Love Letter

 

To L. W.

 

"The girl whose boyfriend starts writing her love poems should be on her guard, perhaps he really does love her, but one thing is certain: while he was writing his poems he was not thinking of her but of his own feelings about her.  --W. H. Auden. Squares & Oblongs,' (1948). The Complete Works of W. H. Auden. Prose: 2.  Edited by Edward Mendelson. (Faber & Faber, 2002). 346.

 

 

The world goes on and on and on in bleak infinitude

Whats then the harm if I express my woes a little?

 

Yes I swore to bear all ordeals at your luscious hands

Let me catch my breath a while now, let me repose a little

 

Never could we rise up to our worth for all to see

Someone had to push us down whenever we rose a little

 

Seems like no one here has ever heard of loyalty

Could I be blamed if the cynic in me shows a little?

 

The moon awakens your memories; the moonlight thinks I love her

It shines in all its splendour when my anguish grows a little

 

If you are about to organize your memories

Juxtapose what is left over, and dispose a little

 

That long awaited moment came fortuitously and went

Our soul became a fireball, the body froze a little

 

Although somehow I will manage to relate this saga

Factually Ill hide a little and expose a little

 

Everyone I know is wealthy, I a mere poet

Study poetry, speak poetry, and compose a little

 

 


 

Loving Feelings

 

By the ponds of apperception beauty sits amiss

Numbed by a know-not number silenced by a kiss

In this season past and pleasant threaten to dissent

We O lunar queen are forced our goings on to pent

Wear O poet! Wear your failures like a fiery rose

Blabber Sapphic ludicrousness, chat in Venus prose*

Rival lovers win and bin the hearts of those we loved

We though Darling still are loyal, you can still be loved

Dawn pangs, bird twitter, dying for a breath

Love seeks not itself to conquer, but to conquer death

 

 

 

* Aphrodite/Venus: Greek goddess of love and beauty, the sea and seafaring and war.  Born in Paphos

Cyprus.  Father was Milo, mother: Dione.  Lived around 1000 BC.  Height: 5 foot 4 inches. Weight: 10 stone 6

pounds.  Bosom: 35 inches.  Hips: 37½ inches.  Said to have been born from the white foam  produced by heavens s

evered genitals after its son Cranus threw them into the ocean. Married a Trojan Shepherd: Anchises and bore him 2 sons,

Aeneas and Adonis (killed by a boar whilst hunting).

 

 

 


Love Is Better Than Wine

 

Don't evade your realm because you think you're weak

Sanctify our hole-and-corner warm white day

Stay and fight the battle with your own physique

 

Go away and pray

 

If I ever pass along your street again

Will you hire your boys to hurl abuse at me?

Can we ever (in the same way) meet again

 

Speaking Silverly?

 

I learn to live with what I've got and just then

Teeming tears of grief, flaccid pain

Tell me what I never had and where and when

 

My eyes can't contain

 

Light enough to know our days won't return

And it feels like I am close to passing out

Now the wings of tiny little angels burn

 

What's love all about?

 

Grace me with your Chardonnay kisses tonight

Scintillating stature in fur coat soused in

Bathed luminosities and glinting light

 

Let our life begin

 

 

 


Attention

 

Is it her? (It cannot be) avert your gaze

That jutted jaw-line and the same bare legs

Do your chink and tangle ugly bits amaze?

My loner moon amongst a crowd of stars begs

 

Words Socratic, words messianic

Your slapdash words go a long way here

Words delivered to prevent a panic

Whispered gently like the doleful air

 

The unconventional is to me conventional

They tied me up last night with his will

Is it conventional to be conventional?

Puddle-jump highways and byways still!

 

 


Burlesque On a Poem by Dylan Thomas

 

If I were pickled by the nub of love

A frigging girl who took me for a ride

Stole through her laws dissevering my estranged sting

Of the bread tickle as the struggle strove

Stole it to catch a giggle from my tongue

I shouldnt bare the battle nor the blood

Nor the glad bud of making

 

Shall it be stale your tale? Say the harbingers

That stalk the mean girls for their ken

I shouldnt bear the butting din of love

If I were skittled by puffed enamours

Searching heartbeat on an oar-edged swerve

I would not fear the null in the groin

Nor the sullen rave

 

Rehan Qayoom

 

Bio:  Rehan Qayoom is a poet of English and Urdu, editor, translator and archivist, educated at Birkbeck College, University of London. He has featured in numerous literary publications and performed his work internationally.  He has published 2 books of poetry and several works of prose.