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lía Apr 28
ardently,
f(all)ing
for you.
i just love e.e. cummings and jane austen. don’t at me.
Carlo C Gomez Mar 2020
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a swimming companion when enjoying his pond.
Carlo C Gomez Jan 2020
Your fine eyes and lively wit
first caught his attention,
your light, lush figure
he discerned upon closer inspection.

You then had the audacity
to speak your mind,
to tell your unwanted suitor
where to go.

Nonetheless, what did he find?
A young lady brimming
with charm and intelligence,
a country girl of unrivaled specialness.

And hither came his letter,
an eye-opening missive,
a charitable benediction
that proved redemptive.

Here your prejudice began to be
worked on for the better,
its constant hold relenting
until it unfettered altogether.

His agony of rejection
soon warred against his pride,
his ardency for you
could not be denied.

A chance encounter
and you were
at once astonished
at what your heart did reveal,

his intense stare warmed your cheeks,
his kind words
and acts of goodness
then sealed the deal.

You could love no other.
And in this blissful denouement
you agreed to become his wife and lover.
Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy, Mistress of Pemberley...
To the remarkable writer Jane Austen and the wonderful 1995 BBC mini-series "Pride & Prejudice." Kudos to Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle, forever the best Darcy and Elizabeth!
Colm Feb 2019
A Tolstory was never for me
Nor an ounce of Frost on my fingertips found
In the complexities of Estlin’s dreams, I am
Not a man without my own Wit
Or Dunbarred from uncaging this, my own sound
Only to be let loose in a Field of youthful green
No I am nonesuch of these or be Twain
I am a storm to be you see
And here I've just been Dickinson around
Think less man, lessman

And Jane Austen won't write me back
**** sensibility
I need sensitivity
emotions
that pour
as black
as tar
from
the ashes
of our complexity.
Vamika Sinha May 2015
They didn't know that
her heart was perpetually on vacation,
stuffed
between the pages of Austen and
Murakami.

Yes, they loved her
autumn smiles, her conversations, even
the jazz ensembles of her
clothes. But her heart
was locked in the New York Public Library.

The distance was far
too great, the risk far
too much.
After all, this was the place where Paul
Varjak told Holly
he loved her
and all she did was look at him.
Spontaneous poetry.

— The End —