Elizabeth Kemball
I have never seen anything more beautiful
than the imprint of your breath on winter’s air
the proof of your life, your presence
spilling out, like smoke or ink in water;
there is nothing more beautiful
than the fact you breathe
and with each breath
love me.
Jenny Robb
Why hold my heart and love so far away?
Brief sparks of joy explode and then are gone.
These winter days of unremitting grey
are bitter images of life where sun
is but a memory. Oh, lover, return
and light shall split the grey. The warmth of love
will thaw my heart and I’ll no longer yearn
for kisses slow, caresses sweet. Above
the sky will break and shine with rainbow light,
reflecting joy that brims and overflows,
‘till barren days and tears that drench the night
are washed away and cleanse the winter snows.
So lover take heed and hasten back to
colour the grey and set my spirit free.
Michael Maul
You walk slowly. I do, too.
But my heart still races
at the thought of
spinning time with you.
Daniel Hinds
For the wedding of Wendy Holliday and Eric Hinds*
For a symbol of love’s endurance
Look to your wedding rings
The continuous, unbroken token
Of love’s lasting life.
That love which banns allow.
Whatever you hold to: complex gods,
Or simple love, each other, or each day
Hold to it today.
When wedding bells ringing
Intermingle with a sadder sound.
I look to my brother,
Writing a quick speech
Gathering a slow wit.
The best man deadpans about bedpans.
I look to my father,
Farther from sorrow than he should be.
I look to a bride,
Nearer to him now, dearer to us.
Today the thing borrowed is time –
Spent prudently, buys an eternity.
The thing blue – scrubs and feelings
Freshened by tears.
And something new – a new last name
And the old first thing: Love.
*I read this poem aloud at the wedding of my father and Wendy Holliday on the 20th of July 2019 at Freeman Hospital in Newcastle, as part of my best man’s speech (a position which I shared with my twin brother). Wendy died of cancer on the 9th of August 2019 and this poem was read again at her funeral, this time by my father.
Wilda Morris
With two repeated lines from A Midsummer Night’s Dream
by William Shakespeare
Cupid is a knavish lad,
mischievous as any child
thus to make poor females mad.
When he shoots a great dyad,
wound and flame are reconciled.
Cupid is a knavish lad,
playful is he, more than bad—
or so you think when you’re beguiled.
Thus to make poor females mad,
he winks his eye and plays the cad,
lets his arrows fly off wild.
Cupid is a knavish lad.
When men think that love’s a fad,
they play tricks on those who smiled
thus to make poor females mad.
Oft his arrows still go bad.
Many heartaches he’s compiled.
Cupid is a knavish lad
thus to make poor females mad.
Carl Alexandersson
‘I think I’m in love with you…’
that is what the text says
all written out but
still unsent
as my thumb is hovering
above the arrow
to send
said text
for context
it is a Friday night
2 am
and I’ve had a glass of rosé
I’ve had two glasses
of rosé
I’ve had
enough.
glasses. of. rosé.
and we all know where this is going
don’t we?
we can collectively
agree
that this text is probably
a bad idea
but
I’m thinking about you
right now
you are the only coherent thing in my
mind
right now
and I need you
to know
that even when my entire world is
spinning, you are solid ground
to me
a safe place
to land
for me;
you are my rock
my paper and my scissors
with you
we both win
there is no competition
among the two of us
that is, my friends
are currently competing
for my attention
but
my face is glued to my phone
my usual three second attention span
somehow
disabled
somehow
you are everything that matters to me
right now
and it’s crazy
because I never planned on falling for
you; you
are my best friend—
and somehow
my life
is now a Netflix un-original series
where a guy falls in love
with his best friend
(and I guess
that it isn’t really that crazy
of a concept
but it still caught me
off guard
okay??)
my friends say
that we’re leaving for
the club
and I am forced out
of my bubble, I stumble
to my feet
still staring
at my phone; unable
to make a decision
you know
how sometimes
the smallest decision
turns out to make the biggest difference
but you can only ever know that
looking back
and never in the moment?
this moment
could be
fleeting
and you wouldn’t even
know it
we’re in the street
suddenly, my friends and I
walking
(if you can call it that)
towards the club
my face still glued to my phone
barely looking
up
isn’t it weird
how sometimes
you stop
and look
around
and realize
you can’t
quite
figure
out
how
you got to
where
you are.
in life
I mean;
I never imagined
myself in love
with you
yet
here we are
and
my drunk brain
tells me
that I need you
to tell
you
right this second
before it’s too late
before someone else sends a drunk text
confessing their love
for you
at 2 am
and I am
caving
in
this entire situation
is like
an essay due in less than 24 hours
that I only just started
in that
I don’t want to rush things
with you
but I don’t know how
to take things
slow
I need you
to know
and
so
I
press
send
.
.
.
and I
immediately try
to will the text to unsend
itself
but the damage
is done; the friendship
is ruined
(and I know
that I’m being dramatic
but I’ve had way too much rosé
so let me
have my moment)
it is not every day
that you confess
your love
for someone
why don’t we do that
more often?
why does this have to feel
like
such a big deal?
does it really have to be?
and
why does it have to be
2 am
for me to ask myself
these questions?
there is no
answer
and so I shove the phone
in my pocket
and take a few quick
steps to catch
up
with my friends
no matter what
happens
I am proud
that I told you
and I might regret this
in the morning
(almost certainly)
but that
is not
the issue for the moment
and in this moment
everything
is out
in
the open
there is
nothing
holding
me
down
anymore.
I am currently
floating
along the street
towards the club
with my friends
and we’re all
bubbly and cheery
and the possibilities
are endless
and I realize
that
I have never felt
more alive
than tonight.
Lauren Boisvert
I told you I was writing love poems
and you said oh no
like you knew they’d be about you;
I could’ve been writing
about the impeccable love
between cat and person
but instead, yes, I wrote about you
am currently writing about talking about writing
about you.
There’s some psychology about that somewhere
I’m sure:
Freud or Rilke or the great philosopher Siken.
Writing about writing
about someone you love
is a shallow act
like an old prospector panning for gold
praying for that little nugget of pure inspiration
an angel’s tear
unearthed from water
this poem is neither tear nor nugget
but something unpolished and raw
an unrefined wisdom on a shelf at the Goodwill
dusted off and taken home
with someone who collects neither nuggets nor tears
but cyclical renderings
of words and fat
a richness like a snake eating its own tail
and enjoying it.
I hold your cheek to mine
and I feel like I’m looking at the base of a globe
the light-up one I had as a child
suffused blue light and multicolored countries
I traced them all in marker
like I trace my fingernails along your back now
staring into that light
white Antarctica blazing in it’s frigid shell.
Kim Malinowski
Lying on our stomachs we suck strawberries,
dabbing them in sugar, grasping them,
as plump lips bite.
Each granule of sweet,
a promise.
Forever lazy sunshine, park picknicks,
fresh mown grass.
Sticky fingers caress cheeks,
slide along collar bones.
Strawberries promise love
even with age,
with fever.
We vow forever,
both tart and sweet.
Marcelle Newbold
your shining light that cannot be hidden,
your curves and dimples that are just for me,
your perfect fit.
I love the way you melt, to my pleasure,
that delicious craving,
the promise careful undressing brings.
Ode to Ferrero Rocher
Anna Teresa Slater
Everyone always told me what love would look like.
How love would sashay in through a hollow in the trees.
Everyone made fairy sighs, declaiming how candy-yellow butterflies
would swarm or hover above my chair before swooping in.
How it might bid me hello like a warm pixie’s shudder.
How I’d be under a spell, floating in sparkly air, how I’ll just know
when love is there and they were right but why is it that no one
ever told me how to make love stay when it pointed the other way?
How not to stumble on the steps after the midnight hour.
No one told me that love could bite. Love needs to bare it all, ogre and claw.
I don’t mean to go on like this but love needs to uncover its flaws.
Let me have tea with the brewing witches beneath the flowers,
so that when love arrives again, whether love slays a giant or reverts to frog,
I will be queen of my tower, a master of hearts, vulnerable but armed.