Handsaw

Sometimes I think I cannot be quite well
Given the way I act and what I do.
I spin around in circles yelling "woo!"
And race around my cage going pell-mell.
But is this madness? I can never tell.
After all, there is a point of view
Which says this all comes just from missing you,
Like Pavlov's dogs salivation for the bell.
Yet if it's that, how shall I find a cure?
For you are leaving, and that will not change.
Perhaps there's a solution I've not found;
For though you're leaving shortly, to be sure,
I think that it would be utterly strange
If with some time my mind was not rewound.

Got To Do With It

I would not say I chose to love you, dear;
Although I do not love against my will.
But though it may sound dangerously queer,
It doesn't feel like choice: it is too still.
In choice there's motion, turbulent and strong,
Rushing into the path the chooser chooses.
My love, however, sings a different song
Inspired by a different set of muses,
Telling me I love and it is grand,
But that my love is present in my soul
Not from some motion I might countermand
But from a need, without which I'm unwhole.
I'm with you not from choosing, but because
Loving you is what my being does.

Pierced

There is a nail protruding from this tree;
I'm not sure why, and so it makes me think:
What sort of person goes around to sink
Nails into trees, and leaves them pointedly
Sunk in the bark? What could this person be?
Do they assume we are inclined to wink
At such behavior, fearing it might link
Back to ourselves somehow? Or does he see
That people oft ignore what's out of place?
Or is he simply strange, and so ignores
The common mode, and therefore calmly stores
His nails in trees, just hanging there in space?
I do not know, and yet I would prefer
To not meet someone who would nail a fir.

Sense

Each echo of your name calls back to me
A thousand reminiscences that seem
To overwhelm me in a waking dream
And seal my eyes from my reality.
It does not matter where I chance to be,
Or with what other thoughts my mind may teem,
All that it takes is but the merest gleam
Of you, and everything is banished. All I see
Is in my mind, and all of it is you.
I see the day we chatted in the hall,
That time we walked - oh, hell, I see it all,
And every moment somehow is still new.
But most of all I see you by my side
And for that sight, I let the whole world slide.

Signal

The train cannot get clearance to the station;
No more can I have access to my love.
And as it sits in sight of destination
So I am tortured by the prospect of
An almost-present absence in my heart,
A hole down which all my emotion flows.
But as the train can never close the part
Between it and the platform ere it goes,
I cannot heal the wound I feel without
Your kind permission to approach again
And cease to sob and sigh, complain and pout
Because I am with you. I promise then
My signal clearance granted, trainlike, I
Will close the gap as quickly as a sigh.

What

I don't know what to do when you're away;
My normal choices are no longer there.
I cannot process how to start my day
If I can't feel your presence anywhere,
And nothing that I do has any point
When you're too far away - because it should
Be for you, but your place is out of joint,
And so although it would be if it could,
It cannot be. So what am I to do?
It's not that I forget what I had done
Before we met, or that I have no clue
How to be me - that's how I have begun
Before. But now those things seem useless, when
I'd rather do them all with you again.

Lasting

What if what I said to you today
Should be the last thing that I ever say?
How would I feel? Is what I say to you
Ever enough to tell you what you mean
And make a final message? Would I rue
The words I chose, and think them young and green,
The naïve belching of a wasted youth?
Or would they hold some kernel of the truth,
Some little corner of the love I bear
Towards you? Perhaps enough to let you know
In that last gesture, just how much I care,
And how I hoped our love would last and grow?
I cannot tell; and that is why I said
I love you as I tucked you into bed.

Perhaps Perhaps Perhaps

There may be water in the air
Which may fall down upon on heads;
It may be difficult to care
Because you didn't take your meds.
There might be children on the way
Who might decide to cry all night;
It might be best some other way
Than that - I only say it might.
There could be troubles in the past
Which could destroy a future too;
It could be something that will last
Or something fragile you once knew.
But all these possibilities are small
And I love you - no doubt at all.

Hurricanoes

I feel your coming absence in my soul
Deeper than I thought I would, because
Beyond the known, expected sense of dole
Which I'd be disappointed if it was
Absent, there's a level down below
Of floating, radical uncertainty:
Not about us, for I am sure you know
I feel as optimistic as can be,
But rather about how the world can work,
Spin on its axis, bring in daily weather,
Orbit the sun, and not stop with a jerk
In disarray because we're not together.
There ought to be a cataclysm to
Accompany the fact I'm not with you.

Free Speech

I ought to spend more words in telling you
The way I feel. Yes, even though you know,
I feel the urge, and so I ought to do.
For every day I find my joy will grow
To be with you, and see you close to me.
Therefore I ought to tell you, to be just,
As it seems quite unfair to secretly
Adore - and so, because adore I must,
I'll let the words out into open air
And bright computer screens, to tell you, dear,
I love you, and each day I grow in care,
Loving to talk to you and see you near.
Listen as I speak, and know my heart
Which uses all of me to speak its part.

Timon

To raise my hopes, then dash them for your pleasure
Does not seem fair to me. Have I deserved
To be a toy discarded at your leisure,
Or have our love discounted for time served?
If frequent presence makes my value lessen
I'll study to see less of you as well;
And thank you for a valuable lesson
In how, when I'm unwanted, I can tell.
It cannot be that hard to simply say
When you're aware my hopes won't be achieved;
Nor is the thought that you would take away
Our scheduled meeting usually believed.
I simply must conclude that I must hope less
If you will disappoint, so I will mope less.

Fidget

My feet will not stop moving on the bed,
Nor will my mind stay focused on my work,
But rather, everything that I have read
Is turned to motion in a constant jerk
Of nervous energy, as every word
Becomes a twitch. I cannot help myself.
I noticed that my soul had become stirred,
And therefore took my book down from the shelf,
In the vain hope that it would bring me quiet;
Instead I find it turned into my worry,
As if I made its words part of my diet
And wolfed them down in a confounded hurry
So now they come back up in altered state
Making me bounce and fidget as I wait.

Churches

Ivied walls will never make me bow,
Nor stained glass windows awe me into service;
Great gothic arches won't make me kowtow,
Nor can a flying buttress make me nervous.
My faith is deeper than aesthetic choice,
And high-flung architecture is too low
To shield me from the sound of my god's voice
Telling me who I am, what I should know
And what I ought to do about it. I
Am not intimidated by such things,
Though I admire spires in the sky,
Or vaults that seem raised up on angels' wings.
My faith is in a book, and that can be
Read wherever I have company.

Tellingly

Time was I was not ready to be me;
Could not admit desires that I had.
I thought what lay inside me was all bad,
Unfit for any other men to see.
I wished to hide, therefore, what I could be,
Lest others should imagine I was mad
Or worse. So I attempted thus to pad
My reputation by mendacity.
But as I lived this way, I found no boot
In being other than I truly am;
Finding myself, as it were, on the lam
From my own soul, I thence became a brute.
So now I must admit myself and claim
My future and my past free from all shame.

Lily

The hours I spend by you are never wasted
No matter what we do, or how we do it.
There is no greater joy that I have tasted
Than loving you, and knowing that you knew it.
To sit by you, just looking at the air,
Feeling the warmth that you always exude
Will make me want to turn around and stare
With love all in my eyes. It might seem rude
To simply stare at you that way, and yet
I think you know just what it means from me;
And if you should, by some mischance, forget,
I'll happily remind you constantly
That I adore you, and your presence turns
A calm cool day into a night that burns.

Braincase

The long times when there's nothing else to do
Are slow, but amiable, and so I write
Of cornucopias and morning dew,
And lands where everything will turn out right.
I don't imagine that these things are real
Nor that I'll ever visit such a place;
But still I navigate to them by feel
And give their presence an imagined chase.
Why should I not? I know they are but air,
Floating away within my head in shapes
Formed by pretending, but I cannot care,
So in these long slow times my mind escapes
Into a fantasy - and why not so?
Your love's a fantasy as well you know.

Drown

If you were with me in the pouring rain,
Which pools in artificial wells wherever
The depth of water grows too deep to drain
And washes over human endeavor
Indifferently, as if we were gone,
All of our works reduced to islands in
That sea of rain perpetually drawn
Down to the earth, making a second skin
Upon the ground, a liquid, moving mass
Flowing forever round and round and seeping
No more into the satiated grass,
As if the sky above could not stop weeping,
I would forget the water in its streaming
To gaze at you and think that I was dreaming.

Fishes

I'd like to hold you tightly
And listen to this storm;
The lightning flashing brightly,
The thunder rolling warm.
We'd feel the rush of breezes
That stream across the face
And feel the rush that seizes
All sense of time and place.
We'd watch the raindrops splatter
And hear the clouds sing low
Knowing it doesn't matter
For we've nowhere to go.
I'd whisper in your ear
Tonight is ours, my dear.

Pocket Dial

The phone rings and I look up from my work
Wondering who could be calling me.
I glance down at the number and I perk
Up to see whom it purports to be.
But then my smile fades to hear the tones
Of muffled half-caught speech, which must imply
That once again two silly telephones
Have played a prank on me. I turn and sigh,
Hang up and try to text the person who
Unknowingly has dialed me once more,
Wishing that she perhaps already knew
So that she would reprise a new encore
This time intentional, and call again
No matter why - or even, really, when.

Facebook

Some people's faces never fucking change
You look at them and are reminded of
A dozen years ago. It feels so strange,
Having moved on, and, one might think, above
Such harsh remembrance, to jerk back again
Into the past. I wonder if their mirrors
Always remind them of a passing then
And act as subtle, automatic jeerers
Saying they are not what they were, and yet
Look just the same - or do they think they age,
Willing themselves to forcibly forget
How they once looked - still look - and so engage
Themselves with now despite their unchanged faces?
Or do they wonder why our looks bear traces?

No Know

There are times I wonder what you think
And cannot really tell from how you act,
At least not so that it will really sink
Into my understanding. I react,
As I must do, but never can be sure
That what I do is right. How could I be?
Knowledge is the only lasting cure
For such a foolish disability,
And that I cannot seem to find. To know
How you are feeling, what about, and why,
Is all I want and need. I'm lacking, though,
So all that I can really do is try.
I try my best, and hope that you're aware
That even when I fail, I still do care.

Glitter

It has, I must admit, been said
I am not all I ought to be,
I don't let that get to my head,
Or really mess about with me,
But sometimes, in the dark of night
When all is quiet and at peace
I wonder what they speaker might
Have meant, until all thoughts must cease.
I try to let my mind work out
When I'm asleep, what that could mean;
I don't know what it's all about,
Nor do I wish to make a scene,
But is it really all that bad
To simply smile, and be glad?

BlueBlue

Making the transfer at the Jackson stop
Can be a slow, frustrating little wait
As every minute crawls, and life atop
The underground keeps up its pace. Too late,
Too slowly comes the train I need to see,
And inches its excruciating way
Down the Blue Line past Clinton, UIC,
Racine: the common signposts of my day.
It always slows down even more when it
Passes California, where there is no station
(Though you can see where that stop used to sit
Now sent upon a permanent vacation).
This slow meander starts at Jackson when
I change, and have to wait for trains again.

Sequence

In some sincerity I used to say
I had no interest in being linked
With anyone; alone, I was OK.
But then my fortune, and my heartbeat, blinked
And I was changed. I could not long deny
I had desires I had not expressed;
Then I began to meditate and sigh
About the love I wanted, not possessed,
Feeling the pain I had before avoided
By simple unconcern about its grief
Now swelling inwardly, greatly steroided
And bursting past the bounds of disbelief.
But then you spoke, and I was free again
From pain; but for a different reason then.

Judges

I may have meant exactly what I said
Or maybe not. You never can be sure
Even when you hear it repeatéd
Amid assurances that it is pure.
I might be honest or I might be lying;
For each assumption equally might suit.
Since if I'm false then I'm false in denying
That falsehood, and I might as well be mute.
How can you tell what you should think of me?
Look in your heart, and see what you can find.
There if you doubt my truth and honesty
With even just a sliver of your mind,
Declare me false. But if, as I may trust,
You find no such, then think that I am just.

Arctic

Sometimes the air blows cool enough to smell
The crackle of it in the midnight breeze,
The fragrances of winter, which can tell
Of hibernating, half-decaying trees
Sleeping in near death the long cold while
Before they wake again to springtime rains,
And of the ice-encased drowned dead leaf pile
For which the gardener took such great pains
Some months ago, sadly but to forget
It's timelier dispersal, or of frosts
Chilling what would be buds if they were let,
But are not now because of winter's costs.
This is not such a time; the wind is hot
And memory is all the cool I've got.

Beaming

Sometimes I see the sky above
And wonder why it isn't blue.
It seems to me that's a waste of
A perfect chance to have a view.
So similarly when I see
Your face in something not a smile
I rue missed opportunity
And wonder why you would exile
That joy from off you face. I try
When such disaster comes, to bring
The smile back into your eye
And make you laugh at everything.
So like the sun blows clouds away
Your laughter brings a bright new day.

White Heat

I swear I used to have a brain in here
But now it's all congealed into a lump
So that I cannot think. The merest rump
Of cogitation has remained, to steer
This body and to write down these unclear
Few lines. Would that this were a mental slump,
A discombobulation, or a dump
Of inner excrement - that might be queer,
But it would self-correct. No, this is more,
My mind has melted into merest mush,
And all the kinks and wrinkles it possessed
Have been eradicated and suppressed
So even if it refroze from this slush
It would not be the same. Melted inside
It's much the same as if my brain had fried.

Skillz

It's rare for me to think I have much skill
In anything I care about, and yet
My observations of your loving will
Persuade me that perhaps I should forget
This forced humility and claim by right
Some little talent as regards my wooing.
That doesn't mean that I don't think I might
Easily, by some impertinent pursuing,
Remisdirect that love some other way,
But for the moment it appears I must
Admit my fond persuasions have some sway
In bringing you to love and not disgust.
And yet, despite this great source of comfort
I think it more my luck than my desert.

Pax

Sometimes the quiet things can be the best;
The warm nights sitting on a patio,
When all is hush and sunset slides down slow,
And everyone sits softly down to rest
While orange-red fire sinks into the west
Backlighting bare brick buildings in its glow
And everything is still. It's then you know
No frustration, annoyance, bug, or pest
Can touch the deep calm quiet of the night
And all is peace: will be, must be at peace
As all distractions and confusions cease,
And the hot sun sinks obscurely out of sight.
This witching moment is the time of calm
When evening lacquers out its healing balm.

Liber

There are some days (like, I admit, this one)
When walking down the street feels like too much,
All from the hatred of the beaming sun.
I know that there are times (I have felt such)
When living, on its own, seems such a chore
That breath is painful in the resting breast.
I said I've felt this - now I say no more:
I will not let myself be so oppressed,
Nor struggle so beneath the weight of living.
I choose to be the freer man and feel
Lighter and more glad, as if forgiving
All the world's slights, believing them unreal.
For all it throws at me, I still can say
I am alive - tomorrow's not today.

Liquifaction

Sometimes it doesn't matter what you do
It's just too hot, and sweat drips down your spine,
Your mouth feels like it's filled with mealy glue
And on your fingers there's a sea of brine.
Sometimes it's just impossible to feel
Like anything you do can be enough
To break that spell that makes your senses reel
And everything seem jellified yet rough.
But even when your senses want to fade
And nothing seems like it is ever right
There is a place of interior shade
In which to find the cool side of the night:
I simply think of you, and smile slow
And let all of the other problems go.

A Moment on the Medium and the Milestone

Although in my sonnet composition I have simply blown past 1,000 sonnets (much as I did with 1,000 posts), with only a first-line reference to show for it, I think now that I am somewhere slightly less round (with only two zero places and not three) I might productively take advantage of the milestone(s) to think a bit further about what this project means and has meant for me.

I love one-sentence pararaphs.

The first point that comes immediately to mind is that the pace in sonnet-blogging feels frantic; if someone has it on their Google Reader, or bookmarked it, or even might click the link to it from another page or find it by randomly googling, there's a pressure there to have a new post fairly frequently. This is not necessarily a bad thing, since it forced me through several rough patches of lowered inspiration, and allowed me to discover the degree (high) to which sonnetry seems to be a muscle that grows with exercise. Not that the feelings I express - fictional or non-fictional - become more fixed by expression, but that the idea of expression - again fictional or non-fictional - becomes focused on sonnets, and the path of expression-through-sonnet becomes easy to the point of automatic. I would have thought I was already there, given that this is far from my first foray into sonnetry, but apparently not. This reflex has been severely strengthened by this experience.

Second, the dual permanent/ephemeral nature of the blog has been fascinating to me. Every post is there, and people do go access old poems, however they get to them. But at the same time the vast majority of hits are to the front page; and poems exit that page in at most a week. So the poems are simultaneously forever and immediate. I can say that between this point and the above, the latter has had more power over me; I do not conceive of myself crafting eternal poems on a deadline. Rather, there is an urge to simply push it out into the ephemeral void. But at the same time, there is a great satisfaction to the permanency of the poems I write and like; I can look back at them, or encourage others to do so, and I know it remains. It's also a reminder when I look back at what has been read: these poems need not stand a test of time, but they could if they were good enough. They do not disappear.

Finally, for the moment, I feel like exposing my art in this focused way has been really good for my work. I appreciate everyone who reads any of these for whatever reason, and I hope you feel the same. Repeated exercise has, I think, made me a better poet; not that every poem now is better than any then, but that the average (and maybe even the height) has improved. I don't feel as bad about the worse ones or any worse about the better ones, so I'm happy with that progression. And if you read, or have read, the archives, I hope you do too.

Gradual

Strange to imagine that I feel this way,
For when it all began I had my doubts.
I didn't think about this, yesterday,
Since then my heart and I were on the outs.
We didn't speak, and so it never said
That it was so infected by your sight;
As thus my heart was silent, so my head
Involved itself by chatting, night by night.
Between these two still unconversing parts
The whole of me was overcome before
I knew what happened; then, by fits and starts,
They reconciled, and told each other more.
And when they talked, I found myself in love
With none of me left to protest thereof.

Pastlife

As I stare into my self-abyss
I used to wonder what I ought to say.
But now I don't. I like it more this way,
And willingly could give the past a miss
Were it not that there is still some bliss
In what and how I did things yesterday.
So I remember, though I do not stray
Into that past nor long to taste the kiss
Of other lips. No, rather I recall
How it was then, comparing it to now,
And wondering in glad confusion how
It changed to this, against which others pall.
There's joy left to remember, but what's here
Is greater than all recollected cheer.

Scheherezade

As I pass a thousand sonnets on this blog
I stop and think about what came before;
I ought, perhaps, to feel it's been a slog,
A long slow process ending with a snore,
But I can't bring myself to think that way,
Not just because I like the end results,
But from the joy I've had in such wordplay.
And knowing that they're read, my heart exults,
So how could I be bored? I could not be,
It's far, far too much fun to write this stuff,
Whether I'm being self-expository
Or rather more deceitful - it's enough
To know I'm writing, and to joy therein:
And so no boredom, and therefore no fin.

Authoritative

I find although we are together now
A part of me still longs for you despite
The silliness inherent in it. How
This part demands could I have come to quite
Such luck as this? It cannot be desert
And so it must be fragile and at risk.
If so, then forces mighty but covert
Oppose it and stand ready soon to whisk
This happiness away and make me grieve.
And so I long to be with you for good
Because that part of me will not believe
That this dread universe we live in would
Allow this to remain. I answer no:
The world does not determine if you go.

Cloy

I have no doubt I ought to be with you,
Yet sometimes wonder if you ought to be
For all that I am glad of it, with me.
I must assume you easily could do
Much better, and since I'm so sure that's true
I have to marvel that you happily
Stay with me past all probability
And don't just wander off into the blue
Beyond. I am of course most grateful for
Your sweet indulgence, and it brings me joy,
But yet I wonder when I'll start to cloy,
And you won't want me with you anymore.
But as it hasn't happened yet, there's still
Some hope in me as yet it never will.

Conditions

Your presence makes me happy every day,
In any circumstance, from every cause.
If you are near my troubles float away
As my great icecap of affection thaws
Releasing love to flow from me to you.
In this deluge sometimes I am born off
Mindlessly smiling. If this is true,
Just make a noise at me - giggle, or cough,
And I will soon return to my right wits.
But do not doubt that these ecstatic fits
Come from my love, and are a sign thereof.
I cannot help it; you make me so glad.
So take it as a testament of love,
And do not think I otherwise am mad.

Extremism

Only so many hours in a day;
Only so many minutes in each hour.
Greedy of the time you are away
Feeling that every moment might devour
All that I am, and I have been to you
Unless I'm there to jog your memory;
Unless I'm there to plea, cajole, and sue
And bring your loving focus back to me.
All this would be unhealthy and obscene
And therefore all unworthy of your love;
But there must be some place, still, inbetween
This posture and a total absence of
All interest in your presence: and there I
Sit, and I'll say I miss you by and by.

No Try

When I'm aware of what I shouldn't do
Far, far too often I, despite of knowing,
Feel half or more compelled to do it, through
Some mad and desperate impulse, in whose growing
There is an undercurrent of the brute
Who throws himself with violent excess
Into the worst of it, as in pursuit
Of newborn pain to fill his emptiness.
So though I know my situation well,
And can admit in calm times what is best,
I still will risk descending into hell
Each day, as sure as sunset's to the west
For I lack the composure to remain
Wise while the beast in me rages insane.

Sayings

I want to do so many things with you
Only a few of which I can say here;
Some of them would distress you, if you knew,
Because they flow from an excess of care;
Others would seem too obvious to state
And therefore do not properly need to be said.
Both of these are set aside to wait.
It is by other thoughts that I am led
Herein to praise you: thoughts I can express,
Such as my wish to hold you tight and sing
About your wild, silly loveliness
Or to endeavour almost anything
To make you smile at me. Such things and more
I want to do to you; and will, therefore.

Worrisome

Sometimes you worry me, and then I fear
That in your silence there's expressive speech
If only I, too deaf, could strain and hear.
Then I try not to let those worries leech
Into my bloodstream, and infect the rest
For while they stay cooped up within my mind
I can still choose to do that which seems best:
Dismiss them, and whatever else I find
Associated with them. But some days
It is so hard to not read something in
Each of your pauses, and my will decays
And then I fall into a kind of sin
For which I, doubtless, as you absolution
And with it all those worries' diminution.

Silence

The time of quiet is a time I cherish
For calm hearts holding hands and sharing love
Is far too fragile, and will quickly perish
At the merest introduction of
External forces, whatever they be,
And so these hours must be tightly held
So that they don't sneak off too rapidly.
This is why it seems I am compelled
To hold my breath and cling to you so tight
When we are seated, silent, side by side.
For clinging to you then simply feels right,
And may protect against the sudden slide
Out of contentment. Quiet, calm, as one
Is best, no matter what else might be done.

Bump

I used to be so easy to explain
A simple mass of elegant neuroses.
But now something has flipped inside my brain
And made me change my usual prognoses.
I was aware, I thought, of my reaction
To every stimulus the world afforded,
But now to my intense dissatisfaction
I've run into a symptom unrecorded
In prior histories. What could it be?
What change could come upon a state like mine?
What can have altered unalterable me,
Or moved a point off of my inner line?
Occam's razor says it must be you
For nothing else affects me like you do.

Strange Ectasy

I'm oddly joyful, even without sleep
When you are near, despite all other pain;
I can forget the gnawing doubts that creep
Into my own, if in no other, brain.
When with you nothing seems fully amiss
No matter how bad it might first appear,
And nothing can be unsolved past your kiss:
No worry, no dismay, no care, no fear.
I am at peace, but only when with you,
A calm spot in the middle ocean's roar;
I'm not quite certain what it is you do,
But I'd be happy if you did it more.
So stay by me. Together we defy
The world; we'll simply watch it wander by.

ContinuityContinuity

I am much happier now we're together
Although I did not think me sad before.
But, as the turn from winter to fair weather
Redefines the cold that feels too sore,
I would not wish an encore presentation
Of what we felt and how we dealt with it,
Out of a sense of pure self-preservation
For it would hurt more than a little bit
To go back to those days. Let us remain
In now, and in the future that we share,
Remembering, of course, the pasts that wane,
But never wishing to return. I care
Too much about you now to go back then
And have to struggle to get back again.

Alterations

I do admit, of course, I am in love
But I would hope, with that, some things have changed;
Our attitudes, for one crucial thing above
All others, which I hope are rearranged
So that we do not speak or act the same
As we were wont when other things were true.
I would not like to play the selfsame game
Now that I'm certain I'm in love with you
And you with me. I like that we still flirt,
And flirt more often, but I'd rather we
Had added something that would well avert
The chance of being like we used to be.
I do not want to be like that again
Albeit I thought I was happy then.

Zzz

There's too much boredom cooped up in my mind
And in the heat it flies away to dream;
Unlike myself, it need not be confined
But drifts along the paths of may and seem.
Am I asleep? I feel that I'm awake
But who when sleeping thinks they are laid low?
And with each drowsy-headed step I take
My doubts about my present state but grow.
I can feel pain, but pain can be remembered
And thoughts are common to the wake and sleep;
And I'll not test so far to be dismembered
(There are some cynicisms that I keep).
So in my boredom I cannot discern
Whether I'm awake. How could I learn?

Make It Another

Ah, wherefore goest thou where I cannot?
And what dost thou that I can never mimic?
What hast thou had that I have never got?
Why doubtest thou when I have been no cynic?
Thou dost these things because they are thy fate
And I, poor I, must follow far behind,
Finding myself too incapacitate
To wander in the ways your fashions wind.
But thou look'st back and see'st me here in train
And seeing it, thy pace does slow and halt;
So just as all my hopes began to wane
Thou dost encourage me to re-assault,
And for thy waiting eye redouble trial
So thou wilt, seeing me, begin to smile.

Recollections Of

When you are gone away from me, I spend
The weary time in thinking of the past,
Of how I'm glad that some parts did not last,
And of how sad I am that some must end.
I do not miss the days you were my friend
Only, but I'm glad we were so cast,
And that we bound ourselves so very fast
Unto each other, which in time would mend
Into what we have now. Yet thinking back
I joy in what we had, and in compare,
For in the present I am well aware
Of all the contradictions we could pack
Into one friendship, which is now well altered;
And yet no whit has any of it faltered.

Hellacious

The day is very hot. I cannot tell
Whether the heat defeats me and I falter
Or if I am instead consigned to hell
And this vile warmth is my eternal halter,
But one of them it is. Either my flesh
Is bound on earth by heat unbearable
Or God has put his wheat unto the thresh
And I am chaff. Oh, what a terrible
Dilemma I have found, with no way out:
I sweat myself into infernal doubt.
Yet as I sweat I note the breeze is coming,
And cold wind rushes over me to chill:
Therefore I am on earth. This heat is slumming,
And will return to hell and leave me still.

Matters of Scale

I could claim that I would walk
A thousand miles to see your face;
But you would know it was just talk:
My legs could not keep up the pace.
I could say I'd grab the moon
And bring it down for you to hold;
But you'd remember ere you'd swoon
The moon's too big, too far, too cold.
I could declare I'd hold you tight
And never, ever let you go;
But you would think, and you'd be right,
Life might be inconvenient so.
So I'll just say: I've done before
What pleased you, and I'll do so more.

Explications

I cannot claim I've always had the nerve
To tell you just exactly what I thought,
But now, at least, I think that you deserve
To hear. So here I tender you, unsought,
My best expression of how I feel about
You. I am, of course, in love with you,
You know that, and, I think, without much doubt.
But there is more than that within me too.
There is a kind of joy suffuses me
Each time I see you, or I hold your hand;
A sort of incandescent leaping glee
I cannot claim I fully understand,
And every time you look at me, I know
I cannot help but look at you and glow.

Equivalence

What can I, or perhaps, what should I, say
To tell you what you must already know?
In fact, I know you know it, by the way
Your face lights up in that ecstatic glow
While we're together. How can I express
In words what we both say in touch?
Can this poor poem be a soft caress,
Or, since it cannot, can it mean as much?
Perhaps I ought to just remind you of
The way I look at you, or you at me:
A liquid mixture of pure joy and love,
Increased by common reciprocity.
No thought can be sufficient, yet in this
There's just as much of me as in a kiss.

172 UChicago-Kenwood

This bus runs only in the weekday rush
Not at whatever other times you need.
It spares you from the common sort of crush,
But God help you if any strangeness bleed
Into your day. Nor can you take it from
The places that you really need to leave:
The life filled with a dull oppressive hum,
So busy that you cannot even breathe,
The daily wandering you know not where
Just to get out and hope there's something new,
Hoping you can find some open air.
No, even at rush hour, it can't do
That. But you can walk away, and say
You saw a world not on the CTA.

Improvements

In company I wish that you were there
Alone I hunger even more for you;
I cannot be without you anywhere
Without imagining you coming too.
That does not mean you have to be with me
Or that I cannot live without you here;
Just that whenever we're apart, I see
That things are better when you're very near.
So if you want me to enjoy more things
Or show more joy about what has been done,
Just come with me. The happiness that brings
Can overwhelm whatever lack of fun
I might have felt before. Just be around
And there's no better joy that could be found.

De CopiaDe Copia

What can I say that has not found expression
In all these words I've poured into your eyes?
Right now I fear I must give the impression
I only write these things for exercise,
Since I rehearse the same small theme each time,
A over-copious rehearsal of
The constant theme of almost every rhyme
A dull extremely repetitious love.
I feel that I must seem Erasmian
Taking a theme and overdoing it
Providing an ear-penetrating din
In exploration of a boring wit.
But I assure you: if it were not real
I would by now not tell you how I feel.

Glasses

In all the time I've known you, I have had
Never a perfect rhyme, a perfect way
To say the many things I have to say
Without some part of them sounding so bad
I almost feared to write it. That's the sad
And simple truth of it; the price I pay
For writing you at all is that I may
Not like the way I write. I have to pad
Out lines, or turn a meaning just aside
To catch a rhyme or make a poem work;
Or when I don't, I'll just feel like a jerk
For how what I've just written will elide
The depth within my soul, and in 2-D
Show what should be expressed at least in three.

Adoptive

You join your community in which
I have no part, try though I may to be
At one with you. Of course I shouldn't bitch;
I knew this was your own community,
One I was both by choice and inclination
Apart from and unlikely to join in;
Nor do I feel significant temptation
To come to it. Still I admit it's been
Hard, and will be harder, to observe
You make your way away from me into
A place I have no place; not that I swerve
From seeing this, for we both know I knew
This would be so before it was begun.
But every time feels like the hardest one.

Oak Street Beach

There is a blocked-off street without a name
Down which, without much thought, I almost turned.
It seemed unlike the others: wild, not tame,
Possessing that which they, perhaps, had spurned.
Yet as I reached my hand out to remove
The barriers that kept me on my path
A thought arose within me to reprove
That course, though more with pity than with wrath:
"Consider whether those who came before
Perhaps knew what they did in shutting this;
It's possible of course, that you know more,
And may find something they were wont to miss,
But likely?" And I stared down that dim street
And pondered it, and beat a swift retreat.

6 Jackson Park Express

When there were three at once just sitting there
I thought it might have been a bus convention
But when all three are moving, I must stare
And wish they'd stage a transit intervention.
I missed three buses of the selfsame type
All running as if nothing out of place
Were happening, as if their time were ripe
And they were on the way to their home base
Perfectly on schedule. How can three
Be unified in what should be but one?
I cannot find a reason they should be
Crammed in a single slot, except for fun:
To see how we, the riding public, act
When two are empty and the other packed.

Baked

Everything around me is a mess
A cataclysm of surrounding waste;
And yet I count the day a sweet success
Because of what remains for us to taste.
It is a rare day when I am not glad
We baked so many random fluffy things,
Moreover, I believe I would be sad
Without the joy that looking at them brings,
For you have left, and I have now to clean
A million dishes - or at least, them all.
So looking at the food instead may mean
That I have simply found a way to stall:
Yet that's not it, for in the food I see
Our solid instance of creative glee.

Vacuum Tube

I feel so very void of everything
Like all of it drained out of me at once;
I am not sure that I know anything,
And if you asked me, I would prove a dunce.
I breathe, of course, or else would have no life,
I think enough to write this with my thumbs.
But where I'm normally sharp as a knife
My mind grows woozy and my spirit numbs.
The day is purposeless, and all adrift;
Nothing except existence keeps on going.
Nothing I try seems to provide a lift,
Nor can I find a way to keep life flowing
Except to think of you. And when you're here
That, despite everything, will bring me cheer.

Uplift

Even on days when I feel pointless, you
Are there within my mind to comfort me.
I hope you feel the same, for in my view,
There is no better love-security
Than feeling from afar the other's voice
Uplifting what had been depressed and low;
And if I had, somehow, to make a choice
I think I'd keep that feeling and let go
Much of what most philosophers call love
(Not that I do not value that as well,
But merely see it as an instance of
The feeling that produces this). I tell
Myself that you are there for me, and pray
You tell yourself the same in some small way.

Incompleteness

I paint poor pictures of my precious love
In watercolors weakly washed with phrases
Each phrase a failed, yet free expression of
The liquid love lapped in my constant gazes.
See in my eyes each effort's true conceit;
Each longing look will linger on your face,
And if my heart has help, our eyes will meet
Such that you see my sense, and will embrace
The meaning, not mere merit, of my words,
And take the treasured of my heart
Into your own. Yet yearning comes in herds
And words, though witty, wean only a part
Of what, in deep devotion, dearness feels:
So rightly read the rest of my appeals.

Visitations

These empty and unhanded hours I
Spend almost void in order to see you
Are given value and importance by
The knowledge that you joy to see me too.
When I am travelling this far to see
The pure delight of you, I am twice cheered:
Once by the thought of how you will greet me,
The second by how very much endeared
You are to me, and therefore how I feel
When, having overcome the distance travelled,
I see your face, whose instant soft appeal
Makes all my toil seem to have unravelled
As if the trip were instant. When I'm there
Your present love becomes my only care.

All in the Timing

I see no reason why I should desist
From praise, although the prize has been achieved.
No barriers unto my praise resist,
And what I claim is readily believed,
Therefore rejoice, and let the open sound
Of praise believed redouble in the air!
When unresisted, praises should abound
And not dry up just as the way grows fair.
So hear of me, that still am filled with love
For her that now does not dispute my praise
The lowest and most basic instance of
How she is lovely, and delights my days:
Her arms are where I know that I belong
In her embrace there can be nothing wrong.

Porter

It hardly matters what my body does
(Except it matters very much indeed)
But in the large sense, it dos not, because
My soul is only willing, now, to feed
Upon your love, and therefore you may read
The meaning of my whole entirety
Within my face: the longing and the need,
And love greatest of all. There you may see
That which has come, in time, to define me:
The way my heart and mind have joined together
To wish for you, and how incredibly
Happy you make me. So ignore the weather,
Whether it's too darn hot or there's a chill:
You are the high desire of my will.