She came from a tropical island,
Dark skin and darker hair.
In my head, she was Jeanne Duval,
And I was Baudelaire.
I wrote her poetry every day,
To less than rave reviews,
"It's really not my kinda ting",
Apologised my muse.
Suffice to say, it didn't last,
Though it lasted for a time.
And I burned that final sonnet,
That I couldn't get to rhyme.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 4:44 PM UTC
She came from a tropical island,
Dark skin and darker hair.
In my head, she was Jeanne Duval,
And I was Baudelaire.
I wrote her poetry every day,
To less than rave reviews,
"It's really not my kinda ting",
Apologised my muse.
Suffice to say, it didn't last,
Though it lasted for a time.
And I burned that final sonnet,
That I couldn't get to rhyme.
The title of this poem is recycled from a sonnet I once wrote for her. It's the only bit of it I remember.
As for the other poems, only one still survives: "Perfection".
She didn't like it.
:-(
