I take my pen in hand..

there was a meadow
beside a field of oats, beside a wood,
beside a road, beside a day spread out
green at the edges, yellow at the heart.
The dust lifted a little, a finger's breadth,
the words of the wood pigeon traveled slow,
a slow half-pace behind the tick of time.

To tell you I am well and thinking of you...

and of the walk through the meadow, and of another walk
along the neat piled ruin of the town
under a pale heaven empty of all but death
and rain beginning. The river ran beside.

It has been a long time since I wrote, I have no news

I put my head between my hands and hope
my heart will choke me. I put out my hand
to touch you and touch air. I turn to sleep
and find a nightmare, hollowness and fear.

And by the way, I have had no letter now
For eight weeks, it must be

a long eight weeks,
because you have nothing to say, nothing at all
not even to record your emptiness
or guess what's to become of you, without love.

I know that you have cares,

ashes to shovel, broken glass to mend
and many a cloth to patch before sunset.

Write to me soon and tell me how you are

if you still tremble, sweat and glower, still stretch
a hand for me at dusk, play me the tune,
show me the leaves and towers, the lamb the rose.

Because I always wish to hear from you

and feel my heart swell and the blood run out
at the ungraceful syllable of your name
said through the scent of stocks, the little snore of fire, the shoreless waves of symphony, the murmuring night

I will end this letter now. I am yours with love.

Always with love, with love.

Elizabeth Riddell (b.1910) New Zealand poet

"I spent yesterday.... in the depths of gloom. The mousetrap filled itself and then refilled itself - never a letter from you - none for a fortnight. Even Mrs Cartwright noticed my meloncholy and offered me a plain bun. At last, just as hope seemed extinct, and the waters of despair were shut above my head sitting over the gas fire two arrived; full as nuts; delicious; milky, meaty, satisfying every desire of my soul, except darling, for a complete lack of endearments. See how naturally my "darling" drops out. To punish you, I shant call you honey once this letter. So there. Oh yes, Vita, I'm more subtle than you think....Read between the lines....and the arid ridges of my prose will be seen to flower like the desert in spring: cyclamens, violets, all agrowing ~ all a blowing."

"And your letters, drifting out of the unknown and eddying about me in this far-off land, come to me like truant whiffs of perfume from enchanted vales."

"One night when there was a clear moon, I sat down to write a poem about maple trees. But the dazzle of moonlight in the ink blinded me, and I could only write what I remembered, Therefore, on the wrapping of my poem, I have inscribed your name."

If you only knew how I long for you, how the memory of last night leaves me delirious with joy and full of desire. How I long to give myself up in ecstasy to your sweet breath and to those kisses from your lips which fill me with delight."

"Shall I be your companion or your slave? Do you desire me or love me? When your passion is satisfied will you thank me? When I have made you happy, will you know how to tell me so? Do you know what I am and does it trouble you not to know it? Am I for you an unknown being who must be sought for and dreampt of, or am I in your eyes a woman like those who fatten in harems? In your eyes, in which I see a divine spark, is there nothing but a lust such as these women inspire? Do you know that desire of the soul that time does not quench, that no excess deadens or wearies? When your mistress sleeps in your arms, do you stay awake to watch over her, to pray to God and to weep? Do the pleasures of love leave you breathless and brutalized or do they throw you into a divine ecstasy?"

Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me unresistably on with all these chains to the battlefield.

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hope of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood, around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me - perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, then I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name....

But, O Sarah! if the dead come back to this earth, and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladest days and in the darkest nights....always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee. for we shall meet again.