Canto
~ Andrzej Kotański

A man should not spend his life at work
as it’s a sin
God gave us Paris, Venice,
art nouveau architecture, art deco
watches and clocks,
gave us wild strawberries
misty dawns outside of cafés’ windows,
shops,
gave us Thomas Mann and Proust,
and moors of Ireland,
created pool and teenagers,
and a thousand of other things
like waterfalls, Divine Comedy,
cigarettes and poems by Rilke,
streets lined with trees
in the South, American
cars from 1940s,
Mont Blanc pens and guidebooks
to Grenada, and
cognac, gin, whisky and Bordeaux
surely not in order for me
to sit
for eight hours daily
at work
like some wanker.

Cube Farm

Hands
~ Elaine Feinstein

We first recognised each other as if we were siblings,
and when we held hands your touch
made me stupidly happy.

           Hold my hand,  you said in the hospital .

You had big hands, strong hands, gentle
as those of a Mediterranean father
caressing the head of a child.

           Hold my hand , you said.  I feel
           I won't die while you are here.

You took my hand on our first aeroplane
and in opera houses, or watching
a video you wanted me to share.

             Hold my hand, you said. I'll fall asleep
             and won't even know you're not there.

The Nude Swim
~ Anne Sexton

Water so clear you could

read a book through it.

Water so buoyant you could

float on your elbow.

I lay on it as on a divan.

I lay on it just like

Matisse’s Red Odalisque.

Water was my strange flower,

one must picture a woman

without a toga or a scarf

on a couch as deep as a tomb.

The walls of that grotto

were everycolor blue and

you said, ‘Look! Your eyes

are seacolor. Look! Your eyes

are skycolor.’ And my eyes

shut down as if they were

suddenly ashamed.

Blue Sea and Sky

Mon Semblable
~ Stephen Dunn

I like things my way
every chance I get.
A limit doesn’t exist

when it comes to that.
But please, don’t confuse
what I say with honesty.

Isn’t honesty the open yawn
the unimaginable love
more than truth?

Anonymous among strangers
I look for those
with hidden wings,

and for scars
that those who once had wings
can’t hide.

Though I know it’s unfair,
I reveal myself
one mask at a time.

Does this appeal to you,
such slow disclosures,
a lifetime perhaps

of almost knowing one another?
I would hope you, too,
would hold something back,

and that you’d always want
whatever unequal share
you had style enough to get.

Altruism is for those
who can’t endure their desires.
There’s a world

as ambiguous as a moan,
a pleasure moan
our earnest neighbors

might think a crime.
It’s where we could live.
I’ll say I love you,

which will lead, of course,
to disappointment,
but those words unsaid

poison every next moment.
I will try to disappoint you
better than anyone ever has.

Masked Lovers at Venice Carnival

My Own Dark Head
~ Anonymous, Ireland, c.1600

My own dark head (my own, my own)
your soft pale arm place here about me.
Honeymouth that smells of thyme
he would have no heart who denied you love.

There are girls in the town vexed enraged and vexed,
they tear and loosen their hair on the wind
for the dashingest man in this place—myself!
But I’d leave them all for my secret heart.

Lay your head, my own (my own, my own)
your head, my own, lay it here upon me.
Honeymouth that smells of thyme
he would have no heart who denied you love.

The Head Of A Nymph – Sophie Anderson