'I Will Wade Out' by e.e. cummings

i will wade out

                        till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers

I will take the sun in my mouth

and leap into the ripe air

                                       Alive

                                                 with closed eyes

to dash against darkness

                                       in the sleeping curves of my body

Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery

with chasteness of sea-girls

                                            Will i complete the mystery

                                            of my flesh

I will rise

               After a thousand years

lipping

flowers

             And set my teeth in the silver of the moon 

'XVII (I do not love you...)' by Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

'Loving, Writing' by Tom Pow

If your love was true
and you lose it, what have you lost?
Not the act of loving. That's yours.

If your words were true
and you lose them, what have you lost?
Not the act of writing. That's yours too.

In loving, in writing, how can you
hold onto a finished thing? Whether
you lose it or put it beneath glass,

it is the act itself you must cherish.
For what's left when the moment has passed,
the wind will carry. Despite you.


(I was fortunate to spend a week on an Arvon writing course being tutored by poet Tom Pow and novelist Maggie Gee some years ago. A thoughtful and gentle man, and a fine writer, I got in touch with him again recently and filled him in on the story of my life in the thirteen years since that course. He was generous and supportive. I vividly recall him sharing this poem with us on that course)