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Poems

Poetoftheway Oct 2019
don’t tell me “I love you” ~by Roxanne, for Cyrano~

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that’s a verse I’ve heard many too times before,
that’s a curse of low majesty, a quatrain too plain,
if that’s your best sally, retreat, say no more,
too simp verses, or ungolden silences, agents of dissatisfying pain

I need the best of your taste
the finest visions that you eyelids occlude,
make haste for my mouth grows exceedingly
impatient for the other senses to do their tandem wooing

slap only my face with the creature comforts others savor,
words of diamonds and pink pearls mined from your breast,
the bejeweled words that will decorate my evergreen,
that never dies, lest, unless and until,
you want my mortal affection suppressed

give me your linguistic promiscuity, wake me from the stupor
of ordinary, arouse me with thy tongue coiling, a bee sting delivery,
a wet poem that makes all my orifices!|offices weep, your mouth,
my souls recouper,
your wizardry bewitching,
answer my inquiry with unbounded festivity

then and after all, the plain simplicity of an “I love you,”
will be edged with sublimity, my mercies, your mercies
our jointed, sharp pointy, introverting, interlocking,
our futures becoming
our pasts


11:07am
19-9-30

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https://thenewgroup.org/production/cyrano/?gclid=Cj0KCQjwz8bsBRC6ARIsAEyNnvoENpdnWyqeUEwq0avNStgWCf4CocB1i2­39c2mHdNSFF8gOlWZtfjsaAls4EALw_wcB
When first thou didst entice to thee my heart,
      I thought the service brave;
So many joys I writ down for my part,
      Besides what I might have
Out of my stock of natural delights,
Augmented with thy gracious benefits.

I looked on thy furniture so fine,
      And made it fine to me;
Thy glorious household-stuff did me entwine,
      And ‘tice me unto thee.
Such stars I counted mine: both heav’n and earth;
Paid me my wages in a world of mirth.

What pleasures could I want, whose King I serv’d,
      Where joys my fellows were?
Thus argu’d into hopes, my thoughts reserv’d
      No place for grief or fear.
Therefore my sudden soul caught at the place,
And made her youth and fierceness seek thy face.

At first thou gav’st me milk and sweetnesses;
      I had my wish and way;
My days were straw’d with flow’rs and happiness;
      There was no month but May.
But with my years sorrow did twist and grow,
And made a party unawares for woe.

My flesh began unto my soul in pain,
      “Sicknesses cleave my bones;
Consuming agues dwell in ev’ry vein,
      And tune my breath to groans.”
Sorrow was all my soul; I scarce believ’d,
Till grief did tell me roundly, that I liv’d.

When I got health, thou took’st away my life,
      And more, for my friends die;
My mirth and edge was lost, a blunted knife
      Was of more use than I.
Thus thin and lean without a fence or friend,
I was blown through with ev’ry storm and wind.

Whereas my birth and spirit rather took
      The way that takes the town;
Thou didst betray me to a ling’ring book,
      And wrap me in a gown.
I was entangled in the world of strife,
Before I had the power to change my life.

Yet, for I threaten’d oft the siege to raise,
      Not simp’ring all mine age,
Thou often didst with academic praise
      Melt and dissolve my rage.
I took thy sweet’ned pill, till I came where
I could not go away, nor persevere.

Yet lest perchance I should too happy be
      In my unhappiness,
Turning my purge to food, thou throwest me
      Into more sicknesses.
Thus doth thy power cross-bias me, not making
Thine own gift good, yet me from my ways taking.

Now I am here, what thou wilt do with me
      None of my books will show;
I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree,
      For sure then I should grow
To fruit or shade: at least some bird would trust
  Her household to me, and I should be just.

Yet, though thou troublest me, I must be meek;
      In weakness must be stout;
Well, I will change the service, and go seek
      Some other master out.
Ah my dear God! though I am clean forgot,
Let me not love thee, if I love thee not.