UKArchive ID: 35199prospero
Originally published on July 13, 2015 in Poetry
A very old love poem from February 1971
Sadly watching the complex pattern of Tyneside lights
Scatter over Durham's hills
I think of you.
Scotswood Bridge and the river
Slip beneath the train’s relentless rhythm;
Our separation grows;
Already the Tyne lies between us,
Its waters vaster than
All my efforts of five days
And darker than they seem
Seen by the orange lamplight
Blinking out of its inky depths.
With you the the night is a jewel of delight,
A vivid ecstasy of joy,
Mysterious, deep beyond thought,
Climbing to an atmosphere so
Rarefied, so clear that breathing is an act of pure being.
Without you the intermittent stars
Are sharp points of pain
Reaching from beyond time
To pierce my mind with their poignant beauty;
The hours are but hours
Filled by long minutes, pebbled with seconds.
I love you
Long for you
I want to be with you between the warm sheets of our bed
And more I want to be forever
Between the warm blankets of your love,
To be touching eternally the soft silk of your mind,
To be fused inextricably with your pure spirit
And fly without effort above the
Meaninglessness of never ending time
Into the dream of all being, all knowing and all love.
The train speeds swiftly through the dark night
That is yet so much lighter,
So much brighter
Than the knowledge of your absence.
Archived comments for Carlisle Train
Savvi on 13-07-2015
Loved the opening stanza, so atmospheric, sorry but hated the mush of S2, liked S3 except for the mush of line 11 and you have a great close, I can just see you penning this with long hair side burns and flares, please take it to the Corin custom shop, S1 deserves less mush 🙂 Best Keith
Thank you Keith for those perceptive comments with which I agree. However with poems as old as this I don’t feel that I have the right to edit them except for typos etc. as I am no longer the poet that wrote them. In any case there was a an edited version that I gave to my wife to be in 1971 but she did not keep it or else lost it!
Gothicman on 15-07-2015
A fine poem. Written from a strong emotional base. I do hope you haven't lost lost your romantic pen entirely with the ravenous years, although, this level of enthusiasm belongs to youth!
Thank you Trevor, No I can still turn out the Mush if I have to. What do you think of this? :-
A Sonnet to my Mistress' Eyebrows
June 12th 2008
My mistress' eyebrows do excel all parts
Because they frame her dark alluring eyes
That fired into my heart love's sharp darts
And made of me her all too willing prize.
Those arches do so well adorn her face,
Meeting just above a well wrought nose,
That, even hid behind a veil of lace,
Each eye assumes the aspect of a rose.
Brows echo and reflect her lovely lips -
As red as poppies that first bloom in June -
As full as Autumn's orange-red rose hips,
Till all her face sings one harmonious tune.
Then let not Mr Shakespeare mock the lover
Who praises eyebrows and the parts they cover.
It was inspired by this from "All’s Well That Ends Well’ by Shakespeare:-
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
I was actually paid for this sonnet £100!!
Savvi on 15-07-2015
Dave you are spot on, my apologies, not sure what I was thinking. Why on earth would you change something that is of the moment and snap shot of your past, it should be treasured for what it is and thank you for sharing it. And thank you for making me realise this. Best Keith
Mikeverdi on 15-07-2015
For me it read well. It came from the hart not the brain. I believe this is where love poetry should come from. To compose the words without having been through the turmoil would be writing blind. We can always fiddle and fuss, but in the end if its what we felt at the time....
See you in Bristol:-)