We Do Not Speak of Love
poeticoutlaws.substack.com
We Do Not Speak of Love
By: Harold Norse
we do not speak of love
but all are pushed & pulled
by it
taking all forms & shapes
twisted pounded burnt
by it
like the sculptor’s clay our faces
punched & pinched
made long or ripped apart
by it
eyes pained or deep or lost
lines cut in cheeks & forehead
from it
we do not speak of love
our faces scream
of it
haunting bars &
running wild in the streets
for it
we do not speak of love
but spike warm veins pop pills
burst brain with alcohol
for it
gods & demons wrestle for the heart
of it
I can’t survive the lack
of it
San Francisco, ca. 1972My work and research I put into this Substack Page are entirely reader-supported. If you enjoy the content I provide and are not ready to become a paid subscriber, you can simply make a one-time donation here at Buy Me A Coffee. If you can. I appreciate each one of you who follows this page. You all truly made it into a magical little online community. Thank You.
"Ah that my soul a marrow bone might seize
For the old egg of my desire is broke
Spilled the yolk and spilled the pearly white
and as its melancholy contents grease my path
the shorn lamb baas like bumblebees... "
Anon.
And a different *take* from Billy Collins:
𝗔𝗶𝗺𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲
This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.
In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.
This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.
The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.
No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.
No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then
for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.
But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.
After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,
so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.