a poem about love
The world is loud right now. War, hunger, people shouting past each other. This is a room for the other thing.
Send us a poem about love and we will publish it. Any country, any language, any kind of love — brand new, decades old, returned, refused, or never once spoken out loud. No contest. No fee. No critics. Just a wall where the good part of being human gets to take up space.
Open any headline and the world looks like it's made of the ugly things. War. Famine. Cruelty dressed up as opinion. It is genuinely hard, some mornings, to remember that most people on this planet spend most of their lives quietly loving somebody.
They do, though. Every day, in every language, somebody writes something down for a person they love. Most of it never gets read by anyone else. It sits in a notes app, in a drawer, in the back of a notebook, folded inside a book on a shelf.
This site exists to give that writing somewhere to go. Not a competition. Not a magazine with a slush pile and a rejection letter. A wall, open to everybody, where a poem about love from a teenager in Manila sits next to one from a widower in Belfast and neither of them has to be good enough for anything.
Love poetry is the oldest continuous thing human beings make — older than the novel, older than the printing press, older than most countries. It has survived every empire that ever tried to shout over it. It will survive this news cycle too.
Come put something down. We'll keep it.
No credentials, no publishing history, no MFA. If you have written something true about love, you belong on this wall.
Love poetry exists in every language on earth. Send yours in the one you think in. Translation optional, never required.
Nothing here gets scored, ranked or critiqued. Poems are published as written. Your spelling is your business.
Published means published. Your poem doesn't expire, and you can have it taken down whenever you want, no reason needed.
Somebody had to go first. These were written by hand by Zachary Tye Wennstedt and typed up exactly as they sit on the page — the misspellings, the crossed-out lines, the second thoughts squeezed into the margin. Nothing has been tidied. Scroll and the pages turn.
The ones written toward somebody. Some of them arrived. Most of them didn’t. He kept writing them either way.
He wrote it out clean underneath. Both versions live on the same page.
The last four lines are written over each other three times. This is the one that ended up on top.
Written first as My thoughts. Every My and I was later crossed out in blue and changed to Our and we. The blue pen won.
There is a cupid drawn in the corner of this page. Not a good cupid. A very sincere one.
Four lines, alone in the middle of an otherwise empty page.
What love leaves behind when it goes. These are the pages with the hardest pen pressure in the whole book.
There's a single leaf drawn underneath, taking up the whole rest of the page.
Unfinished. The pen just stops.
The word constant is written sideways up the margin, twice.
Love pointed at something bigger than a person. It is the one thread in these notebooks that never breaks.
The last dated entry in the book.
Signed ZTW at the bottom, sideways, running off the edge of the page.
A fragment. Half the page is torn away and the rest runs sideways up the margin.
Not love poems. Kept here anyway, because a notebook doesn’t sort itself and the anger is part of the same voice.
an eye for an eye — you and I is written up the side of this one.
One word is lost off the edge of the page.
Runs off the bottom of the page. The next page is gone.
The only page in the whole book labelled song.
You don't need any of this to write one. But knowing the shapes helps — each form was invented to do a different job, and picking the right one is half the work. Here are the twelve that keep coming back.
The most famous love poem form in English. Fourteen lines that set up a problem and then turn — the volta — into a resolution or a sting. Shakespeare's are the ones everybody knows, but Petrarch got there first. Use it when your feeling has an argument inside it.
"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"
No meter, no rhyme scheme, no fixed length. The line breaks are yours to place, which means every break has to earn itself. Almost everything on this wall is free verse, and it's where most people should start. Freedom, not laziness — a free verse poem still has to be built.
Break the line where you'd take a breath.
A poem of pure celebration, addressed directly to its subject. Neruda wrote odes to socks and tomatoes and made them love poems anyway. The ode gives you permission to gush — it is the one form where too much is the right amount.
"Ode to the woman who leaves the light on"
Traditionally three lines, seventeen syllables, and one turn of season or attention. A love haiku doesn't announce love — it shows one small thing and lets the love live in the gap. Perfect for a text message, a note in a lunchbox, an inscription.
Your coat on my chair —
I didn't move it all week.
The cold came anyway.
Arabic and Persian in origin, perfected by Rumi and Hafiz. Independent couplets bound by a repeated end-word, each one able to stand alone. Built specifically for longing and for love aimed at the divine — which is why it never stopped being used.
Every couplet ends on the same word, and the word keeps changing meaning.
Nineteen lines with two lines that keep returning like a thought you can't put down. The repetition is the meaning — which makes it devastating for love that won't leave you alone. Dylan Thomas's "Do not go gentle" is the famous one.
Say the line. Say it again. Mean it differently.
A poem for someone who is gone. Elegies are love poems written too late, and they are often the truest ones anybody writes, because there is nothing left to win. Grief and love turn out to be the same material seen from different sides.
"I still set out two cups."
A poem about lovers parting at daybreak, cursing the sunrise. One of the oldest situations in poetry and one of the most human: the night was enough and now it is over. Any poem about a morning you didn't want is an aubade.
"The light is early and I resent it."
A poem in the shape of a letter, addressed straight to one person. It gives you the intimacy of correspondence and the compression of verse at the same time. If you have ever drafted a message at 2am and not sent it, you have written one.
"Dear you — I'm writing this instead of calling."
A Renaissance form that praises the beloved one feature at a time — the eyes, then the hands, then the voice. Its opposite, the contreblason, mocks the same tradition. Both are alive and well in every song about somebody's smile.
Start at the hands. Everyone starts at the eyes.
The first letter of each line spells out a name or a message. It looks like a children's exercise until you try to write a good one, at which point it becomes a genuine constraint. Unbeatable for anniversary cards and proposals.
Their name is already the poem's spine.
A paragraph that behaves like a poem — image-dense, rhythmic, compressed, but never breaking the line. Ideal when the feeling arrives in a rush and stopping to break lines would be a lie. Several poems on this wall are prose poems.
Let it run. Punctuation does the breathing.
Most people who say they can't write poetry have only ever tried to write it the hard way — starting from the feeling. Start somewhere else instead.
Not the feeling. Something you actually saw, smelled or heard: their coat on a chair, rain on a car roof, the sound of a key in the door at a familiar hour. Love is invisible. Objects aren't.
Address somebody specific, even if you never send it. Poems written to everybody reach nobody. The strange private details are exactly what makes strangers feel it.
If a rhyme turns up on its own, keep it. If you're hunting for one, you've stopped writing the poem and started writing the rhyme. Sound matters; forced sound doesn't.
The line you want to delete because it's too much is almost always the line the poem is about. Leave it in. Nobody has ever been moved by a poem that played it safe.
Your ear catches what your eye forgives. Read it aloud and delete every line that doesn't surprise you. What survives is the poem. It is usually shorter than you thought.
A poem isn't finished when you stop writing — it's finished when someone else reads it. Send it here if you don't have anywhere else to put it.
Since you came all this way.
You are loved.
drag across the silver
A poem about love is a short piece of writing that holds a feeling too large for an ordinary sentence. Not only romance — attraction, devotion, longing, grief, the strange relief of being fully known by another person. A love poem compresses that feeling into image and rhythm so that a stranger reading it years later feels something, rather than simply being told about it.
It is the oldest continuous literary form on earth. The Song of Songs. Sappho's fragments. Rumi's ghazals. Shakespeare's sonnets. Neruda's odes. Every culture that has produced writing has produced love poems, because every culture contains people who feel more than they can say. Poetry is where the overflow goes.
The more precisely you try to describe love, the further it retreats.
Neruda admitted his love poems were always secretly about something else — the sea, bread, fire, the stars. That's the trick of the form. Love can't be approached head-on. It has to be circled, caught in peripheral vision, described by what it resembles. Which is why love poems everywhere reach for candles, birds, snow, rusty bicycles and mountains: they are all attempts to say one thing by pointing at another.
A short love poem works like a struck match. Four lines, sometimes fewer. It's what you want in a wedding card, a set of vows, an anniversary note, or a message sent at one in the morning. Short love poems survive because they can be read aloud in a single breath and remembered afterwards.
A deep love poem takes the long road — memory, argument, loss, and the slow arrival at something the writer didn't know when they started. Both kinds are complete. Length isn't the measure. Precision is.
The most overlooked kind is the one written not to another person but to yourself: I love what I am becoming. I am worth the love I keep giving away. In a culture that treats love as something you receive from outside, a self-addressed love poem is a genuinely radical act — and it's the foundation the others are built on.
Nature supplies the metaphors love demands. Seasons carry longing and return. Oceans carry depth and unpredictability. Stars carry distance and permanence at once. Flowers carry beauty that's already dying. When a love poem reaches for the natural world it isn't decorating — it's borrowing the only vocabulary every reader already speaks.
And the star imagery isn't only romantic. The carbon in a human body was forged inside ancient suns. A love poem about stars is, quite literally, a poem about where two people came from.
Expressive writing has a long track record in grief work, and love poetry sits at the centre of it. Writing about a loss gives the feeling a shape and, more importantly, a witness. It turns something unbearable into something that can be read aloud and survived. It's not a replacement for the people who love you, or for a counsellor if you need one — but making something out of pain is itself an act of care, aimed at yourself as much as anyone else.
If you've written one, put it up here. It costs nothing and nobody is grading it.
A poem about love is a short piece of writing that holds a feeling too large for an ordinary sentence — attraction, devotion, longing, grief, or the relief of being fully known. It compresses that feeling into image and rhythm so a stranger can feel it rather than simply be told about it.
Yes, and it's free — always. Use the form near the top of this page. One poem per poet to start with, so everyone gets room on the wall; if you'd like to share more, email info@eyetoad.com and the answer is usually yes. You keep the copyright and no money changes hands in either direction.
No. There is no contest here, no fee, no judges and no critics. Nothing is ranked or scored. If it's true, it belongs. Spelling and grammar stay exactly as you wrote them unless you ask us to change something.
Please do. Love poetry exists in every language on earth and this site is open to all of them. Send it in the language you think in. You're welcome to include your own translation, but it isn't required.
The best-known are the sonnet, ode, free verse poem, haiku, ghazal, villanelle, elegy, aubade, letter poem, blason, acrostic and prose poem. Each does a different job — the sonnet argues, the ode praises, the elegy grieves, the aubade says goodbye at dawn. There's a breakdown of all twelve on this page.
Start with one real image instead of a feeling. Write it to one specific person even if you never send it. Don't force a rhyme. Say the embarrassing part. Then read it out loud and cut every line that doesn't surprise you. There's a six-step version above.
Writing about heartbreak gives the feeling a shape and a witness, which is why expressive writing is used in grief work. It isn't a replacement for the people who love you, or for a counsellor if you need one — but many people find that making something out of the pain helps them carry it.
None of those. No entry fee, no reading fee, no prize, no ranking, no shortlist. Publishing a poem here costs nothing and earns nothing, on purpose. The moment money is involved, people start writing to win.
It was started by Zachary Tye Wennstedt, a poet whose own handwritten poems make up the founding collection on this page. The site is published by Eye To Ad Media and reachable at info@eyetoad.com.
Because most of what's loud in the world right now isn't love. War, hunger and cruelty take up the news. Love poetry is the oldest thing human beings make, and it's still the clearest available evidence that people would rather build something for each other than against each other.