Love Explained BY JENNIFER MICHAEL HECHT

Guy calls the doctor, says the wife’s   

contractions are five minutes apart.   

Doctor says, Is this her first child?

guy says, No, it’s her husband.

I promise to try to remember who   

I am. Wife gets up on one elbow,

says, I wanted to get married.   

It seemed a fulfillment of some

several things, a thing to be done.   

Even the diamond ring was some

thing like a quest, a thing they   

set you out to get and how insane

the quest is; how you have to turn   

it every way before you can even

think to seek it; this metaphysical   

refraining is in fact the quest. Who’d

have guessed? She sighs, I like   

the predictability of two, I like

my pleasures fully expected,   

when the expectation of them

grows patterned in its steady   

surprise. I’ve got my sweet

and tumble pat. Here on earth,   

I like to count upon a thing

like that. Thus explained   

the woman in contractions

to her lover holding on

the telephone for the doctor

to recover from this strange   

conversational turn. You say

you’re whom? It is a pleasure   

to meet you. She rolls her

eyes, but he’d once asked her   

Am I your first lover? and she’d   

said, Could be. Your face looks   

familiar. It’s the same type of

generative error. The grammar

of the spoken word will flip, let alone

the written, until something new is   

in us, and in our conversation.

To My Dear and Loving Husband by Anne Bradstreet, 1612 - 1672

If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me ye women if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay; 
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let’s so persever,
That when we live no more we may live ever.

"I loved you first: but afterwards your love" BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

Poca favilla gran fiamma seconda. – Dante
Ogni altra cosa, ogni pensier va fore,
E sol ivi con voi rimansi amore. – Petrarca 

I loved you first: but afterwards your love

    Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song

As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove.

    Which owes the other most? my love was long,

    And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong;

I loved and guessed at you, you construed me

And loved me for what might or might not be –

    Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong.

For verily love knows not ‘mine’ or ‘thine;’

    With separate ‘I’ and ‘thou’ free love has done,

         For one is both and both are one in love:

Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine;’

         Both have the strength and both the length thereof,

Both of us, of the love which makes us one.

Yours & Mine BY ALICE FULTON

Through your lens the sequoia swallowed me   

like a dryad. The camera flashed & forgot.

I, on the other hand, must practice my absent-

mindedness, memory being awkward as a touch   

that goes unloved. Lately your eyes have shut

down to a shade more durable than skin’s. I know you   

love distance, how it smooths. You choose an aerial view,   

the city angled to abstraction, while I go for the close   

exposures: poorly-mounted countenances along Broadway,   

the pigweed cracking each hardscrabble backlot.   

It’s a matter of perspective: yours is to love me   

from a block away & mine is to praise the grain-

iness that weaves expressively: your face.

Holidays by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

The holiest of all holidays are those
  Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
  The secret anniversaries of the heart,
  When the full river of feeling overflows;--
The happy days unclouded to their close;
  The sudden joys that out of darkness start
  As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart
  Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!
White as the gleam of a receding sail,
  White as a cloud that floats and fades in air,
  White as the whitest lily on a stream,
These tender memories are;--a fairy tale
  Of some enchanted land we know not where,
  But lovely as a landscape in a dream.

अँधेरी रात में दीपक जलाये कौन बैठा है ?

अँधेरी रात में दीपक जलाये कौन बैठा है ?

उठी ऐसी घटा नभ में

छिपे सब चाँद और तारे,

उठा तूफ़ान वह नभ में

गए बुझ दीप भी सारे

मगर इस रात में भी लौ लगाये कौन बैठा है ?

अँधेरी रात में दीपक जलाये कौन बैठा है ?

गगन में गर्व से उठ उठ

गगन में गर्व से घिर घिर,

गरज कहती घटाए हैं

नहीं होगा उजाला फिर

मगर चिर ज्योति में निष्ठा जमाये कौन बैठा है ?

अँधेरी रात में दीपक जलाये कौन बैठा है ?

तिमिर के राज्य का ऐसा

कठिन आतंक छाया है,

उठा जो शीश सकते थे

उन्होंने सिर झुकाया है

मगर विद्रोह की ज्वाला जलाये कौन बैठा है ?

अँधेरी रात में दीपक जलाये कौन बैठा है ?

प्रलय का सब समां बांधे

प्रलय की रात है छाई

विनाशक शक्तियों की इस

तिमिर के बीच बन आयी

मगर निर्माण में आशा दृढआये कौन बैठा है ?

अँधेरी रात में दीपक जलाये कौन बैठा है ?

प्रभंजक मेघ दामिनी ने

न क्या तोडा न क्या फोड़ा,

धरा के और नभ के बीच

कुछ साबुत नहीं छोड़ा

मगर विश्वास को अपने बचाए कौन बैठा है ?

अँधेरी रात में दीपक जलाये कौन बैठा है ?

प्रलय की रात को सोचे

प्रणय की बात क्या कोई

मगर प्रेम बंधन में

समझ किसने नहीं खोई

किसी के पंथ में पलकें बिछाये कौन बैठा है ?

अँधेरी रात में दीपक जलाये कौन बैठा है ?

श्री हरिवंश राय बच्चन जी की कलम से एक कविता

कोशिश करने वालों की कभी हार नहीं होती।

लहरों से डर कर नौका पार नहीं होती,
कोशिश करने वालों की कभी हार नहीं होती।

नन्हीं चींटी जब दाना लेकर चलती है,
चढ़ती दीवारों पर, सौ बार फिसलती है।
मन का विश्वास रगों में साहस भरता है,
चढ़कर गिरना, गिरकर चढ़ना न अखरता है।
आख़िर उसकी मेहनत बेकार नहीं होती,
कोशिश करने वालों की कभी हार नहीं होती।

डुबकियां सिंधु में गोताखोर लगाता है,
जा जा कर खाली हाथ लौटकर आता है।
मिलते नहीं सहज ही मोती गहरे पानी में,
बढ़ता दुगना उत्साह इसी हैरानी में।
मुट्ठी उसकी खाली हर बार नहीं होती,
कोशिश करने वालों की कभी हार नहीं होती।

असफलता एक चुनौती है, इसे स्वीकार करो,
क्या कमी रह गई, देखो और सुधार करो।
जब तक न सफल हो, नींद चैन को त्यागो तुम,
संघर्ष का मैदान छोड़ कर मत भागो तुम।
कुछ किये बिना ही जय जय कार नहीं होती,
कोशिश करने वालों की कभी हार नहीं होती।

--हरिवंशराय बच्चन

EVENING SOLACE BY CHARLOTTE BRONTË

THE human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;­
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, 
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.

But, there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart's best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish,
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.

And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly back­a faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others' sufferings seem.
Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie !

And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress­
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven,
Seeking a life and world to come.

Sonnet 56 by William Shakespeare.

Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allayed,
To-morrow sharpened in his former might:
So, love, be thou, although to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,
To-morrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love, with a perpetual dulness.
Let this sad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the shore, where two contracted new
Come daily to the banks, that when they see
Return of love, more blest may be the view;
As call it winter, which being full of care,
Makes summer's welcome, thrice more wished, more rare.

To My Oldest Friend, Whose Silence Is Like a Death by Lloyd Schwartz

In today’s paper, a story about our high school drama
teacher evicted from his Carnegie Hall rooftop apartment 

made me ache to call you—the only person I know 
who’d still remember his talent, his good looks, his self-

absorption. We’d laugh (at what haven’t we laughed?), then 
not laugh, wondering what became of him. But I can’t call, 

because I don’t know what became of you.

—After sixty years, with no explanation, you’re suddenly
not there. Gone. Phone disconnected. I was afraid

you might be dead. But you’re not dead. 

You’ve left, your landlord says. He has your new unlisted 
number but insists on “respecting your privacy.” I located 

your oldest son, who refuses to tell me anything except that 
you’re alive and not ill. Your ex-wife ignores my letters.

What’s happened? Are you in trouble? Something 
you’ve done? Something I’ve done? 

We used to tell each other everything: our automatic 
reference points to childhood pranks, secret codes, 

and sexual experiments. How many decades since we started 
singing each other “Happy Birthday” every birthday? 

(Your last uninhibited rendition is still on my voice mail.)

How often have we exchanged our mutual gratitude—the easy
unthinking kindnesses of long friendship. 

This mysterious silence isn’t kind. It keeps me 
up at night, bewildered, at some “stage “of grief. 

Would your actual death be easier to bear? 

I crave your laugh, your quirky takes, your latest
comedy of errors. “When one’s friends hate each other,”

Pound wrote near the end of his life, “how can there be
peace in the world?” We loved each other. Why why why 

am I dead to you? 

Our birthdays are looming. The older I get, the less and less 
I understand this world, 

and the people in it.

Sonnet 50 by William Shakespeare

How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek, my weary travel's end,
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,
'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!'
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider lov'd not speed being made from thee.
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on,
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
For that same groan doth put this in my mind,
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.

Mozart by Caroline Knox

Can you imagine
what is true, that
smack in the middle
of making The Magic FluteFlute he interrupted
himself to make
“Ave Verum Corpus,”world’s most truth-telling
motet (Who made its
text? Maybe a pope),
then got himself on
track, back to TMF(all the while dealing
with money worry and
sickness of wife). When
you get to the esto nobiscadence in “AVC,” you
scale the spine of the
European Enlightenment;
when you get to the
idiotic “Three Faithful
Youths” chorus in TMF: “Three faithful youths we now will lend you
Upon your journey they’ll attend you;
Though young in years, these youths so fair
Heed the words of wisdom rare!”
you’re dealing with
Bertie Wooster’s
three best friends.
Because he was Mozart,
not a problem.

La Belle Dame sans Merci: A Ballad BY JOHN KEATS

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

       Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has withered from the lake,

       And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

       So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel’s granary is full,

       And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,

       With anguish moist and fever-dew,

And on thy cheeks a fading rose

       Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,

       Full beautiful—a faery’s child,

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

       And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,

       And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She looked at me as she did love,

       And made sweet moan

I set her on my pacing steed,

       And nothing else saw all day long,

For sidelong would she bend, and sing

       A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,

       And honey wild, and manna-dew,

And sure in language strange she said—

       ‘I love thee true’.

She took me to her Elfin grot,

       And there she wept and sighed full sore,

And there I shut her wild wild eyes

       With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,

       And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—

The latest dream I ever dreamt

       On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,

       Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci

       Thee hath in thrall!’

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

       With horrid warning gapèd wide,

And I awoke and found me here,

       On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,

       Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

       And no birds sing.

Why is Quiet "Kept"? by Paul Hoover

They are crying out in restaurants,
so delighted to be speaking,
they appear to be insane.

But we are the silent types, 
who hold speech within 
like the rustle of gold foil.

We eat our words and swallow hard.
There’s nothing much to say.
The knot’s in its nest, breathing.
A hand thinks it’s a bird.

The world “nows”; it doesn’t know.
The world “wows.” Then it snows.

A word arrives, silent and upright.
It stands in profile against a white wall.
It’s here for safekeeping only.

Keep quiet, mice.
A cat’s patrolling the area, 
with drones and more drones.

The keys we carry unlock us every day
and lock us up again.  Hushed is the ward.
Now conjugate, please, to werd and to werld.

One of us has just conceived 
the sum for infinity:  plus one, plus one, plus one.
In the cosmological phone booth,
there’s always one more.

The fishing report’s too thick to read, 
but its cadence is that of a god.
Waves and ships are passing.
We can barely discern the semaphores
flashing through the fog.

And here are the ones who walk the walk and talk the talk,  
blackening the day with news, with news.

SONNET 45 by William Shakespeare.

The other two, slight air and purging fire,
Are both with thee, wherever I abide;
The first my thought, the other my desire,
These present-absent with swift motion slide.
For when these quicker elements are gone
In tender embassy of love to thee,
My life, being made of four, with two alone
Sinks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy;Until life's composition be recured
By those swift messengers return'd from thee,
Who even but now come back again, assured
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me:
This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
I send them back again and straight grow sad.

Love's Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley

 
The fountains mingle with the river   
And the rivers with the ocean,   
The winds of heaven mix for ever   
With a sweet emotion;   
Nothing in the world is single, 
All things by a law divine   
In one another's being mingle—   
Why not I with thine?   
   
See the mountains kiss high heaven,   
And the waves clasp one another; 
No sister-flower would be forgiven   
If it disdain'd its brother;   
And the sunlight clasps the earth,   
And the moonbeams kiss the sea—   
What is all this sweet work worth 
If thou kiss not me? 

On the Statue by John Mateer

When in the Cathedral at Santiago de Compostela I will be invited
to hug, for good luck, the marble torso of the Saint,
I won't. Not for moral reasons.

Embracing someone from behind like that
reminds me too much of how, in the Apartheid army,
we were taught to approach the enemy,

to slit the throat.

On the Painting by John Mateer

Neither that album page, nor its pristine miniature painting
of a fabled Persian garden where plants bloom with human features,
nor that monochromatic landscape in Coetzee's Age of Iron
under which, as under a bloodied Oriental carpet,
there were the dead faces none of us could avoid stepping on,

this panel of the Altar of the Virgin of the Navigators in the Real Alcazar,
in the chamber from which Queen Isobel despatched the Conquistadors,
she who like the Eternal Mother harboured all behind her chador,
this statement on the Expulsion of the Moors –

Santiago on a white horse, sword raised and poised, ready to swoop;
the heads of the disembodied, their faces stony and sprouting from the ground.

Alicante by John Mateer

Nobody believes me when I say this city
looks like Waikiki, the beaches curving away
under their wall of new hotels and
on the lone bare mountain, where a cryptic
Diamond Head should be, the Moorish hallucination
of a Roman castle. They should: not far
away Wild West towns await a cinematic eye
and south, across the azure Mediterranean,
my doppelgänger stands in a striped galabia,
feet planted on the earth of Djemaa el-Fna,
and, with fado in his heart, he recites
into the ear of an old Goytisolo,
a poem on the lost Caliphate
and on the World-to-Come.

Mall of the Emirates by John Mateer

We don't use the word "exile" anymore,
despite meeting in the Mall of the Emirates,
that hyperbolic cave, ordering what is expensive
peasant food, while contemplating our prospects
on two or, maybe, three continents,
confessing that we no longer return to our natal countries.
We're unlike our taxi drivers, with our perpetually
renewable visas and self-conscious amnesia,
even if we, too, could forever cruise down Dubai's freeways,
reminiscing on the stupas of Anuradapurna,
how in the sunlight they glint like rice bowls overturned.
In consolation we have what used to be Literature,
its metamorphosis, those phantoms, our other lives.
Or isn't it the other way round? Haven't we been expelled
from the Garden of Nothingness to wander, decade-long,
lost in thought, imagining Al Muteena Street as an avenue in Tunis,
grey palm trees attempting shadow against gilded exhaust haze?
Ali, remember that dream you told me of: Hafiz
appearing to an Australian scholar, nominating him
his Interpreter? That's probably how we ended up here
in this extravaganza of shops, this oasis,
as a poem born on the tip of another's tongue,
as perfectly translatable synonyms for that word: "exile."