Category: Poets

The Life That I Have

Despair, photo by JMorton

The Life That I Have

The Life That I Have (sometimes referred to as Yours) is a short poem written by Leo Marks and used as a poem code in the Second World War.
The life that I have
Is all that I have
And the life that I have
Is yours.
The love that I have
Of the life that I have
Is yours and yours and yours.
A sleep I shall have
A rest I shall have
Yet death will be but a pause.
For the peace of my years
In the long green grass
Will be yours and yours and yours.

Peter told me to add this poem into the blog.  He said I would like it.  He is partly right because I more than like it, I love it.

The poem is about Love Eternal.  It is beyond love every waking moments, its goes on until and after death.  Isn’t that just the most romantic thing ever 🙂 !!!

But romance aside, the poem apparently was used to send code during WWII.  A message is encrypted within the poetry itself.  This short poem was sent by Leo Marks to a French agent, Violette Szabo, who was ultimately captured, tortured and murdered by the Nazi (not because of the poem!).  A film was made about Violette Szabo called Carve Her Name With Pride, where the poem was included but undergone an artistic licence, as Hollywood would often do.  In the film the poem was supposed to have been written for her by her husband, Etienne.

You Are Christ’s Hand

Christ of St John of the Cross

You Are Christ’s Hand

Christ has no body now on earth but yours,

 no hands but yours,

 no feet but yours,

Yours are the eyes through which is to look out

 Christ’s compassion to the world

Yours are the feet with which he is to go about doing good;

Yours are the hands with which he is to bless men now.

    – Saint Teresa of Avila
    This is such a beautiful message from St Teresa.  We are God’s representative on Earth.  Unfortunately in my case, I might not be worthy, I being all too human. 🙁

Time does not bring relief…” – A Sonnet

This is such a sad poem by the Pulitzer Prize winner, Edna St Vincent Millay. It does evoke such a keen feeling of sorrow.

In not so many words, Edna was able to picture to us what it would be like to lose your other half or even someone you love or close to your heart.

It was so poignant the ways she said that time does not heal or let you forget. Probably a part of you dies with him.

She also said that you will remember him in all the places you were together, in every thing you did together. You will also think of all the things that he used to do including those things that used to vex you. You would then regret not being more tolerant! LOL

She also said that it was even sadder to do new things without him…There probably a feeling of guilt and regret that you can do things alone and you will remember him all over again!

This is really so sad. I don’t want to be ever without my Peter.

By the way, according to findings/surveys, widows fare better than widowers later on in life!




Time does not bring relief; you all have lied

Who told me time would ease me of my pain!

I miss him in the weeping of the rain;

I want him at the shrinking of the tide;

The old snows melt from every mountain-side,

And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;

But last year’s bitter loving must remain

Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!

There are a hundred places where I fear

To go,–so with his memory they brim!

And entering with relief some quiet place

Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say,

“There is no memory of him here!”

And so stand stricken, so remembering him!

– Edna St Vincent Millay
(February 22, 1892 – October 19, 1950) was an American lyrical poet and playwright

Celebrated Contretemps

Pen is not only mightier than a sword, it can oftentimes be bitchier.

Some quotes follows below of how authors, novelists and poets think of each other. It makes fascinating reading.


Celebrated Contretemps

Any library is a good library that does not contain a volume by Jane Austen.
– Mark Twain

“If Mr. Clemens (Mark Twain) cannot think of something better to tell our pure-minded lads and lasses,he had best stop writing for them.” (concerning Twain’s Huckleberry Finn)
– Louisa May Alcott

People will accept your ideas much more readily if you tell them Benjamin Franklin said it first.
– David H Comins

Legend has it that Gioachino Rossinoi (of The Barber of Seville) was passionate about food.  He had a recipe for macaroni that was so divine that it rivaled his glorious music.  Alexander Dumas, who spent the later days of his life compiling the ultimate recipe book, heard of Rossini’s macaroni.  He asked Rossini if he could include the recipe for the macaroni in his book.  Rossini invited Dumas to his house.  Rossini made a great effort to make the macaroni even better than perfect.  But when Dumas arrived he said he never ate macaroni and was only after the recipe.  Rossini was not impressed and refused to give Dumas the macaroni recipe.  Sadly the recipe is lost for posterity.

On A Night Of The Full Moon

full moonOn a Night of the Full Moon

Out of my flesh that hungers
and my mouth that knows
comes the shape I am seeking
for reason.
The curve of your waiting body
fits my waiting hand
your breasts warm as sunlight
your lips quick as young birds
between your thighs the sweet
sharp taste of limes.
Thus I hold you
frank in my heart’s eye
in my skin’s knowing
as my fingers conceive your flesh
I feel your stomach
moving against me.
Before the moon wanes again
we shall come together.
And I would be the moon
spoken over your beckoning flesh
breaking against reservations
beaching thought
my hands at your high tide
over and under inside you
and the passing of hungers
attended, forgotten.
Darkly risen
the moon speaks
my eyes
judging your roundness
– AUDRE LORDE 1934-92

Now What Is Love – Sir Walter Raleigh

Raindroplets, photo by PH Morton

Raindroplets, photo by PH Morton

Now What Is Love – Sir Walter Raleigh

Now what is Love, I pray thee, tell?
It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell;
It is, perhaps, the sauncing bell
That tolls all into heaven or hell;
And this is Love, as I hear tell.

Yet what is Love, I prithee, say?
It is a work on holiday,
It is December matched with May,
When lusty bloods in fresh array
Hear ten months after of the play;
And this is Love, as I hear say.

Yet what is Love, good shepherd, sain?
It is a sunshine mixed with rain,
It is a toothache or like pain,
It is a game where none hath gain;
The lass saith no, yet would full fain;
And this is Love, as I hear sain.

Yet, shepherd, what is Love, I pray?
It is a yes, it is a nay,
A pretty kind of sporting fray,
It is a thing will soon away.
Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may;
And this is Love, as I hear say.

Yet what is Love, good shepherd, show?
A thing that creeps, it cannot go,
A prize that passeth to and fro,
A thing for one, a thing for moe,
And he that proves shall find it so;
And shepherd, this is Love, I trow.

Sir Walter Raleigh