by Emma Ballantine
Love lived here, one side of this gaping bed,
Cat-like or fist-like curled up into this still-life,
And held her quiet question like a knife,
And placed a loving price upon my head.
Love lived here, one side of this gaping bed,
Cat-like or fist-like curled up into this still-life,
And held her quiet question like a knife,
And placed a loving price upon my head.
Love gave all, love asked all, and wept
A small indignant martyrdom in hope,
Each gift spinning the swinging rope
But how to love was one quiet gift she kept.
A small indignant martyrdom in hope,
Each gift spinning the swinging rope
But how to love was one quiet gift she kept.
Now love lives in all the songs that I have heard,
And reels of film I cannot understand –
How one could place such meaning on a hand
And hang their simple dreams upon word.
And reels of film I cannot understand –
How one could place such meaning on a hand
And hang their simple dreams upon word.
Love stayed and left so swiftly that she seemed
A spiteful simple nightmare dreamed.
Emma Ballantine is a third year English undergraduate who writes when she should be working.
A spiteful simple nightmare dreamed.
Emma Ballantine is a third year English undergraduate who writes when she should be working.
The Pygmy Giant 
#1 by Mel on January 2, 2008 - 10:36 pm
I for one think this is be-autiful. Good work.
#2 by Daniel on January 5, 2008 - 2:03 am
This is a really good poem and reminds me of Thomas Milton, I personally find to get the full benefit it’s better to actually speak it aloud. Love it.