June 9th, 2011


The recent series of 'these-are-not-love-poems' seems to be drawing to a close


So, we are done. You hinted - I said no,
although my verses talk of might have been.
The things a cold observer would have seen
amount to little. You are free to go.

I wish you joy with him. I really do.
He's trim and buff and loves you. All I'll say
Is, read my sonnets on some rainy day
years hence, and smile or weep. As to what's true

there's pose, pretense and sorrow, rhetoric
rueful self-mockery. You're a coquette
whose lips and teeth and eyes I'll not forget
as they fixed on me. And I learned the trick

of verse that flirts straight back. Love him – be good
You know I would have loved you if I could.

(no subject)

Lullaby 5

I'm back. Sleep on. I'll try to make no noise
enough to wake you. As I potter round
the kitchen, making tea, the only sound
will be the kettle. I know it annoys

you to be woken – I'll put camomile
there by the bed. In case you're half-awake
and thirsty. I'll stand still just for the sake
of watching you asleep, in case you smile.

You look so young – I want to wake you, kiss
your forehead then your lips. I go away.
These are the thoughts far better had by day.
How I regret the chances that I miss

and so resent the poems that I write
when I could do far better things at night.

(no subject)


Sometimes the sun is bright. For me it's grey
although my forehead's burning damp with sweat.
I'm sad so many days that I forget
storm, hail or drizzle will seem bright some day

when some switch in my head decides to flick.
Work helps. I get things done when I am sad
though playing solitaire – at which I'm bad -
happens a lot and makes me vaguely sick

and cheerfulness erupts when on the phone.
People amuse me. Trying to amuse
them back will often help me with these blues
better than trying to fix it on my own.

Love also helps – it's such a structured pain.
That's why I fall there, time and time again.