Her Beauty

Source: Unknown/Favim

I heard them say, “Her hands are hard as stone,”
And I remembered how she laid for me
The road to heaven. They said, “Her hair is grey.”
Then I remembered how she once had thrown
Long plaited strands, like cables, into the sea
I battled in — the salt sea of dismay.
They say, “Her beauty’s past.” And then I wept,
That these, who should have been in love adept,
Against my font of beauty should blaspheme.
And hearing a new music, miss the theme.

~ Max Plowman

Her Beauty

Source: Unknown/Favim

I heard them say, “Her hands are hard as stone,”
And I remembered how she laid for me
The road to heaven. They said, “Her hair is grey.”
Then I remembered how she once had thrown
Long plaited strands, like cables, into the sea
I battled in — the salt sea of dismay.
They say, “Her beauty’s past.” And then I wept,
That these, who should have been in love adept,
Against my font of beauty should blaspheme.
And hearing a new music, miss the theme.

~ Max Plowman

Loss

Source: Unknown/Favim

Such lies have been told about her.
My favorite: ‘when she comes
The blue hand of the sky vanishes.
Hippos storm the sun.
Birds peck furiously at anthills.
Wings wrap tightly against trees.’
But notice how she doesn’t say a word
And sits beside you when
The moments of love have flickered their last.
How she stands beside you when solitude
Has you cornered. Right now she is outside
Rinsing her hair. Later, she’ll use it
To wipe the mirrors of your heart.

~ Abayomi Animashaun

Loss

Source: Unknown/Favim

Such lies have been told about her.
My favorite: ‘when she comes
The blue hand of the sky vanishes.
Hippos storm the sun.
Birds peck furiously at anthills.
Wings wrap tightly against trees.’
But notice how she doesn’t say a word
And sits beside you when
The moments of love have flickered their last.
How she stands beside you when solitude
Has you cornered. Right now she is outside
Rinsing her hair. Later, she’ll use it
To wipe the mirrors of your heart.

~ Abayomi Animashaun

Hymn to Her

Credit: Patricia Ann McNair

Around the parlor, her five cats
sit calm as Buddhas.  Here she

dwells, at home only at home.
Outside the tedious crumble

of brick walls, she becomes
other.  Outside her windows,

spring is becoming its scruffy
self again: I see the flicker

worrying the spruce bark
for its beetle and the black hole

at the center of the galaxy
in the same light—even though

I am not there to catch either—
as I see her, her cats, and her

universe with a sense
of the solitude of each sight.

~ Ron Houchin

Hymn to Her

Credit: Patricia Ann McNair

Around the parlor, her five cats
sit calm as Buddhas.  Here she

dwells, at home only at home.
Outside the tedious crumble

of brick walls, she becomes
other.  Outside her windows,

spring is becoming its scruffy
self again: I see the flicker

worrying the spruce bark
for its beetle and the black hole

at the center of the galaxy
in the same light—even though

I am not there to catch either—
as I see her, her cats, and her

universe with a sense
of the solitude of each sight.

~ Ron Houchin