The eldest child had to write a love poem today, and I joined her in the exercise. I figured I'd share and wish you all a happy Valentine's at the same time. You know two birds...
All the same
Is love that thing that makes you sick
Your heart race and stomach churn,
A passion all consuming ravaging as it brightly burns,
set on path of pain and destruction if not returned?
Or is love that ever constant thing,
That fills a mother's arms,
Breathes into the soul hope and fear disarms,
Nurturing quiet confidence a not-so-simple charm?
I do not know what love is,
Where it begins, the life and breadth of the name.
I cannot tell you its power, its beauty or explain.
I only know I love you, regardless, all the same.
That is pretty awesome!
All I have is this Michael Bolton song to stick in your head:
I Want to Know What Love Is
See, that is just mean.
It would be stuck in my head to but I have the Everything is Awesome song from the Lego Movie stuck in my head.
Wonderful poem.
And Michael Bolton will never be the first thing to come to mind in conjunction with that song, Rumze. Therefore, I'll dingle your plater and lamzy divey dozy doats.
Thank you for the poem, Dicey! Happy Valentines Day!
Fortunately, I haven't heard any of the songs people are trying to stick in my head. :P
As usual, I don't have much in the way of my own creativity, but I can share a poem I like.
Death's Echo
W.H. Auden
"O who can ever gaze his fill,"
Farmer and fisherman say,
"On native shore and local hill,
Grudge aching limb or callus on the hand?
Father, grandfather stood upon this land,
And here the pilgrims from our loins will stand."
So farmer and fisherman say
in their fortunate hey-day:
But Death's low answer drifts across
Empty catch or harvest loss
Or an unlucky May.
The earth is an oyster with nothing inside it,
Not to be born is the best for man;
The end of toil is a bailiff's order,
Throw down the mattock and dance while you can.
"O life's too short for friends who share,"
travellers think in their hearts,
"The city's common bed, the air
The mountain bivouac and the bathing beach,
Where incidents draw every day from each
Memorable gesture and witty speech."
So travellers think in their hearts,
Till malice or circumstance parts
them from their constant humour:
And slyly Death's coercive rumour
In that moment starts.
A friend is the old tale of Narcissus,
Not to be born is the best for man;
An active partner in something disgraceful,
Change your partner, dance while you can.
"O stretch your hands across the sea."
The impassioned lover cries,
"Stretch them towards your harm and me.
Our grass is green, and sensual our brief bed,
The stream sings at its foot, and at its head
The mild and vegetarian beasts are fed."
So the impassioned lover cries
Till the storm of pleasure dies:
From the bedposts and the rocks
Death's enticing echo mocks,
And his voice replies.
The greater the love, the more false to its object,
Not to be born is the best for man;
After the kiss comes the impulse to throttle,
Break the embraces, dance while you can.
"I see the guilty world forgiven,"
Dreamer and drunkard sing,
"The ladders let down out of heaven,
The laurel springing from the martyr's blood,
The children skipping where the weeper stood,
The lovers natural and beasts all good."
So dreamer and drunkard sing,
Till day their sobriety bring:
Parrotwise with Death's reply
From whelping fear and nesting lie,
Woods and their echoes ring.
The desires of the heart are as crooked as corkscrews,
Not to be born is the best for man;
The second-best is a formal order,
Dance, dance, for the figure is easy,
The tune is catching and will not stop;
Dance till the stars come down from the rafters;
Dance, dance, dance till you drop.