Poetry and love, two good things that go great together. But first, the National Book Foundation has their poetry blog up and going today and the first essay is about William Carlos Williams.

And now for two different kinds of love poems. One a bit more traditional, the other, not so much.

I am a light you could read by
by Marge Piercy

A flame from each finger,
my hands are candelabra,
my hair stands in a torch.
Out of my mouth a long flame hovers.
Can’t anyone see, handing me a newspaper?
Can’t anyone see, stamping my book overdue?
I walk blazing along Sixth Avenue,
burning gas blue I buy subway tokens,
a bouquet of coals, I cross the bridge.
Invisible I singe strangers and pass.
Now I am on your street.
How your window flickers.
I come bringing my burning body
like an armful of tigerlilies,
like a votive lantern,
like a roomful of tassels and leopards and grapes
for you to come into,
dance in my burning
and we will flare up together like stars
and fall to sleep.

The above poem is from Hard Loving.

Happiness
by Mary Oliver

In the afternoon I watched
the she-bear; she was looking
for the secret bin of sweetness–
honey, that the bees store
in the trees’ soft caves.
Black block of gloom, she climbed down
tree after tree and shuffled on
through the woods. And then
she found it! The honey-house deep
as heartwood, and dipped into it
among the swarming bees–honey and comb
she lipped and tongued and scooped out
in her black nails, until

maybe she grew full, or sleepy, or maybe
a little drunk, and sticky
down the rugs of her arms,
and began to hum and sway.
I saw her let go of the branches,
I saw her lift her honeyed muzzle
into the leaves, and her thick arms,
as though she would fly–
an enormous bee
all sweetness and wings–
down into the meadows, the perfection
of honeysuckle and roses and clover–
to float and sleep in the seer nets
swaying from flower to flower
day after shining day.

The above poem is from American Primitive

Happy Valentine’s Day!

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