My true love hath my heart and I have hers
We swapped last Tuesday and felt quite elated
But now whenever one of us refers
To 'my heart' things get rather complicated.
In April one seldom feels cheerful;
Dry stones, sun and dust make me fearful;
Clairvoyants distress me,
Commuters depress me—
Met Stetson and gave him an earful.
Two Cures for Love
- Don't see him. Don't phone or write a letter.
- The easy way: get to know him better.
Giving Up Smoking
There's not a Shakespeare sonnet
Or a Beethoven quartet
That's easier to like than you
Or harder to forget.
You think that sounds extravagant?
I haven't finished yet --
I like you more than I would like
To have a cigarette.
I've stumbled across a few poems about cigarettes that I've enjoyed. Discovered this in 2009, first year of university. In hindsight I see that this is yet another of the poems I have collected about love, or lost love particularly - which as of now, I am going to try and move away from. I have spoken to a couple of people, who, as non smokers, have spoken of either the disgust or the thrill of kissing a smoker. I discovered, around this time that I was in the latter of these categories...
After you left,
your cigarette glowed on in my ashtray
and sent up a long thread of such quiet grey
I smiled to wonder who would believe its signal
of so much love. One cigarette
in the non-smoker's tray.
As the last spire
trembles up, a sudden draught
blows it winding into my face.
Is it smell, is it taste?
You are here again, and I am drunk on your tobacco lips.
Out with the light.
Let the smoke lie back in the dark.
Till I hear the very ash
sigh down among the flowers of brass
I'll breathe, and long past midnight, your last kiss.