Somewhere

somewhere i have never traveled,
gladly beyond any experience,
your eyes have their silence;
in your most frail gesture,
are things which enclose me;
or which i cannot touch,
because they are too near-
your slightlest look,
easily will unclose me.
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you can open always,
petal by petal myself,
as Spring opens
touching skillfully, mysteriously
her first rose.
or if your wish be to close me,
i and my life,
will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower
imagines
the snow carefully 
everywhere descending;
nothing which we are
to perceive in this world
equals the power
of your intense fragility;
whose textures compels me
with the colour of its countries, 
rendering death  and
forever with each breathing
~  i do not know
what it is about you
that closes and opens;
only somthing in me understands
the  voice of your eyes
is deeper than all roses
~ nobody, not even the rain,
has such small hand

e.e. cummings

J.W.Waterhouse-Lamia

Song

The weight of the world is love.
Under the burden of solitude,
under the burden of dissatisfaction the weight,
the weight we carry is love.

Who can deny?
In dreams it touches the body,
in thought constructs a miracle,
in imagination anguishes till born in human.
looks out of the heart burning with purity
for the burden of life is love,
but we carry the weight wearily,
and so must the rest in the arms of love at last,
must rest in the arms of love.

No rest without love,
no sleep without dreams of love
be mad or chill
obsessed  with angels or machines,
the final wish is love.
cannot be bitter,
cannot deny,
cannot withhold if denied:
the weight is too heavy
must give
for no return
as thought is given
in solitude
in all the excellence of its excesses.

The warm bodies shine together
in the darkness,
the hand moves to the center of the flesh,
the skin trembles in happiness and the soul comes joyful to the eye.
yes, yes,
that's what I wanted,
I always wanted,
I always wanted,
to return to the body
where I was born.

Allen Ginsberg
1954

J.W.Waterhouse-Siren

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