Language of Love
By John Thomas Dodds
I don’t have the words to tell you how much
I love you, but this I know: I am not at fault
for trying, for Pablo Neruda, who in the still
of night, with his sonnets, ripped the future
words from my mind, giving them to Matilda.
“…when I hold you I hold everything that is-
land, time, the tree of the rain,
everything is alive so that I can be alive:
without moving I can see it all:
in your life I see everything that lives.”
I am bereft of the words to tell you how much
I love you, for that knave Robert Browning,
in the middle of the night, ran off to Paris
with Elizabeth, and plucked the future out of
the very words I could have penned to you NOW.
“You are around me for once, you beneath me, above me-
Me—sure that despite of time future, time past, --
This tick of our life-time’s one moment you love me!
How long such suspension may linger? Ah, Sweet—
The moment eternal—just that and no more—
When ecstasy’s utmost we clutch at the core
While cheeks burn, arms open, eyes shut and lips meet!”
I cannot find the words to tell you how much
I love you, for Walter Rinder’s Spectrum of Love,
deftly captured the thoughts penned up inside of me,
and in the silence of the night left me speechless.
“When I touch you, / or kiss you, / or hold you, /
I am saying / a thousand words.”
Even to this day, this hour, I can only repeat
what has been said; therein lies the beauty of words,
like sunsets, never the same, and blossoms
erupting in beauty over and over again,
and the very scent of you, a breath of color
in moonlight, the sound of my heart
beating to the rhythm of your soul
repeating over and over again,
when lips meet, how much I love you.