Dear Sir,
It has come to our attention.
Our records clearly show. There can be no doubt.
I cannot emphasize too strongly that these activities
are completely unacceptable to us.

We would of course prefer to settle this matter amicably.
However, I must inform you that, should you continue to,
we cannot rule out the imposition of severe.

I therefore enclose for your consideration.
You should carefully note the wording of paragraph, sub-section.
Previously, some people in your position have assumed that this simply meant.
They were unpleasantly surprised when they realized too late that it does not.

I politely suggest that, at your earliest convenience, you should.
The options open to you at this point are limited, and will all be unwelcome.
Nevertheless, you would be ill-advised to consider non-compliance.
Our Enforcement department is large and enthusiastic.
They would relish the opportunity to.

Speak to me softly, my sweet lover.
Cuddle me close, at close of day.
Outside, there is stress and conflict;
Here, your kisses send sadness away.

Help me to share your tears and triumphs.
Lay your fragile feelings bare.
I'm the one who'll always love you;
I'm the one who'll always care.

Slip your clothes off, stroke my body,
Play your music, drink some wine.
Tell me again that I'm your sweetheart;
Now and forever, you are mine.

He may be smooth, Anneliese; he may be charming to your Mom.
He may treat you to champagne and caviar.
He may think he knows what's best for you, and how he could refine
The essence of who he thinks you are.

But does he make you smile, in your bed, in the morning?
Is he as good as me, Anneliese?
Does he strike the spark, fan the flame, stoke the fire?
Only I'm your naughty lover, Anneliese.

Him or me, Anneliese?
Only one of us can save you.
You must choose between the sinner and the saint.
So decide, Anneliese - project manager or poet?
Who can stay? Who must leave, without complaint?

Stay with me, Anneliese.
Soar with me, my pale pink angel!
Let us run to the chapel in the middle of the village.
Let us vow to be together, till the end.

From fingertip to tiptoe, you will always be my canvas
As my words attempt a portrait of a woman like no other.

Come to me, Anneliese!
Don't you see, Anneliese?
You're my dream, you're my life, you're the beating of my heart.
You are all that I could pray for, Anneliese, Anneliese.
You have brought me to my knees, sweet Anneliese.

Words can do wonders —
Ink in your hesitant insight,
Chart the peaks and boundary of your sprawling mood,
Assemble arc-lights
Around the moment when everything changed.

Words will help, but you cannot command them.
Show them a specification and they will smile, and turn away.


So be gentle; invite them to roam through your estate.
Do not cry out if, in the small hours, you hear them,
Padding along, in the secret places.
Wait patiently for their final recommendations.
(Yes, truly, definitely final, this time.)

Then learn at last how to sing your past to sleep
And celebrate the person you might yet be.

The law says: every action must be accompanied by a reaction.
So when I slipped out of bra and ******* and spread myself open on the kitchen floor,
I expected that he would at least put down the crossword puzzle. No response, though.
I rose up and emptied the saucepan over him.

I went on a course: 'Poetry-writing for beginners'.
I made my similes illuminate the dark, like phosphorus flares.
My metaphors danced the can-can, naked, around the market square.
The teacher said: "Yes, very clever dear. But your imagery clothes a void,
Where the poet's deepest thoughts and feelings should be".
That was when I unstoppered the nitric acid bottle. She will probably keep the sight in one eye.

I joined my local writers' discussion group. At the last meeting, this was the consensus:
Music was subordinating sense; my attempt at profundity was just a lazy mysticism.
They suggested flushing out the drivel from the windmills of my mind.
I added bleach to their cappuccinos. They were left speechless.

I looked in Yellow Pages, and found a personal poetry trainer.
He said, "From now on, you let other people see your poetry only when I say you may.
I shall hold you back until every cadence convinces;
Until I hear the extraordinary, the important and the authentic sing from the bedside table."

Eventually, we were both satisfied.

I am a thirteen-year-old girl, and my parents hate me.
Boo-hoo! What shall I do?

Your parents think you are one big sulking pile of ****; and so do I.
But they also love every last bit of you (even the ****), more deeply than you can know; always have, always will.
Write to me again when you have discovered free verse.

I am a twenty-something new mother. I love this little stranger so much I could burst!
Help me find the words to tell every in and out, every fold and pulse of this tiny life.

Oh sweetie, does it never occur to you that this has all been done before, many times?
Would you like to examine volume seven of my vacation photo album? (Look -- here's another one of me, in front of the Eiffel Tower, eating an ice cream.)
No? So learn a lesson, sweetie -- live your love, don't write it.

I am a sixty-year-old male, past the best but not yet ready for the worst.
What does it all mean?

*My friend, here's a to-do list: observe, record, imagine, record, wonder, record. Revise, condense, select, re-shape, re-start. Repeat until sick; then beyond, as best you can.
It all means hard work.
But of course, you knew that, didn't you? After all, you are me.

At midnight, today slides comfortably into yesterday.
Our bodies come together, and begin the long dance
That they now know by heart.
Slow at first, then faster; it is over all too soon.
We smile, kiss, and wait for sleep to take us to tomorrow.

At 4 a.m., I am suddenly awake.
A storm is throwing itself at the window.
I imagine the heavens weeping, and the air sighing,
At the passing of pleasure.
I shiver, and the moon whispers:
"This is how you would feel, were you ever to lose her".