As if I have eaten fire

Today I feel as if I have eaten fire.

I have never been so alive.

I need not move. I sit and think:

peeling away this poor husk.

Now the keen cloudy voices say:

Listen. We’re trying to find you.

Listen. We think we can see you.

As if I have eaten fire: Alicia Ostriker. Happy Midsummer, everyone.

Vast distances

Vast distances in my heart

I cross all day. I go home at night

and wait for you. Loneliness now

has a shape, a purpose.

I think of train stations, domed

ceilings, pigeons, old houses. Places where time

has been emptied.

Sue Sinclair “Love Poem III”

Blossom and leaves

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I cut in two

A long November night, and

place half under the coverlet,

Sweet-scented as a spring breeze.

And when he comes, I shall take it out,

Unroll it inch by inch to stretch the night.

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Top photo by @amymerrick on Instagram; bottom photo by @misskatyenglish also on Instagram. Poem by Hwang Jini, a 16th century Korean courtesan.

And you are welcome, welcome

Come when the nights are bright with stars

Or come when the moon is mellow;

Come when the sun his golden bars

Drops on the hay-field yellow.

Come in the twilight soft and gray,

Come in the night or in the day,

Come, O Love, whene’er you may,

And you are welcome, welcome.

You are sweet, O Love, dear love,

You are soft as the nesting dove.

Come to my heart and bring it to rest

As the bird flies home to its waiting nest.

Come when my heart is full of grief,

Or come when I am merry;

Come with the falling of the leaf,

Or with the redd’ning cherry.

Come when the year’s first blossom blows,

Come when the summer gleams and glows,

Come with the winter’s drifting snows,

And you are welcome, welcome.

Paul Laurence Dunbar – Invitation to Love

I like that mountain

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I like that mountain in its black pelisse

of fir forests – because

in the gloom of a strange mountain country

I am closer to home.

How should I not know those dense needles,

and how should I not lose my mind

at the mere sight of that peatbog berry,

showing blue along my way?

The higher the dark and damp

trails twist upward, the clearer

grow the tokens, treasured since childhood,

of my northern plain.

Shall we not climb thus

the slopes of paradise, at the hour of death,

meeting all the loved things

that in life elevated us?

Nabokov