Spirit of Love Poetry – Poems about the Miracle of Love and Life

KDMI confess I’ve been remiss in writing about a wonderful poetry blog recently started by a new friend of mine, Katrine Dal Monte. Katrine is a multi-faceted individual with talents ranging far beyond her poetry. Her new blog, Spirit of Love Poetry is dedicated to love poems and showcases not only her own wonderful work but also that of her friends. When I asked Katrine her plans for her blog, her answer was simple:

“Well, basically, I will continue to add my poems to it, and I will add more friends/poets links to their HubPages and/or blogs, plus if anyone is interested they can add their own love poems to my blog. I’m not trying to monetize on my blog, just to share really.”

Frankly, her’s is a simple and refreshing attitude; a desire to share her own poetry and promote that of her friends. If you enjoy love poems, I encourage you to visit and bookmark Katrine’s blog, Spirit of Love Poetry. Return often, I’m sure the content will be growing fast. When last I checked, Katrine has already devoted six pages to her friend’s poetry. I don’t know about you but I think the web can use more sites like Katrine’s.



“A writer’s pen possesses the words a tongue may not.” – Qudsia Pervez

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Shakespeare’s Sonnet 138

I heard a portion of this sonnet quoted today while watching a movie. The portion quoted, the last four lines, intrigued me enough to look the entire sonnet up. It struck me when I did. I’ve long been a fan of Shakespeare but am far from an expert. Shakespeare’s observations on love and lying seem particularly astute. How many of us can relate to what he is saying here? How many of us have lived it? We often lie to ourselves and our lover in the name of love, don’t we? Reading this has given me the desire to spend more time gleaning the wisdom in his sonnets.


When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth,
Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O! love’s best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love, loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

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Ducks in a Lily Pond

Ducks in a Lily Pond - Kungälv, Sweden
Click to enlarge image
Photo: Sannel Larson



Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast – John Keats

Anyone who has fallen in love and rested their weary head upon their lover’s breast can relate to these immortal, romantic words by poet John Keats. Keats’ is characterized by sensual imagery, most notably in a series of odes. His good friend, Joseph Severn, believed this to be Keats’ last poem before his death in 1821 and the young age of 25.

Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillowed upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon in death.



“We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.” – William Butler Yeats

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“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.” – Pablo Neruda

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Untitled by Tim Jones


Time passes and blood stains,
last chance to catch planes,
take off and get outta here,
never look back with any fear,
at the nights with out sleep,
and the scars that run deep,
all the metaphors and similes,
of the lies and past…

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The Look – Sarah Teasdale

Sara Teasdale

Sara Teasdale

Sara Teasdale (1884-1933) was an American poet best known for her well-crafted lyrical poetry. Though many viewed her poetry as unsophisticated it was full of color and emotion. This simple poem, ‘The Look’ is an excellent example of her work. Sara, like a number of other poets suffered from depression and disillusionment and, sadly, took her own life in 1933.

The Look

Strephon kissed me in the spring,
Robin in the fall,
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.

Strephon’s kiss was lost in jest,
Robin’s lost in play,
But the kiss in Colin’s eyes
Haunts me night and day.

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“Immature poets borrow, mature poets steal.” – T.S. Eliot

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