©Bob Litton 2013
It pleases me that other men
see no being through my eyes;
for that gives hope to you and me —
a truer love will find us hereabouts.
You know how the magazines
always present les hautes femmes
all uniform, of eyes severe
and globular lips, as though they
were what a lover of modern taste
most wants to awaken to come morn —
heedless of what he lured to bed.
Other men have less prejudiced eyes —
(of course, so do other women, too) —
which marvels me to scan such field
and find the lard with the rind
together enveloped in a hug;
glimpse the pimple-cheeked lass
who’s kissed by the flat-nosed lad;
the girl whose beauty is unsurpassed
except for her strong, peasant’s hands —
broad-fingered, like a crab’s strong claws;
the thin young man with hardly any chin,
stuttering out his heart’s proposal
to a miss with hair dyed purple,
a rhinestone pin puncturing her lip.
Ah, benign Humanity’s Eye,
how graciously blind you are!
Aesthetic of spurning
©Bob Litton 1964
My darling loved Bach fugues
as much as the leitmotivs of Wagner
or burgundy that sparkled
among cubes of ice
in musical glasses.
Yet did the dearest one spurn me —
I, who could have loved beyond Love’s horizon —
and all the arts of the world
existed for but our sharing.
What proves I am civilized is I’ve loved only once;
but it did not become eternal.
There were established boundaries.
The ecstasy of foreign climes could not be admitted,
so Love is a dry leaf now;
and all the despondent waters
to their sanctum
of a purple ocean.
Hope of love eternal
©Bob Litton 1962
I take your hand.
See how the fingers spread and cling,
longing for the intertwining,
then relaxing in my palm.
Remember when they were cold in November,
before Love warmed them.
“Vanity of vanities,” says the Preacher, “All is vanity!”
And our time to love came as it did for all others.
Will the sun, then, also rise again;
or shall this setting mark something new?
And, if at that moment we are bound together,
there will have been a beginning.