Now the lover feels, when he loves,
Her sweet and breathing body is enough,
Yet, playing the very instrument,
He wonders where her music went.
Her smiles and words of sweetest grace
Now exist in another place.
To love’s rolling, ecstatic eye
Music and words do not apply.
Where is the poet?  Where is the love?
And thoughts?  That once were enough?
Lovers are silent, and in a hurry.
Words are from hurt, and worry.
Words are from sorrow and fear of death,
When limbs are weak and weak, the breath.

But when we sighed in those distant rooms
There was almost joy in those glooms.
When we courted with our words
And sang to each other like birds
Or were silent for hours, hoping with fear,
Love was actually here,
Hoping desperately deception
Was not hidden in love’s’ reception,
There was a joy in this,
That, in hope, was almost bliss.
When I was courting,
My poems did their best reporting;
Oh God! those hopeful sighs
Were almost paradise.
Now that selfish love is gone,
Beautiful thoughts still linger on,
Now words are our greatest friends,
Poems, of sweet beginnings, and even sweeter ends.
We say to ourselves, with a sigh,
“Eventually a word will happen by,
One, by this sweet occasion fit,
And it will be love when I am saying it.”
The thought is what carries us through the life,
Since thoughts are words and a word marries us to a wife.
Words comfort us out of the air
When nothing but heaviness is there.

So when your lover is naked over there,
Remember the words that brought her there.
Remember the thoughts which will clothe her when
She comes back to the world again.


  1. Orphee said,

    February 16, 2012 at 10:33 pm

    Now as a critical reader and writer whoever writes this blog is fun and fine, but what on earth is this drivel?

  2. Orphee said,

    February 16, 2012 at 10:34 pm

    “Now the lover feels, when he loves,
    Her sweet and breathing body is enough,
    Yet, playing the very instrument,
    He wonders where her music went.”

    Utterly predictable, and whoever posted here must know! it’s gotta be a send-up! come on!

    • thomasbrady said,

      February 17, 2012 at 1:57 pm

      Why do I somehow imagine Orphee’s poetry to be something like:

      The toilet seat was the color
      Of my sleeve
      yesterday morning
      as the elephant
      for the meeting’s tale

  3. David said,

    February 17, 2012 at 3:23 pm

    This reading by Tony Hoagland is most notable for its passing mention of a female beast whose “sentiment is sincere”:

    It’s cute. I think that Tom’s poem is more in keeping with the spirit of the day.

  4. David said,

    February 17, 2012 at 5:50 pm

    This one is for Shelley:

    Deep down, Shelley and Mary
    Knew it’s true,
    And Godwin, too.

  5. orpheecd said,

    February 18, 2012 at 8:01 am

    Thomas Brady, I have no pretensions to writing verse. However, I do enjoy stirring the pot and throwing out the shite. Dare I say one can’t express something about a weak and bad poem without some rancorous personal attack?

    By all means you can go ahead and rage and fulminate against what I said about this terrible verse, but without knowing me from a cat’s arse why expend your breath ?

    • thomasbrady said,

      February 19, 2012 at 7:37 pm


      I am not “raging and fulminating” against what you said.

      The term you used in your attack, “utterly predictable,” makes me think you have something against ‘predictability;’ but doesn’t the charm of much poetry and music reside in a certain amount of ‘predictability?’ If we were surprised by every line and every idea, would we even comprehend the poem?


    • drew said,

      March 8, 2014 at 9:10 pm

      ha ha I love it. “stirring the pot and throwing out the shite”

      Thank God we versifiers have decent folk like you around to keep us on the straight and narrow…

  6. drew said,

    March 8, 2014 at 9:03 pm

    I too have loved…and lost.
    Every day is V. day:

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