgress!— Firm but reposeful lips.
Determination is there, And an ancient hurt. Lips parting, these vanish (Face wider, and eyes).: Attribute of your soul, Your smile is larger than you.
Letter to my loveIt is in the quiet times At the beginnings and endings of days: On waking When morning light streams through the gap in the curtains, As I quietly make the daily journey From sleep to consciousness, Before the stress and press of worldly occupations Take hold of me;
And also when the natural lessening of energy comes As night falls, When that daily focus on the outwardness of earthly life Falls naturally away, And I close the curtains and settle down, Perhaps for a little reading, or watching a film.
It is at these times I wish to say to you, my dearest love, How much I miss your presence, How much I feel your absence; It is at these quiet times That I long for your tangible bodily presence, To feel your weight and warmth Energetically against me.
It is at such times as these I light a candle for your lovely laughing Buddha, Stroke a singing bowl or two, Or maybe blow a tune through clarinet or else recorder. And it is then, Just at such times as those, I feel your very essence faintly forms a glow around me.