You're a drummer Sylvia,
the carnage of your life
lies in open stock
for anyone to buy.
You sell us death in poems
bereft of love; you borrow
our breath to line the
hollow of your soul.
The pain's not sweet Sylvia
neither were your thirty years.
If you and Elizabeth Browning
should, by chance, meet
in that starless void
of heaven or hell,
speak to her in flowers
Sylvia, red roses bleed well.
Galaxy, heart
erase, gaze
tender, cold
How do I love thee --
I cannot count the ways,
for there are none.
Not because the sun doesn't
grace thy face with its brilliance,
leaving the rays reflected back in a trance
and even the shadows dancing
as they trace thy golden reflection,
guiding thoughts through galaxies
tenderly gloved within thy gallant gaze
no imagination can erase.
Nor because the wind breathes traces
of divine intelligence
as thy tender breath reaches my wearied face.
No
Not because there is nothing to love,
but because love had left my ice-cold presence
long before we met,
and my heart was left alone
with no shadows of my own to dance
as they traced reflections of light,
for there was no light to trace.
Autumn faerie touched her wand to a yellow mum.
The mum’s colors turned crispy and an October brown.
Whether she retains her yellow next year is up to fate.
Some mums do, others do not, I never know which I have.
Autum faerie is aware, fully in the know, she rules October.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote, and I quote:
"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways."
And then she proceeded to list as many as she could in fourteen lines,
Telling her husband, Robert, and us, in the process,
Just how deeply and fervently she loved him.
But I would pose this query to Mrs. B., "Liz, dearie,
Does being able to list all the reasons you love a person
Enable you to love that person more, or better, or differently?"
In my view, I see no need for yard-long lists of words
Declaring love steadfast and true.
No need for lists, or sonnets, even,
When just three simple words will do.
N. Hawthorne encouraged us to do anything, something, (heroic?) even though life brings huge discouragement: "Tell me not, in mournful numbers, that life is but an empty dream ..." PSALM OF LIFE
I had to pen something like poetry today
It's World Poetry day, they say (internet ads)
Yet today is over, on its way, where we "stay"*
In South Africa. No internet on other phone
By chance I tried this (MTN service), won
A reprieve, a respite, an extension to the day
A list of best poems: Poe's Raven, Sonnet 18
By the bard (Shall I compare thee to a summers day?)
Elizabeth Barrett Browning's love poem
And Nathaniel Hawthorne's PSALM OF LIFE
So my work - brief, bearing light - is done
And off I run ... In donker** Suid Africa again
* STAY has US connotations with cohabitation and vacation. In RSA, it is used for "live" (as in, Where do you live/stay now?")
** "Donker' is dark or darkness, in Afrikaans. I used it because of loadshedding: our notoriety for electricity cuts that has business & people in "revolt" here.
Robert pouseo of Elizabeth Barrett B
a poet until her death was to be
He introduced the conversational
in dramatique monologue truth to tell
To Elizbeth Barrett Browning
invalidity from riding did bring
Putting aside this tragic hurt
she elope to marry her Robert
tis spring the brown lawns
the naked branches on the
trees brisk winds tickling
~
rays of sun dawning
moisture to do on the ground
horizonal viewed
~
hang on ground brown will
soon turn green the surroundings
this be winter's spring
3/27/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2022
How do I thee .let me give you praise
How do I love thee,for your winsome ways;
In these eyes still my bride ,and still
Your wedding ring,I wear with pride;
These many years of marriage cheer
Two hearts as one,with love held dear;
Each others secrets to confide,
Needs and desires to never hide;
Tribulations together bear
Witness,these love-lines we share;
How do you love me,this poem will chart
The unease we notice,if apart;
How do you love me,no words can convey
Your touch,your kiss,your gaze,thrill me each day.
A faithful love,will stay unique,leaning,
Mutually we ,in submission seek.
Against a browning hill
oak trees' bleeding limbs are stretched;
some drops release to softly fall
some cling to dry encrusted scars.
A few short months and we will walk
beneath the springing trees
marking their swords of thinnest green
stabbing at the stars.
And so, life seasons make their rounds
in nature and in men
the flower wilts, the rose is pruned,
the leaves must fall again.
Everything of lasting worth
contains a seed of loss;
on young love's throbbing circlet
hangs a bitter cross.
We will walk life's lanes together,
cherishing this pain we share
for spring will come tomorrow
and bloom on our despair.
Copyright, November 11, 2014
RUNAWAY LOVERS
Sat Ba Barret restless in her room
Drinking death in dark and gloom
Tragedy seemed her last name
Despite the books that were her fame
Letters reached her by the score
But one kissed paper touched her core
Robert Browning made her wild
Exuberance flared—she was a child
A woman forty –heart on fire
Now she had but one desire
A partner for her life she sought
Her father raged—her brothers fought
And so she, in the dead of night
Began a journey—love’s mad flight
They wed with maid and cousin there
And off they sailed like on a dare
Tossed her frail and lifelong curse
Dared the gods to do their worst
She won the man and mated prize
Found her reflection in his eyes
First night was a burst of tears
Maid was sent to soothe her fears
Downstairs help was all a twitter
Certain Ba was dry and bitter
Old maid and a cripple lass
With intellect none could surpass
Now she’s wed and this first night
What would happen—tup or fight?
Footmen bet on Browning luck—
Old maids were like sitting ducks
But when they saw dawn faces glow
Even shallow hearts did throw
A prayer that heaven smile on them
Such naked love sang out ‘Amen’.
How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.
I hate thee to the depth and breath and height
my plunger can reach, when reaching out of sight.
to the ends of a stopped-up toilet bowl.
I hate thee to the level of everyday’s.
most disgusting need, by sun and candle-light.
I hate thee freely, as no other men would want thee.
I hate thee purely, as thy years have taken their toll.
I hate thee because thy brain appears too loose.
Good grief, thou art a woman no man would choose.
I hate thee as much as crap from a goose.
With coke up thy nose, and smell of whiskey on thy breath,
it appears since thy birth, thou were destined to lose.
I shall but hate thee even after thy death.
Sonnet 43 (How do I love Thee, let me count the ways)
By Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
A poet with a loving Spirit...
A heart rich with abundant love, overflowing
So much love did her heart retain
An abolitionist she chose to become
In spite of its unpopularity
Through all her relationships, graceful, caring
Always kind and gentle as a dove
Had no recourse but to pen emotions deep
Writing great, timeless sonnets of love
Inspired by the love of her life
Throughout her years, she drew inspiration from above
TRAVELING ALONE WITH SELF-PERSEVERANCE ON LIFE COURSE.
DAYS PASS AND IT SEEMS AS THOUGH LIFE BURDENS INCREASE IN
WEIGHT.
A KIND WORD HERE OR THERE ENTERS IN.
WHILE I WAS SLEEPING THROUGH MY DAILY WALK, AN ANGEL CAME INTO
MY LIFE.
OF COURSE, I FELT AN EXTRA-ORDINARY CHANGE.
BUT I IGNORED IT.
EXTRA-ORDINARY ANGEL CROSSED MY PATH ONCE MORE.
I TOOK NOTICE.
I LOOKED AROUND TO SEE IF IT COULD BE SOMEONE ELSE AND NOT ME.
TO MY SURPRISE NOBODY ELSE WAS THERE.
SINCE MY ANGEL TOUCHED MY LIFE, LIFE BURDENS DON'T SEEM AS HEAVY.
I SMILE A LITTLE MORE THAN USUAL.
I AM THANKFUL FOR MY ANGEL THAT ENTERED MY LIFE WHEN I WAS
UNAWARE.
Now don’t get me wrong
I love that old song
I’ve been singing it most of my life
But it’s really quite loud
And the noise of the crowd
Is really annoying my wife
So please keep it down
Or take it to town
Before I have cause to regret
I’ve been drowning my fears
In too many beers
My Browning is loaded with tears
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