...because my Father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all

to my father, WFD,

what an extaordinary wonder it is to be loved by him

lines from
my father moved through dooms of love

# 34 by E.E. Cummings

God's World

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!
Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart. Lord, I do fear
Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year.
My soul is all but out of me, let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Would you?

What if I wanted to love you?

Would you let me?

Would you let me in-

your soul, your heart, your body.

What would it be like?

This place.

Inside. In love?

Would we read by candle light

Each trembling secret of ourselves?

Would you let me find the dark,

Would you lead me to the light?

If I needed you to hold me,

To touch me,

And be inside me;

Would you let me?

Would you let me love you?

I don't think you would.

But I still see you,

In all your beauty;

as a man,

as a friend,

as a bright and whirling star,

with its tail burning at both ends.

And maybe that's the best love we could have.

Because would I?

Would I let you.

Would I let you, love me, too?

To Her Who Passes

Her footsteps fall in silent sands;
Her hands are cool like growing leaves;
The fingers of her hovering hands
Touch lightly, pass; and time bereaves
The benison of her caress
Of peace, or pain, or bitterness.

The kisses of her mouth like dew
Rain gently down; if she has sinned,
That she had sinned she never knew;
Lightly she walks upon the wind,
And like the wind she leaves no trace
Upon the quiet of this place.

Maurice Browne

He stood back.

I didn’t know,
I saw it coming.
Until it came.

He called less and less.
And when he did call—
I could feel the detachment:
The little emotional battlement,
Resurrected, as protection.

He would retreat to that inner place
That place where all he heard,
Were the vacant cries of a broken heart,
The hallow bellows of taunting devils.
He must protect that darkness from the light.

He closed himself in—
A hermit with only the voices:
Of dread,
Of doubt,
Of hurt,
And addiction.

The damn broke.

It got too hard.
This making it on his own.

He was Atlas, but no god.

The last place to find help, the phone,
Only more voices there.
Would those outside voices help?
Or could they talk him bloody, too?

Just need to make these roiling voices stop.
Just need to make this ache, this hurt stop.
Just need to make the roaring loneliness stop.
Just need… for just a while.

And so—
Let cups of ferment flow.
Let little drops of sleep swallow.
Let tomorrow be a long way off.

Little one,
There are voices here that care for you.
There is a voice right here shouting,
“I love you!”

More than words, or miles can tell.
There are people, yes only people, here;
People who want to love you.
Who want to tell you they love you.

People who've heard those voices inside,
People who've beaten those voices,
Who want to help you beat them too.

Little one,
There are voices here that care for you.
There is a mighty voice—
All around.

A voice that cries out!
With blood and stone and all creation,
A voice that runs red with love for you.
A love that has beaten those dark voices, many times.

That mighty voice is there too, inside of you.
You must believe he is deep in love with you,
And hear with love’s ears that mighty voice calling.

Oh little one,
There are voices here that care for you.

Little one, let us love you!

for my friend

Words for Departure

Nothing was remembered, nothing forgotten.
When we awoke, wagons were passing on the warm summer pavements,
The window-sills were wet from rain in the night,
Birds scattered and settled over chimneypots
As among grotesque trees.

Nothing was accepted, nothing looked beyond.
Slight-voiced bells separated hour from hour,
The afternoon sifted coolness
And people drew together in streets becoming deserted.
There was a moon, and light in a shop-front,
And dusk falling like precipitous water.

Hand clasped hand
Forehead still bowed to forehead –
Nothing was lost, nothing possessed
There was no gift nor denial.

I have remembered you.
You were not the town visited once,
Nor the road falling behind running feet.

You were as awkward as flesh
And lighter than frost or ashes.

You were the rind,
And the white-juiced apple,
The song, and the words waiting for music.

You have learned the beginning;
Go from mine to the other.

Be together; eat, dance, despair,
Sleep, be threatened, endure.
You will know the way of that.

But at the end, be insolent;
Be absurd – strike the thing short off;
Be mad – only do not let talk
Wear the bloom from silence.

And go away without fire or lantern
Let there be some uncertainty about your departure.

Louise Bogan

Betrothed

You have put your two hands upon me, and your mouth,
You have said my name as a prayer.
Here where trees are planted by the water
I have watched your eyes, cleansed from regret,
And your lips, closed over all that love cannot say,

My mother remembers the agony of her womb
And long years that seemed to promise more than this.
She says, "You do not love me,
You do not want me,
You will go away."

In the country whereto I go
I shall not see the face of my friend
Nor her hair the color of sunburnt grasses;
Together we shall not find
The land on whose hills bends the new moon
In air traversed of birds.

What have I thought of love?
I have said, "It is beauty and sorrow."
I have thought that it would bring me lost delights, and splendor
As a wind out of old time . . .

But there is only the evening here,
And the sound of willows
Now and again dipping their long oval leaves in the water.

Louise Bogan