Love

My little Children are a Joy, a Love,
A good Gift from above!
But what is Bliss, that still calls up a Woe,
And makes it doubly keen
Compelling me to feel, as well as know,
What a most blessed Lot mine might have been,
Those little Angel Children (woe is me!)
There have been hours when feeling how they bind
And pluck out the Wing-feathers of my mind,
Turning my Error to Necessity,
I have half-wish'd they never had been born!
That seldom! but sad Thoughts they always bring,
And like the Poet's Philomel, I sing
My Love-song, with my breast against a Thorn.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge
From Dejection - A Letter

Love

No I don't have worries today,
But great love endures momentum ray,
because when it gets grey,
I trig it with soften jay.

From Khalid Osman's verse of the day!

Love

Answer to a Child’s Question

Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,
The linnet and thrush say, "I love and I love!"
In the winter they’re silent-the wind is so strong;
What it says, I don’t know, but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,
And singing and loving-all come back together.
But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he-
“I love my love, and my love loves me!”
_______
S. T. Coleridge.
Read some bios about him at
http://quotes-and-insights.blogspot.com/2006/06/advice.html

Love

Oh, I have forgotten to mention that some poems are published in Arabic here at http://sudanese-art.blogspot.com but I am going to check archives for those I wrote in English long time ago. In fact I have lost lot of them in the long escape. The escape itself has been a motive to write such poetry.

I hate dictatorship.

Love

Amours des feintes

Amours des feintes
des faux-semblants
Infante défunte
se pavanant
cartes en quintes
s'édifiant
le palais d´un pince
catalan
Amours des feintes
Seul un candélabre scintille au vent
où l´on emprunte
des sentiments
le labyrinthe obsédant
Et comme si de rein n´était
on joue à l´émotion
Entre un automne et un été
mensonge par omission
Etrange crainte
en écoutant
les douces plaintes du vent
Amours des feintes
au présent et l´on s´éreinte
hors du temps
et pourtant maintes
fois l´on tend
a se maintenir longtemps

Jane Birkin