Prologue
The poets of old—*those great men who
Told of love so great, and strung
Floating words in harmony
To paint the beloved of whom they sung,
Whose passion became their Faithful Muse
(Did they pick Her, or did She choose?)
And so outpoured from that resource
The greatest stanzas that e’er were heard—*
Those famous poets— how they knew
Like the back of their hand, the blue
Violet, the red rose, the “sweet are you”!
Those clouds they carved with pen became
Their tribute to Love’s timeless fame.
But I cannot re-create like they
The object of my love. I only mangle
Words, destroying diction. Though I say
All that I can, the ensuing tangle
Meets the ear like salt on a slug!
Still, my love, I will try to make
A verse that’s fitting, for your sake.
I.
Quoth Burns,
“My love is red, red a rose
Sprung in the month of June.
My love is like the melody,
That’s sweetly played in tune.”
And I—
Your smile is a melody,
Played out upon a handsome face.
Your touch speaks what lips cannot,
What lies beneath their gentle grace.
Wrote Frost,
“She was a window flower,
And he a whirling winter breeze.”
But I—
Your voice like is hot chocolate.
My heart and soul are warmed by these.
Mr. Whitman writes, “I find
No imperfection in you,”
While I,
Present to your perfection, see
Your flaws, and more can I love thee.
Eliot penned, you are “The delight
That quickens my senses in waking.”
Your laugh, I add, is a warbling brook,
That comforts my heart when breaking.
Your arms are anchors in the storm
That keep me from the ragged shore.
Your eyes are but two dancing lights
That welcome home the weary soul.
Your tears are like the misted rain
Through which the sun shines bows above,
And ‘neath that rainbow I am blessed
To kiss away your tears, my love.
II.
“When forty winters besiege thy brow”—
(I am quoting Shakespeare now)
And thy face, so handsome to my eye,
Is like the trees withered dry
Its “substance still lives sweet.”
That is, although the accidents meet
The greatest standards of Substance Seen—
*A comely face and well-built limbs,
With strength that says, “I’m safe with him,”
A cheery laugh and sturdy chest,
A dark, trimmed beard, and all the rest—*
Though dashing your appearance be,
There is much more than that to thee!
But how, my love, can I capture what
Underlies? For this
Is so much more than your looks,
And so much more than your kiss.
Your actions tell of your inner self,
And I could list (as I have before)
Those which I’m so thankful for.
Still,
What I love— is so much more.
How, my love, can I hope to ink
That fleeting thing? Though always there,
It’s the little things that speak of it.
I see it— it’s gone. It’s nigh—it’s here!
I stretch my fingers and curl them
About it, quick as a pistol shrimp,
But when I open my mortal hand,
Your “to be” is pale and limp.
III.
Why did I hope to grasp it?
*Poetry—Philosophy—
Aristotle, Socrates—
Kipling, Sopho, Hopkins, Yeats—
Definitions—quiddity—*
“Man is both soul and body.”
No man has caught “esse”
Anywhere in history.
Says Hopkins:
“Selves—goes itself—Myself it speaks and spells
Crying—what I do is me: for that I came.”
Jaimason, Jaimason!
I can only say your name.
Jul 8, 2025
Jul 8, 2025 at 11:37 PM UTC
Prologue
The poets of old—*those great men who
Told of love so great, and strung
Floating words in harmony
To paint the beloved of whom they sung,
Whose passion became their Faithful Muse
(Did they pick Her, or did She choose?)
And so outpoured from that resource
The greatest stanzas that e’er were heard—*
Those famous poets— how they knew
Like the back of their hand, the blue
Violet, the red rose, the “sweet are you”!
Those clouds they carved with pen became
Their tribute to Love’s timeless fame.
But I cannot re-create like they
The object of my love. I only mangle
Words, destroying diction. Though I say
All that I can, the ensuing tangle
Meets the ear like salt on a slug!
Still, my love, I will try to make
A verse that’s fitting, for your sake.
I.
Quoth Burns,
“My love is red, red a rose
Sprung in the month of June.
My love is like the melody,
That’s sweetly played in tune.”
And I—
Your smile is a melody,
Played out upon a handsome face.
Your touch speaks what lips cannot,
What lies beneath their gentle grace.
Wrote Frost,
“She was a window flower,
And he a whirling winter breeze.”
But I—
Your voice like is hot chocolate.
My heart and soul are warmed by these.
Mr. Whitman writes, “I find
No imperfection in you,”
While I,
Present to your perfection, see
Your flaws, and more can I love thee.
Eliot penned, you are “The delight
That quickens my senses in waking.”
Your laugh, I add, is a warbling brook,
That comforts my heart when breaking.
Your arms are anchors in the storm
That keep me from the ragged shore.
Your eyes are but two dancing lights
That welcome home the weary soul.
Your tears are like the misted rain
Through which the sun shines bows above,
And ‘neath that rainbow I am blessed
To kiss away your tears, my love.
II.
“When forty winters besiege thy brow”—
(I am quoting Shakespeare now)
And thy face, so handsome to my eye,
Is like the trees withered dry
Its “substance still lives sweet.”
That is, although the accidents meet
The greatest standards of Substance Seen—
*A comely face and well-built limbs,
With strength that says, “I’m safe with him,”
A cheery laugh and sturdy chest,
A dark, trimmed beard, and all the rest—*
Though dashing your appearance be,
There is much more than that to thee!
But how, my love, can I capture what
Underlies? For this
Is so much more than your looks,
And so much more than your kiss.
Your actions tell of your inner self,
And I could list (as I have before)
Those which I’m so thankful for.
Still,
What I love— is so much more.
How, my love, can I hope to ink
That fleeting thing? Though always there,
It’s the little things that speak of it.
I see it— it’s gone. It’s nigh—it’s here!
I stretch my fingers and curl them
About it, quick as a pistol shrimp,
But when I open my mortal hand,
Your “to be” is pale and limp.
III.
Why did I hope to grasp it?
*Poetry—Philosophy—
Aristotle, Socrates—
Kipling, Sopho, Hopkins, Yeats—
Definitions—quiddity—*
“Man is both soul and body.”
No man has caught “esse”
Anywhere in history.
Says Hopkins:
“Selves—goes itself—Myself it speaks and spells
Crying—what I do is me: for that I came.”
Jaimason, Jaimason!
I can only say your name.
