Oh never weep for love that’s dead
Since love is seldom true
But changes his fashion from blue to red,
From brightest red to blue,
And love was born to an early death
And is so seldom true.
Then harbour no smile on your bonny face
To win the deepest sigh.
The fairest words on truest lips
Pass on and surely die,
And you will stand alone, my dear,
When wintry winds draw nigh.
Sweet, never weep for what cannot be,
For this God has not given.
If the merest dream of love were true
Then, sweet, we should be in heaven,
And this is only earth, my dear,
Where true love is not given.
Lizzie Siddal (date unknown)
Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.
W B Yeats
I do not know who you were,
or when I knew and loved you.
You are not the man I am with now,
but there is an essence of his spirit
that has travelled through time
and rescued me
from some situation
that is lost in years gone by.
This life with you
where we met once again
I am reluctant, cynical and suspicious
and search for the look in your eyes
that won my heart hundreds of years ago.
I cannot see, hear or touch that soul but I feel it.
It was not there when I met you again
but gently over time, I feel him coming
over hills, forests and desert.
And I watch for him.
And I wait.
And I hope he does not arrive too late.
Let me bleed out a moment’s release,
from this contemptible inner peace.
my tears are too clear of midnight ink,
my thoughts are apathetic and indistinct.
I look for omens, cracks in bedroom mirrors,
for owls, magpies – among nests of unfamiliar
I churlishly spread my coquettish legs
seducing any passing stranger’s death.
To be touched – trembled by fingers of grief,
so I can weave a wanton poetic wreath
I call all gods to bring me a sultry storm,
traumas to ride wild into rhythm and form.
I hunger for blood of an illicit lover’s return
to break open my heart, leave me spurned,
filling this barren womb with words
that haven’t been born, read, or heard.
© Katypoetess 2016
They say that the worst kind of grieving
is when the lost antagonist is still alive,
whether sudden as a spring swallow’s dive
or a slow wintered bewilderment in the leaving.
Buried, burnt or butchered cruelly out of heart
that did endure with vexation and veneration,
fear of being alone or guilt of being causation
of their final yield to the wind that blows love apart.
But do we still wish to live in a solitary moratorium,
coveting our fervorous hearts in a slate stone mirth?
© Katypoetess 2016
We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.
I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.
Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.
I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.
Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?
The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.
Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.
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I amble amongst the snake trail
of crowds and loud streets
of consumer rights and political fights.
Then he came and asked me
whether I had any faith at all
and I shook my head in a lie
while he thrust a pamphlet
of salvation into my hands.
And he said “Are you religious
as I am not and never was because
it binds you too tight but do try
as you might to turn to God my love.”
And he wished me a happy life
and a good day before he took
shelter in Subway as he was now
more than hungry enough.
Then I turned to a man who
had a plan through Islam
offering me an English copy
of the Quran while the busker
sung and smiled that he was
loving angels instead.
And my ego smiled back
and for that one moment
he was the prophet
that I sought amongst strangers.
Meanwhile, beside the homeless
and tomeless a lady mediates
in the rain for human rights
among the remains and pain
in a city of mistaken identity.
And I cannot hear any sound
of despair above the crowds,
but here in the air the
call to prayer is everywhere.
But paradise never comes.
© Katypoetess 2016
Strange goddess, brown as evening to the sight,
Whose scent is half of musk, half of havanah,
Work of some obi, Faust of the Savanah,
Ebony witch, and daughter of the night.
By far preferred to troth, or drugs, or sleep,
Love vaunts the red elixir of your mouth.
My caravan of longings seeks in drouth
Your eyes, the wells at which my cares drink deep.
Through those black eyes, by which your soul respires,
Pitiless demon! pour less scorching fires.
I am no Styx nine times with flame to wed.
Nor can I turn myself to Proserpine
To break your spell, Megera libertine!
Within the dark inferno of your bed.
Acquire my peace within yourselves
She is nobody’s disciple,
a dither of image and noise,
amongst everybody’s daily causality.
No crowds will gather,
as she looks into the eyes,
that lie tied, and tired in front of her.
She is every colour
of skin, every age, every weather,
every obedience and whim, with no morality.
Dwelling in a magdala
of immortal solitude, amongst
houses of those who murmur against her.
Anointed teachings worn
that her saviour gave to her, more than all,
because, she – woman, was most worthy.
A heroine for faith
and faithless, contemplating salvation,
while drinking penitence from jar of alabaster.
She is subliminal free will
kissing thinning seperatedness
between determinism and uncertainty.
She is veiled opportunity
presenting itself, avoiding the past
that dances between resistance and surrender.
She is echoed resonance
of what might never have been
bestowing golden gifts of serendipity.
Staring at timeless stars,
loving with fear her own prophecy.
An outspoken, softly silent soothsayer.
Seven sacraments set,
yet no one hears her judgement,
that salvation lies in doing, not knowing.
But isolation is her myth.
All Gods and scientists roll dice,
and there is
no straight path
© Katypoetess 2016
*The Gospel of Mary Magdalene 4:1
How well we knew the early moves,
Behind the moonlight and the frost,
The excitement and the gratitude,
There stood how much our meeting owed
To other meetings, other loves.
The decades of a different life
That opened past your inch-close eyes
Belonged to others, lavished, lost;
Nor could I hold you hard enough
To call my years of hunger-strife
Back for your mouth to colonise.
Admitted: and the pain is real.
But when did love not try to change
The world back to itself—no cost,
No past, no people else at all—
Only what meeting made us feel,
So new, and gentle-sharp, and strange?
Late arrival into meeting room.
You scavenge for me amongst
faces you command, commandeer.
I lower my eyes to defend
against bulleted frontline thoughts,
daring an agenda of fantasy.
Sitting opposite. Each others target.
Our kindred spirits embrace
only once throughout the hour.
Quick chatter accompanies slow exits;
you need “a word”, and blend me into
corporate grey carpeted corridor.
Enter. Pussy bowed, lace topped stockings
in boudoir of executive entertainment.
Machiavellian eyes spy femme fatale,
coquettishly stretched across bastion desk,
fetching sweet treat to couple with tea.
Professional advice given, attentive notes
carefully written; keeping hands busy.
Nervously tapping inveigling high heels.
I leave – before emotions get ricocheted
on the office floor like our biscuit crumbs.
From “Of Lilith and Anthony” poetry collection by Katypoetess 2014
I have no life but this,
To lead it here;
Nor any death, but lest
Dispelled from there;
Nor tie to earths to come,
Nor action new,
Except through this extent,
The realm of you.
She whispers an aberration,
with mouthful of soot stained metal.
Pointing out deluded self-doubt,
muzzling lies with targeted fire.
Seizing breath without sound,
at least four Turks and a Russian
With little or no repercussion.
Synapsed heart from sharp to steel.
Drinking shots after taking shots,
murdering time as it flies fast home,
past window of his decamped reality.
For queen and ungracious country.
As he ricochets between
brittle past – hyper-vigilant future,
she holds him shell shocked.
In the here and now.
© Katypoetess 2016
Alas, poor Muse, what ails you so today?
Your hollow eyes with midnight visions burn,
And turn about, in your complexion play
Madness and horror, cold and taciturn.
Green succubus and rosy imp — have they
Poured you both fear and love into one glass?
Or with his tyrant fist the nightmare, say,
Submerged you in some fabulous morass?
I wish that, breathing health, your breast might nourish
Ever robuster thoughts therein to flourish:
And that your Christian blood, in rhythmic flow,
With those old polysyllables would chime,
Where, turn about, reigned Phoebus, sire of rhyme,
And Pan, the lord of harvests long ago.
Charles Baudelaire— Translated by Roy Campbell