Prologue
The poets of oldโthose 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 Museย
(Did they pick Her, or did She choose?)
And so outpoured from that resource
The greatest stanzas that eโer were heardโ
Those famous poetsโ how they knew
Like the back of their hand, the blue
Violet, the red rose, the โsweet are youโ!
Those clouds they carved with pen became
Their tribute to Loveโs 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 thatโs fitting, for your sake.
I.
Quoth Burns,
โMy love is red, red a rose
Sprung in the month of June.
My love is like the melody,
Thatโs sweetly played in tune.โ
And Iโ
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,
โShe was a window flower,
And he a whirling winter breeze.โ
But Iโ
Your voice like is hot chocolate.
My heart and soul are warmed by these.
Mr. Whitman writes, โI find
No imperfection in you,โ
While I,
Present to your perfection, see
Your flaws, and more can I love thee.
Eliot penned, you are โThe delight
That quickens my senses in waking.โ
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 โneath that rainbow I am blessed
To kiss away your tears, my love.
II.
โWhen forty winters besiege thy browโโ
(I am quoting Shakespeare now)
And thy face, so handsome to my eye,
Is like the trees withered dry
Its โsubstance still lives sweet.โ
That is, although the accidents meet
The greatest standards of Substance Seenโ
A comely face and well-built limbs,
With strength that says, โIโm safe with him,โ
A cheery laugh and sturdy chest,
A dark, trimmed beard, and all the restโ
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 Iโm so thankful for.
Still,
What I loveโ is so much more.
How, my love, can I hope to ink
That fleeting thing? Though always there,
Itโs the little things that speak of it.
I see itโ itโs gone. Itโs nighโitโs here!
I stretch my fingers and curl them
About it, quick as a pistol shrimp,
But when I open my mortal hand,
Your โto beโ is pale and limp.
III.
Why did I hope to grasp it?
PoetryโPhilosophyโ
Aristotle, Socratesโ
Kipling, Sopho, Hopkins, Yeatsโ
Definitionsโquiddityโ
โMan is both soul and body.โ
No man has caught โesseโ
Anywhere in history.
Says Hopkins:
โSelvesโgoes itselfโMyself it speaks and spells
Cryingโwhat I do is me: for that I came.โ
Jaimason, Jaimason!
I can only say your name.
