Intimacy poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best intimacy poems ever written. Read all poems about intimacy.
My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.
ONCE more the storm is howling, and half hid
Under this cradle-hood and coverlid
My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle
But Gregory's wood and one bare hill
Whereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind.
You were my friend then: now almost stranger!
Our friendship appeared once very glorious;
What happened meantime, gives me great anger;
Our friendship no longer remains serious.
Fading through the unknown
From night till morning
Grueling intimacy breaks the silence dawn
I want to be close to you like Mercury to see your full glow
and brightness of your intimacy
I see you like a Venus because of your unsurpassed beauty
In her eyes
did you see
the long lavender look of goodbye?
Dreams are but faceless
Eyes alone are a visible feature
And eyes indeed
Have a quaint crowd
From the sofa I saw sweet Muffin
Naked on mirror
So raw of meats
Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee
affords. I once read something about coffee. The thing said that coffee is good for you;
Time just flows past
And you never notice
Till subtle changes come bubbling to the surface;
When intimacy turns into indifference.
From: Sadiqullah Khan
To: Nivedita Bagchi
Date-Time: 12/23/2009 4: 47: 00 AM (GMT -6: 00)
Subject: A Nobel Prize
Wandering in the the valley of love
Listening to the rustling of autumn leaves
Absorbing the occult dewdrops of solitude
Singing along with the birds
Vagos preludios. En la noche espléndida
Su voz de perlas una fuente calla,
Venus, when her son was lost,
Cried him up and down the coast,
In hamlets, palaces, and parks,
And told the truant by his marks,
In thinking on the matter,
feelings of lust and love
can’t originate in the heart.
A heart is merely a muscle.
You alone reveal my soul,
The intimacy of my deepest thoughts
Wrapped around each emotion,
Each beat of my heart;
The branches dance in the wind,
The ones outside my window
Across from my desk.
I suppose you know the trees
Let's found a human hewn home
beyond world size as our mind
without walls and latch
where none is the owner,
The sun's shining here,
hope it is with you;
the sort of day
I just might put on that new tie
The music of love, a playful art, to which my heart sings softly the whispers of my soul. As my muse dances to the melody of who i am, a cartography of the intricate intimacy of music, to which my muse and i, dance together through every kiss and every word. Through every passionate embrace, written in every page, with the poetry of love, that captivates and moves the heart in a tantalizing rhythm with its beat, as it plays the drums for the music of love, the pulse of the blood quickens with a lovers heat. As we read through the words and lines as we define and align with the message within, which whispers of the mystery of the heart within, as we begin, we step onto the page with a lovers soft step, moving with each other, toward the next word and the next, as we write to the melody of the music of love.
of the mystical life
is that you experience
that our intimacy
is the celebration
Real Intimacy is not about sex,
It is not about the body's nakedness.
Real Intimacy is the nakedness of the soul.
The flowers bloom in the mystery region between light and darkness.
Crossing thousands of light-years the stars touch them with their brightness
of cosmic love.
The moon is maddened by their fragrance.
Would you send me an autographed picture?
Would you send me a lock of your hair?
Would you kiss this postcard with bright red lipstick and send it back to me?
Intimacy means being there just to be there.
Intimacy means listening and not querying questions.
Intimacy means lending your shoulder for someone to cry on.
Intimacy means being convenient around each other in stillness.
EMOTIONS ARE NO LESS THAN WORDS
At times this blessing becomes mere of a pain...
I know you are not mine
There is something deeply arthritic about water and pain, the way water seeps into unexpected fissures in bones, the way it conducts pain itself - operatically and electrically.
This morning I woke up, as I usually do, in pain. It was a new sort of pain, a pain I had not encountered before, so I didn't know how immediately to respond or manage it. All this while, I had sorted and filed each type of pain into neat bearable files, each with their possible recourse to relief, however temporary.
It had rained all night, and this morning it continued without any relief. The sound of persistent rain once provided calm, but all this water-sound, its chaotic decibel, was annoying my breathing, heart-beat and sight.
Whether my sight was blurring due to water battering my retina's windscreen or whether it was triggered on by the slow accumulation of pain in my heart was difficult to measure or analyse. Only intensity and volume mattered - cubic litres, millilitres - almost any equation with letters and numbers raised to the power of three. Triadic superscripts - there lay some oblique clues, but perhaps only to the initiated or those who wished to be part of its intimacy.
The irony of intimacy is such that the closest in the family seem the furthest away. Their attempt to be interested, in spite of being uninterested, ultimately measures pain and its intensity. Intensity is a peculiar thing, its measurements are both tactile and ephemeral, quantifiable and infinite. It is measurable, its heat and depth fathomable, all of this may even have a semblance of being well.
It is the ephemeral that is painful. Water creates all the confusion - its saltiness, its acridity, its mineralised purity, all complete in ways that chemical equations find hard to support or balance.
Families of electrons, protons and neutrons speed away, whirring in patterned loops, forgetting all the while that the heart of their orbit may actually feel and breathe. But in science, as in the ambitious ruthless route of success, there is no room for unscientific thought - as if science and the arts, coolness and emotionality were mutually incompatible or different from each other.
I am in pain, and I just want to cry, cry and cry - so that each searing cry can etch some fragment of a note which has gone unnoticed, so that each measure of pain is no longer diluted for people who listen because they have to.
I wish to paint a canvas that invents new indices of pain and water, for anybody who wishes to listen and bear, for anyone who wishes to understand it, not because they are meant to or rely on sitting comfortably straitjacketed, but because they are moved by it. We need to be moved, moved by the finer chords of music and paint, so that both electricity and opera can operate as they always did, in tandem.
But heavy heart like heavy water is difficult to dissolve - their melting and boiling points register unusual scales - scales that peal and peel, echo and layer, untying each and every fibre that breath requires in order to survive.
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