I Love You And Forgive You By The Way, Just So You Know

Curse of crush on unattainable boy

Poems for a summer day:

Emily Dickinson

(my favourite poet)

A something In a summer's day

Summer shower

Further In summer than the birds

As sleigh bells seem In summer

It can't be "Summer"!

Summer for thee, grant I maybe

It will be Summer - eventually

I taste a liquor never brewed (the best poem ever)

The one who could repeat the summer day

What shall I do when the summer troubles

Ourselves were wed one summer - dear

So much summer

I know a place were summer strives

Would you like summer? Taste of ours.

There came a day at summer's full

Her final summer was it

Twice had summer her fair verdure

The trees like tassel - hit and swung by

John Keats

The Human Seasons

On the grasshopper and cricket

Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a Summer's Day

Over hill, over dale - from A Midsummer Night’s Dream

William Wordsworth

Book Fourth [Summer Vacation]

Daffodils (not about summer, but gives me summer vibes)

The Solitary Reaper (again, not about summer, but gives me summer vibes)

Langston Hughes

Summer Night (not about summer, but brilliant poem)

Pablo Neruda

100 Love Sonnets

Poem XVI

Poem LI

Poem XCII

Charles Baudelaire

L’invitation au voyage

Amalgamation of Poems

(these poems are grouped in amalgamation not because they are in anyway less relevant than the others above, the poems below have not been read by me or had been read long ago.)

Moonlight, Summer Moonlight by Emily Jane Brontë

June by John Updike

Love Song, 31st July by Richard Osmond

Apples by Laurie Lee

Warm Summer Sun by Mark Twain

A Boat Beneath a Sunny Sky by Lewis Carroll

Fireflies in the Garden by Robert Frost

Midsummer, Tobago by Derek Walcott

A Green Thought by Katharine Towers

Adlestrop by Edward Thomas

When we got to the beach by Hollie McNish

Summer Stars by Carl Sandburg

Before Summer Rain by Rainer Maria Rilke

Morningside Heights, July by William Matthews

Miracles by Walt Whitman

Bed in Summer by Robert Louis Stevenson

Summer night, riverside by Sara Teasdale

The Idea of Order at Key West by Wallace Stevens

In Summer by Paul Laurence Dunbar

For once, then, something by Robert Frost

Summer Holiday by Robinson Jeffers

A boy and his dad by Edgar Guest

Long Island Sound by Emma Lazarus

Bath by Amy Lowell

Summer Morn in New Hampshire by Claude McKay

In the Mountains on a Summer day by Li Bai (personal favourite)

Backyard by Carl Sandburg

Idyll by Siegfried Sassoon

If you get there Before I do by Dick Allen

Fishing on the Susquehanna in July by Billy Collins

Indian Summer by Dorothy Parker

Fragment 31 (Jealousy) by Sappho (brilliant poem)

Constantinople by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

Green by Paul Verlaine

From the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyám, quatrain IX

To Natasha by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

[These poems have an aspect of summer and definitely, most of them have addressed deeper issues through the appearance of a beautiful imagery of summer. This has been created from my own reading experience, google websites and recommendations from friends and professors. If you want me to add anything more, leave an ask or comment. Enjoy these beautiful poems and no hate please.]

Mood of The Night

listen. that feeling where you have a cold or something and suddenly your nose is all plugged up and you have to breathe through your mouth all night? and then it dawns on you that you took your nose for granted this whole time. yeah that feeling. cursed

Hello Void I am back, I am leaving for the airport in 4 hours and in about 30 hours I will be in Italy for the next four months, and I gotta tell you I am very glad that I decided to stay alive. All glory to God.

Guys I actually played the piano today at a level of competence tolerable to my ears I am funky fruity fresh thriving

The tension between I will love you enough to stay and I will love you enough to give you my heart knowing I have to leave

What do you do when the person you would call about it is the one who caused this pain?

Today I am overcome

Such art, such joy, such satisfaction

It has come right back around

And become sadness

The only joy with any depth

Is tempered by grief

A study in contrasts

I weep over Peter Pan

I drink cocktails

I wander alone through a foreign city

An awfully big adventure

I remember the tragedies

I stare at the paintings

I read and hum and try to keep it all in mind

Why must emotion hurt?

My stomach is in knots

My cheeks are sore from smiling

I’m getting crows feet from squinting into

The bright sun on my face, on my skin

It is warm and I am beyond expression

Too lucky to believe this is my life

This is the escapist fantasy

And yet it is not enough

I remember the God-sized hole in my heart

The Lord has promised good to me

His word my hope secures

He will my shield and portion be

As long as life endures

I am obsessed with the passage of time

Clocks and watches and cycles and things

Why must new experiences

mean new endings?

I’m falling in love with being alive

With God’s creation

Art from sinners

Of the saints

Beauty makes my soul ache.

Am I being unhinged? Mishinged even? Only time and the memory of a version of me that no longer exists could tell you

Journal

And its all in my head, (our past, our future)

I can’t get you out of my head

Mind reader, you can see inside my head

Seeing you it all comes to a head

The thought comes into my head

I’ll love you until I’m dead

There’s a part of me that’ll always love you.

The part of me that’s still 13, the part of me that was the beginning of who I am now, not the child but the person. You watched the change, you changed yourself, and we survived that terrible process together, the death of the old us, the horrors of becoming, the fear and loneliness and hope and desire.

And that’s the foundation of who I am today, and you’re there too, imbedded in the cornerstone, along with all the joys and disasters, and I can’t not love you. I love you like I love summertime, or old musicals, or a favorite book. But it’s more than that. I don’t love you like a friend, or a brother, or a lover. Maybe I love you like I love myself. You’re a fragment. You’re a coin I flip, tails for a grudge and disappointment and bitterness, heads for overwhelming tenderness.

And our bodies never meet, you’re so careful to stay a few feet away, but the meeting of our minds is tangible enough for the brush of your fingers to seem irrelevant. And it’s so tragic and so romantic and then tragic again, isn’t it? You’re divorced and too young for that, I’m a virgin and too old for that, and we won’t say those words but we know it in the sidelong glances, in the shapes we draw around in our conversations.

In the scandalously intimate front seats of the car, in the dark and deserted corners on our evening walking, in the quiet of the galleries where we pick apart the art like it will tell us something about ourselves, I can’t bear to look at you for fear of what I’d do. And we’re two ships in the night, a long day together and then a long year apart, and maybe a year becomes forever, because despite our best efforts and egos we aren’t psychic, or perfect, but I think, I hope, we both want otherwise.

And I think about other things too, about your fingertips through my hair, about how we’d laugh, and it would be so strange, wouldn’t it? But if you were the last man on earth, I think we’d be grateful for the apocalypse to leave us to our own devices. And you’re nothing without an audience but I would laugh enough for a whole auditorium, just you and me and the end of the world. But these are foolish things, flights of fancy that die in the sunlight, in the statistics. So I stop thinking about them, about you. And I can go without thinking about you forever, but you’re always there anyway, in the map of my subconscious, in chess and in that christmas card, in showtunes and in shame and in shivers, in dialects and old sci-fi and always, always, in dreams. I hope I’m more than just an old face to you.