"if you like my poems let them" - ee cummings

[romanticxnight.livejournal.com]

if you like my poems let them
walk in the evening,a little behind you

then people will say
"Along this road i saw a princess pass
on her way to meet her lover(it was
toward nightfall)with tall and ignorant servants."

---
A request: does anyone know any poems about being in love with two people or choosing between two people? thanks.

To Levitate -- Cathryn Essinger

[aimlesswanderer.livejournal.com]

    To Levitate
    by Cathryn Essinger

    My mother swears she saw
                  my baby brother rise from his cot
                                one stormy night when
                                              we were living upstate.

    She was awake, checking the shutters,
                  when she saw him levitate,
                                a foot or more, covers rising
                                              with him the way they do

    in carnival shows, so you don’t see
                  the wires. But, he lay soft and pliant,
                                a floater, weightless as
                                              a shadow on the wall.

    “Something in the air,” Mother said,
                  because she believed in such things,
                                and reminded us often that most
                                              children know how to fly.

    And I do remember running down a hillside,
                  breathless, the ground rising to meet me,
                                my heart lifting my blood
                                              so effortlessly

    I knew that if I stepped out onto the air
                  that it would hold me.
                                I may even have done it
                                              without realizing

    how easy it is, before doubt takes hold
                  and weds you to the ground.
                                Odd that we should forget
                                              such things.

    Odd, too, when I tell the story
                  how no one believes exactly,
                                but the room gets quiet
                                              and everyone listens.

Coda // Marilyn Hacker

[iatrogenicmyth.livejournal.com]

Maybe it was jet lag, maybe not,
but I was smoking in the kitchen: six,
barely, still dark: beyond the panes, a mix
of summer storm and autumn wind. I got
back to you; have I got you back? What
warmed me wasn't coffee, it was our
revivified combustion. In an hour,
gray morning, but I'd gone back to my spot
beside you, sleeping, where we'd stayed awake
past exhaustion, talking, after, through
the weeks apart, divergent times and faces.
I fell asleep, skin to warm skin, at daybreak.
Your breasts, thighs, shoulders, mouth, voice, are the places
I live, whether or not I live with you.

Fog hid the road. The wipers shoved back torrents
across the windshield. You, on knife-edge, kept
driving. Iva, in the back seat, wept
histrionically. The crosscurrents
shivered like heat-lightning into the parent's
shotgun seat. I shut up, inadept
at deflecting them. A Buick crept
ahead at twenty-five an hour. "Why aren't
we passing him? My Coke spilled. The seat's wet.
You guys keep whispering so I can't hear."
"Sit in the front with us, then."
"No! I'll get
too hot. Is the fan on? What time is it?
What time will it be when we get there?"
Time to be somewhere else than where we are.

"What do we have? I guess we still don't know."
I was afraid to say, you made me feel
my sectioned heart, quiescent loins, and spill
past boundaries the way blackberry-brambles grow
up those tenacious hills I left for you.
Their gritty fruit's ripe now, but oceans still
separate us, waves opaque as oatmeal,
miles of fog roiling between your pillow
and mine while you say your best: sometimes, she's where
your compass points, despite you, though a meal
with me, or talk, is good . . . Where our starfire
translated depths, low fog won't let you steer
by sight. The needle fingers one desire,
and no other direction can compel.

( Long but so very worth it )

It is not so much that I miss you - Dorothea Grossman

[chad-etc.livejournal.com]

It is not so much that I miss you
as the remembering
which I suppose is a form of missing
except more positive,
like the time of the blackout
when fear was my first response
followed by love of the dark.