The things about you I appreciate May seem indelicate: I’d like to find you in the shower And chase the soap for half an hour. I’d like to have you in my power And see your eyes dilate. I’d like to have your back to scour And other parts to lubricate. Sometimes I feel it is my fate To chase you screaming up a tower Or make you cower By asking you to differentiate Nietzsche from Schopenhauer. I’d like successfully to guess your weight And win you at a fête. I’d like to offer you a flower.
I like the hair upon your shoulders, Falling like water over boulders. I like the shoulders too: they are essential. Your collar-bones have great potential (I’d like your particulars in folders Marked Confidential).
I like your cheeks, I like your nose, I like the way your lips disclose The neat arrangement of your teeth (Half above and half beneath) In rows.
I like your eyes, I like their fringes. The way they focus on me gives me twinges. Your upper arms drive me berserk. I like the way your elbows work. On hinges …
I like your wrists, I like your glands, I like the fingers on your hands. I’d like to teach them how to count, And certain things we might exchange, Something familiar for something strange. I’d like to give you just the right amount And get some change.
I like it when you tilt your cheek up. I like the way you nod and hold a teacup. I like your legs when you unwind them. Even in trousers I don’t mind them. I like each softly-moulded kneecap.
I like the little crease behind them. I’d always know, without a recap, Where to find them.
I like the sculpture of your ears. I like the way your profile disappears Whenever you decide to turn and face me. I’d like to cross two hemispheres And have you chase me. I’d like to smuggle you across frontiers Or sail with you at night into Tangiers. I’d like you to embrace me.
I’d like to see you ironing your skirt And cancelling other dates. I’d like to button up your shirt. I like the way your chest inflates. I’d like to soothe you when you’re hurt Or frightened senseless by invertebrates.
I’d like you even if you were malign And had a yen for sudden homicide. I’d let you put insecticide Into my wine. I’d even like you if you were Bride Of Frankenstein Or something ghoulish out of Mamoulian’s Jekyll and Hyde. I’d even like you as my Julian Of Norwich or Cathleen ni Houlihan. How melodramatic If you were something muttering in attics Like Mrs Rochester or a student of Boolean Mathematics.
You are the end of self-abuse. You are the eternal feminine. I’d like to find a good excuse To call on you and find you in. I’d like to put my hand beneath your chin, And see you grin. I’d like to taste your Charlotte Russe, I’d like to feel my lips upon your skin I’d like to make you reproduce.
I’d like you in my confidence. I’d like to be your second look. I’d like to let you try the French Defence And mate you with my rook. I’d like to be your preference And hence I’d like to be around when you unhook. I’d like to be your only audience, The final name in your appointment book, Your future tense.
“Penguin’s Poems for Love” é uma coleção de poemas românticos seleccionados por Laura Barber publicada pela primeira vez em 2009. Com mais de 300 poemas que se espalham pela história e pelo mundo geográfico (inclusive alguns portugueses), esta coleccção captura a poesia do amor nas suas mais diversas formas e intensidades.
O livro está dividido em secções baseadas nas diversas formas de amor (“How do I love thee?”): Suddenly, Secretly, Nearly, Tentatively, Haplessly, Incurably, Impatiently, passionately, Bitterly, Happily entre muitos outros. Assim, somos imersos em todos os tipos de narrativas românticas, das mais felizes e correspondidas às mais trágicas e cruéis.
Janeiro é sempre um mês cinzento e chuvoso, e este ano surge ainda mais blue do que e anos anteriores – é bom relembrar que o amor existe e triunfa e que, por muitas voltas que o mundo dê e tragédias que nos assolem, há sentimentos mais fortes que permanecem. Assim, encontrei nesta coleção uma ótima companhia em tardes mais melancólicas a beber chá confinada.
I go to the mountainside of the house to cut saplings, and clear a view to snow on the mountain. But when I look up, saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in the uppermost branches. I don’t cut that one. I don’t cut the others either. Suddenly, in every tree, an unseen nest where a mountain would be.
Sublimemos, amor. Assim as flores
No jardim não morreram se o perfume
No cristal da essência se defende.
Passemos nós as provas, os ardores:
Não caldeiam instintos sem o lume
Nem o secreto aroma que rescende.
José Saramago em "Os Poemas Possíveis"
I dwell in Possibility
I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –
Of Chambers as the Cedars –
Impregnable of eye –
And for an everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky –
Of Visitors – the fairest –
For Occupation – This –
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise –