By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together in their sleep will defeat the darkness.

– Pablo Neruda

Always one of my favourite poems…

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

– William Butler Yeats

Pablo Neruda – XVII: One of my favourite poems

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

that this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Writing Prompt: When the rose is dead

I was flicking through one of my journals, re-reading the entries and placing myself back in the memories that inspired me to record them within the book’s pages. Near the back of the journal I found a pressed rose, yellow, the colour of friendship.

I recalled a poem that I read 20 years ago.  I might have been touched with the words, but at the time was too young to appreciate what they meant. Although there is reference to love, to me,  it is more about memory and although the physical may whither, the memories stay with you, they have permanence in your thoughts.

Personally, I live to make new experience with the people I love, but replay those moments that have made me happy, whether they were 20 years ago, last month, or this morning. There are some thoughts, sights or even scents that can send my heart racing. Read this, and write down what it reminds you of. What do you feel when you read this?


Music, when soft voices die

Music, when soft voices die,

Vibrates in the memory;

Odours, when sweet violets sicken,

Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,

Are heap’d for the belovèd’s bed;

And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,

Love itself shall slumber on.

– Percy Bysshe Shelley

Poem for the day

The Pity of Love

A pity beyond all telling

Is hid in the heart of love:

The folk who are buying and selling,

The clouds on their journey above,

The cold wet winds ever blowing,

And the shadowy hazel grove

Where mouse-grey waters are flowing,

Threaten the head that I love.

– W. B. Yeats

Poem for the day

William Shakespeare – Sonnet #147

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease;
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve,
Desire his death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,
At random from the truth vainly express’d;

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

Poem for the day


by: Charles Baudelaire

    • AN we suppress the old Remorse
      Who bends our heart beneath his stroke,
      Who feeds, as worms feed on the corse,
      Or as the acorn on the oak?
      Can we suppress the old Remorse?
      Ah, in what philtre, wine, or spell,
      May we drown this our ancient foe,
      Destructive glutton, gorging well,
      Patient as the ants, and slow?
      What wine, what philtre, or what spell?
      Tell it, enchantress, if you can,
      Tell me, with anguish overcast,
      Wounded, as a dying man,
      Beneath the swift hoofs hurrying past.
      Tell it, enchantress, if you can,
      To him the wolf already tears
      Who sees the carrion pinions wave,
      This broken warrior who despairs
      To have a cross above his grave–
      This wretch the wolf already tears.
      Can one illume a leaden sky,
      Or tear apart the shadowy veil
      Thicker than pitch, no star on high,
      Not one funereal glimmer pale
      Can one illume a leaden sky?
      Hope lit the windows of the Inn,
      But now that shining flame is dead;
      And how shall martyred pilgrims win
      Along the moonless road they tread?
      Satan has darkened all the Inn!
      Witch, do you love accursèd hearts?
      Say, do you know, the reprobate?
      Know you Remorse, whose venomed darts
      Make souls the targets of their hate?
      Witch, do you know accursèd hearts?
      The Might-have-been with tooth accursed
      Gnaws at the piteous souls of men,
      The deep foundations suffer first,
      And all the structure crumbles then
      Beneath the bitter tooth accursed.
      Often, when seated at the play,
      And sonorous music lights the stage,
      I see the frail hand of a Fay
      With magic dawn illume the rage
      Of the dark sky. Oft at the play
      A being made of gauze and fire
      Casts to the earth a Demon great.
      And my heart, whence all hopes expire,
      Is like a stage where I await,
      In vain, the Fay with wings of fire!

Poem: Sonnet 17, Pablo Neruda (my favourite)

Sonnet 17

I don’t love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

-Pablo Neruda

Poem for the day

by William Morris

O love, turn from the unchanging sea, and gaze
Down these grey slopes upon the year grown old,
A-dying mid the autumn-scented haze,
That hangeth o’er the hollow in the wold,
Where the wind-bitten ancient elms infold
Grey church, long barn, orchard, and red-roofed stead,
Wrought in dead days for men a long while dead.

…Come down, O love; may not our hands still meet,
Since still we live to-day, forgetting June,
Forgetting May, deeming October sweet–
–O hearken, hearken! through the afternoon,
The grey tower sings a strange old tinkling tune!
Sweet, sweet, and sad, the toiling year’s last breath,
Too satiate of life to strive with death.

…And we too–will it not be soft and kind,
That rest from life, from patience and from pain,
That rest from bliss we know not when we find,
That rest from Love which ne’er the end can gain?–
Hark, how the tune swells, that erewhile did wane!
Look up, love!–ah, cling close and never move!
How can I have enough of life and love?

Poem for the day: My True Love Has My Heart, Philip Sidney

My true-love hath my heart and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given;
I hold his dear and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a better bargain driven.
My true-love hath my heart and I have his,

His heart in me keeps him and me in one;
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart for once it was his own,
I cherish his because in me it bides.
My true-love hath my heart and I have his,

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