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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=368651" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>My Love</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">It’s not the lover that we love, but love<br>itself, love as in nothing, as in O;<br>love is the lover’s coin, a coin of no country, <br>hence: the ring; hence: the moon—<br>no wonder that empty circle so often figures <br>in our intimate dark, our skin-trade,<br>that commerce so furious we often think<br>love’s something we share; but we’re always wrong.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When our lover mercifully departs<br>and lets us get back to the business of love again, <br>either we’ll slip it inside us like the host<br>or we’ll beat its gibbous drum that the whole world <br>might know who has it. Which was always more my style:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O the moon’s a bodhran, a skin gong<br>torn from the hide of Capricorn,<br>and many’s the time I’d lift it from its high peg, <br>grip it to my side, tight as a gun,<br>and whip the life out of it, just for the joy<br>of that huge heart under my ribs again.<br>A thousand blows I showered like meteors <br>down on that sweet-spot over Mare Imbrium <br>where I could make it sing its name, over and over. <br>While I have the moon, I cried, no ship will sink, <br>or woman bleed, or man lose his mind—<br>but truth told, I was terrible:<br>the idiot at the session spoiling it,<br>as they say, for everyone.<br>O kings petitioned me to pack it in.<br>The last time, I peeled off my shirt<br>and found a coffee bruise that ran from hip to wrist. <br>Two years passed before a soul could touch me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Even in its lowest coin, it kills us to keep love, <br>kills us to give it away. All of which<br>brings us to Camille Flammarion,<br>signing the flyleaf of his Terres du Ciel<br>for a girl down from the sanatorium,<br>and his remark—the one he couldn’t help but make—<br>on the gorgeous candid pallor of her shoulders; <br>then two years later, unwrapping the same book <br>reinscribed in her clear hand, with my love,<br>and bound in her own lunar vellum.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Don+Paterson">Don Paterson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=368651" data-title="My Love de Don Paterson" data-description="It’s not the lover that we love, but love
itself, love as in nothing, as in O;
love is the lover’s coin, a coin of no country, 
hence: the ring; hence: the moon—
no wonder that empty circle so often figures 
in our intimate dark, our skin-tr..."></div>
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