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Dim Apr 2018
to stay young in your heart you first should have one
and you better fill it up with some love
just a bit
because love is the secret ingredient
the pursuit of justice without love makes you cruel
the pursuit of truth without love makes you a heckler
the pursuit of god without love makes you a bigot
the pursuit of beauty without love makes you Humbert Humbert
power without love makes you a tyrant
honor without love makes you arrogant
wit without love makes you cunning
work without love makes you tired
care without love makes you brusque
talk without love makes you annoying
seriousness without love makes you boring
tenderness without love makes you mawkish
friendliness without love makes you fake
so
you better spice things up with some love
just a bit
Sharon Talbot Sep 2017
Favorite word: “nymphet”, but no!
Halcyon, a kind of drug, you know.
Searching through the pages’ mist
And imagined deeds
Of poets’ needs…
I found my favourite word,
As asked,
Neither sacred nor profane
That describes the Venetian rain
In my beloved’s eyes
And the Florentine sun upon her hair:
“Auburn, russet, mythopoeic”.
Oh, it is not fair,
To liken an object
Of my lust and love
To anything as mortal as autumn air!
Nor “October’s orchard Haze”;
She had her own
Inscrutable, premeditated ways!
Rather let me say that she was perfect,
Though her eyes, pale and myopic,
Her shuffling gait and
Graceless limbs, to them Grace lends
Fey charm, the power to mend
My suffering and
Delusions of a poet’s end
As anything but pathetic,
(Her mother’s fondness for vague emetics)
And I left softly hanging,
On a girl’s new taste,
A tang of russet apples on her face,
But no, not that, the sum
Of my love, My Lo!
Then her bleak demise, partly by my hand
That none of you brutes could understand;
The pure love,
So sadly consummated,
Between a lover
And the one she hated
Yet loved once with inexplicable delight,
On one stolen, frightened night…
In which the two of us agreed
To satisfy a simple, yet maniacal need,
And then depart…
But I could not,
You see;
She was my life,
My love, my heart.

Humbert Humbert 1950

Sharon Talbot ca. 2005
Obviously inspired by Vladimir Nabokov's controversial and perfectly written novel, ******. So many people fail to realize that, behind the monstrous deeds, there is a love story, however profane. Is it a tragedy? Perhaps. I just wanted to revel in some of Nabokov's prose and imagery, that changes so well into poetry.

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