Love poems

[Senna Jawa]

Also if you have any tips for writing a good love poem (and what not to write!) add those too.

Peace and love

The topic doesn't change the basic ideas about good poems. Be it love or family life or poverty (or even the opposite, as in an old Chinese poem) or science or professional life or sport or war or... poems are simply poems. Know about poetry, and most every topic will be as good as another. For instance, all (good) poems require poetic honesty, the precision of the word choices, sensitivity, ...

 

[Senna Jawa]

About Neruda's "One Hundred Love Sonnets"

Critique invited

Peace and love

I was very gentle about Neruda's poem. In fact, look at all this back and forth "I don’t love" (oh, no, how original and interesting), "I love you", "I love you", etc. etc. etc. -- poetically it's awfully impotent. On top of all these the "logical language" like repeated "as" or phrase "directly without problems" etc. This simply is not poetry, when you write

like this because I don’t know any other way​

-- it's simply horrible! I would be deeply ashamed and devastated if I ever committed this kind of garbage. But there is more from Neruda,

except in this form in which I am not nor are
​

... Enough is enough! Now, go ahead, and praise this nonsense.

 

[Senna Jawa]

shallow!

I was very gentle about Neruda's poem. [...]
... Enough is enough!

Let me still make it clear that this is not simply a question of an awful language (here, the translation cannot take much responsibility for this pathetic state, it comes from the original). In fact, the whole concept of Neruda's poem is shallow. It is "the belly button of the Universe" trivial problem. No wonder that he came up with the rather stinky phrase

[...]the tight aroma that arose
from the earth lives dimly in my body.
​

That's what happens when there is that "the belly button of the Universe" syndrome -- oh, that wowowonderful aroma inside Neruda's body, it stays sooo dimly somewhere there, oh-ah.

 

[Senna Jawa]

Rilke's [again...]

Critique invited

Peace and love

(Oh, no, not again! ).

The common so-familiar scene of a (romantic perhaps) pair laying in the grass and looking at the sky is very nice. Then a surrounding is added. It's just added without any consequence. This is hand-made poetry.

You need more for a poem -- and in MUCH! better quality -- than "Again and again, even though we know [...]". This phrase is followed by "love's landscape" -- something about Ezra Post said that you should stay away from such phrases, they teach you this routinely around the US at the poetry classes. There are also those forcing adjectives, and low quality "in which the others end"

Yes, Rilke's poem is nice, certainly better than many around, great. But in this UYS love thread, we have my poem:

[once...]​

and you can see which one is original and noble. For instance, see which usage of repetitions is poetic and which is.. well, nothing unexpected in poems, simply boring. Pay attention to how the space in the poems is handled. You'll see a huge, dramatic difference in positive in the case of many of my poems (also in Polish ) and nothing space-like remarkable in the case of so many other (oh-so "famous" and oh-so "wonderful") poems.

Enjoy.

 

[butters]

i'm sure rilke, whitman, neruda, and frost will all be turning restlessly in their graves at these dismissals of their work. gotta smile.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

When your head is filled with the craziness of love,
all the clichés one is advised to never cross thy pen,
so that your foolish poems speak of heart and dove,
the stars or moon, I'll love you there and back again.
Everything. we're told, has oft been writ before
and these much more than any other, truth be told,
but I cannot seem to shift away, so write je t'adore
until once more I can you in my loving arms enfold.
From all of this I only may surmise, and still suppose ,
what is love if not to bring alive in hearts across the globe,
the biggest cliché of all time, and yet to us new prose?
I fall into your arms with eyes of love as you disrobe.
My Lord, this heaven here on earth, yet far, far away
is ours, I'll love you for now, and until my dying day.

 

[Litlover1932]

Wishful Thinking

There is a Someone Somewhere...
If I could only find Her

 

[UnderYourSpell]

There is a Someone Somewhere...
If I could only find Her

Love often finds you in the most unusual circumstances, when you're not even looking

 

[Senna Jawa]

There is a Someone Somewhere...
If I could only find Her​

Six upper case letters don't make a poem yet. And your lower case letters are not any better. For fun, let's have a more interesting variation (just a variation, not a poem yet):

there must be something somewhere in me
-- if she could only find it

Bigtrover2019​

-

 

[Senna Jawa]

Love often finds you in the most unusual circumstances, when you're not even looking

And when it happens it is such a pain in the neck!

 

[UnderYourSpell]

And when it happens it is such a pain in the neck!

For you maybe. some of us find it a delight.

 

[Senna Jawa]

For you maybe. some of us find it a delight.

Do you really need an emoticon ? -- Alright, now you have it.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

There are songs that tell us of how
nothing lasts forever, so I vow
not to take this for granted
or be disenchanted,
to enjoy with love, what we have now.

 

[Senna Jawa]

There are songs that tell us of how
nothing lasts forever, so I vow
not to take this for granted
or be disenchanted,
to enjoy with love, what we have now.​

-

[...]

love will never leave you when you down
when you're on a roof and looking down​

[...]​

wh​

-

 

[UnderYourSpell]

-

[...]

love will never leave you when you down
when you're on a roof and looking down​

[...]​

wh​

-

Not sure what you're pointing out, it's a Limerick.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Can I grow old with you?
You there and me here

Too late to grow old.
We'll have to try for really old.

We could forget we're old,
I'm acting like a lovesick teen already.

It's adorable. I'm sure you have
a notebook filled with you practising
how to join your name with mine.

 

[Senna Jawa]

limeromtic

Not sure what you're pointing out, it's a Limerick.

You have contributed to a relatively new (or rare) branch of limerick, let me call it:

limeromtic​

 

[UnderYourSpell]

You have contributed to a relatively new (or rare) branch of limerick, let me call it:

limeromtic​

Lol that made me laugh

 

[Senna Jawa]

summer phone

-

summer phone

your voice nests in my ear
the air's the summer's affair
soft waves of your voice oh dear
carry me through the summer air

you study with thunder
text after text a wide choice
but my snow white phone melts under
the summer melody of your voice​

wh,
1993-07-4/5
​

-

 

[Senna Jawa]

the last summer concert...

-

the last summer concert
- ----- in san jose ----​

would you like to dance with a stranger?
she looked at me why not?
slow dance
then she had to rush to san francisco​

wh,
1995-10-30​

-

 

[Senna Jawa]

the last summer concert
- ----- in san jose ----​

These summer concerts are outdoor concerts, they take place in the streets.

(Everybody knows this. )

 

[Senna Jawa]

san francisco blues

-

san francisco blues

you get in chinatown in san francisco
good food for a coupl'a green butterflies
i wona get to chinatown in san francisco
i wish i got me a coupl'a green butterflies

chinatown waiter sets a table for you & me
but we wave to each other goodbye​

wh,
20013-07-15​

-

 

[UnderYourSpell]

He's clever and witty, kind and loving.
Perspicacious, observant and canny.
Perfect? Hell no, modest he ain't!
But best of all he loves Annie!

 

[bronzeage]

Blackberry Summer

Blackberry summer, blackberry Sunday,
Blackberry nipples show through your shirt.
Night rain swollen blackberries hang
from the fence, soft and juicy,
to stain the fingers and tongue.
Two buckets lined with white bakery bags,
we walk through wet grass to the old fence line,
in early morning’s cool air,
buckets swinging, hand in hand.
A few sacrificed to taste,
you bite our first victim and feed me half,
blackberry sugar fills my mouth,
sweeter for being crushed by your lips.

Briars bent by their fruit yield a bucket full
before blackberry clouds chase the sun
from a blue summer sky and a cold thunderstorm wind
finds us in the old hay barn, sitting in the loft door
listening to the cloud’s shadow
dance and clatter across the roof.
Desperate dust devils scour the pasture
for damp leaves and sticks.
The sun hides in thunderstorm twilight.
Silver dollar rain drops drum on the tin roof.
and the chilled air raises goose flesh on your thighs,
lying in the hay, straw catching in your hair.



Tin rumbles under waves of rain,
timbers groan under the weight,
covering the moan deep in my chest.
I inhale the electric air surrounding you.
Flash and cannon fire lightning
paints you marble white
against white hay in a bleached world,
Color returns to all but your face,
closed eyes and open mouth
sucking air for a heaving breast
White knuckles wrapped in my shirt
pull me over you for cover
and shield from the next bolt.

What comfort can I offer except
good company in our incineration
and blackberries, hand fed to a trembling tongue.
like a pin feathered hatchling in our straw nest.
Let the blood return to your cheeks
and your heart quit pounding like the rain on the roof.
The day will outlive the storm
and we are safe in our loft
to plan a summer afternoon
to wash blackberries for making
blackberry pie and blackberry jam
and sweet blackberry love.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Blackberry summer, blackberry Sunday,
Blackberry nipples show through your shirt.
Night rain swollen blackberries hang
from the fence, soft and juicy,
to stain the fingers and tongue.
Two buckets lined with white bakery bags,
we walk through wet grass to the old fence line,
in early morning’s cool air,
buckets swinging, hand in hand.
A few sacrificed to taste,
you bite our first victim and feed me half,
blackberry sugar fills my mouth,
sweeter for being crushed by your lips.

Briars bent by their fruit yield a bucket full
before blackberry clouds chase the sun
from a blue summer sky and a cold thunderstorm wind
finds us in the old hay barn, sitting in the loft door
listening to the cloud’s shadow
dance and clatter across the roof.
Desperate dust devils scour the pasture
for damp leaves and sticks.
The sun hides in thunderstorm twilight.
Silver dollar rain drops drum on the tin roof.
and the chilled air raises goose flesh on your thighs,
lying in the hay, straw catching in your hair.



Tin rumbles under waves of rain,
timbers groan under the weight,
covering the moan deep in my chest.
I inhale the electric air surrounding you.
Flash and cannon fire lightning
paints you marble white
against white hay in a bleached world,
Color returns to all but your face,
closed eyes and open mouth
sucking air for a heaving breast
White knuckles wrapped in my shirt
pull me over you for cover
and shield from the next bolt.

What comfort can I offer except
good company in our incineration
and blackberries, hand fed to a trembling tongue.
like a pin feathered hatchling in our straw nest.
Let the blood return to your cheeks
and your heart quit pounding like the rain on the roof.
The day will outlive the storm
and we are safe in our loft
to plan a summer afternoon
to wash blackberries for making
blackberry pie and blackberry jam
and sweet blackberry love.

Fabulous and I can just taste those blackberries! Hope you've got more to share Bron.