Why am I looking at this drawer
and am afraid of its contents?
over 60 love-letters of long ago
which I could repeat almost by heart
( I kept every envelope as well-
time, date received, year written thereon
in my best hand
as though they were worth more than diamonds)
several containing crushed roses
a few poems of Robert Browning
Keats, Byron, sonnets of Shakespeare
Yeats, Donne, Thomas Hardy, John Clare..
every letter a reminder
of youth's once tender kisses
solemn vows
and secret words exchanged
that could never be shared
with anyone
(love is too personal-
a sacred pledge of hearts
never to be broken)
vanished are the dreams of youth
I am old and weary now
no longer the proud lover
but a cynic
no longer a believer
in the glory of love-poems
and stories of romance
(yes---love is not a fairy-tale
and all love stories should end
with this sentence:
...and they lived with regret and sorrow thereafter...)
words are just words
spoken at convenience
for the sake of the speaker
words are selfish
though the speaker knows not
she wrote and spoke more poignantly
than I ever could
she was mistress of words
she wrote as though
she was consumed by the fire of love
and would die in its burning furnace
for my sake
all for my sake
' I would die for love
and for you, dearest
for you are my life
the very air I breathe...'
(I wept then as those words I read-
I memorised every word )
Is love but sweet words
to be forgotten ?
I shouldn't open the drawer
lest I begin to attribute blame
je deteste? deja vu? chagrin d'mour?
I was about to stretch out
my hand ...
but my faithful wife called
from the kitchen
' why are you lingering in your study?
darling, dinner is ready--your favourite chicken curry!'
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
Why am I looking at this drawer
and am afraid of its contents?
over 60 love-letters of long ago
which I could repeat almost by heart
( I kept every envelope as well-
time, date received, year written thereon
in my best hand
as though they were worth more than diamonds)
several containing crushed roses
a few poems of Robert Browning
Keats, Byron, sonnets of Shakespeare
Yeats, Donne, Thomas Hardy, John Clare..
every letter a reminder
of youth's once tender kisses
solemn vows
and secret words exchanged
that could never be shared
with anyone
(love is too personal-
a sacred pledge of hearts
never to be broken)
vanished are the dreams of youth
I am old and weary now
no longer the proud lover
but a cynic
no longer a believer
in the glory of love-poems
and stories of romance
(yes---love is not a fairy-tale
and all love stories should end
with this sentence:
...and they lived with regret and sorrow thereafter...)
words are just words
spoken at convenience
for the sake of the speaker
words are selfish
though the speaker knows not
she wrote and spoke more poignantly
than I ever could
she was mistress of words
she wrote as though
she was consumed by the fire of love
and would die in its burning furnace
for my sake
all for my sake
' I would die for love
and for you, dearest
for you are my life
the very air I breathe...'
(I wept then as those words I read-
I memorised every word )
Is love but sweet words
to be forgotten ?
I shouldn't open the drawer
lest I begin to attribute blame
je deteste? deja vu? chagrin d'mour?
I was about to stretch out
my hand ...
but my faithful wife called
from the kitchen
' why are you lingering in your study?
darling, dinner is ready--your favourite chicken curry!'
nil