Poet I Am

Poet I am, perforce this must you see,
For thus I speak, and also thus I write,
Each careworn syllable in time’s despite,
And every subject of the verb “to be”
Injected in its post, reflexively.
Up in a garret, in weak candlelight,
I ponder deeply through the fulsome night,
Repairing to my narrow cot, weary.

I utilize this sonnet form, Sicilian,
And honour Petrarch’s pleasing passion so,
Our love for Laura, Lucie, Leah, Lillian,
Profound and pure, secure and sure to grow.
Poet I shall be, with my brain reptilian
Crawling through darkness, which is all we know.

The Parts That Sag

I thought at first it might be dysentery,
Then, when that passed, someone suggested tumours
And we looked up diseases, the four humours
(I’m sanguine, maybe even sanguinary),
Said prayers to the Extremely Sexy Mary,
Drank cocoa like the Aztecs, and spread rumours
About our unpaid wages and perfumers.
Something smelled bad, smelled too much like chokecherry.

Then we saw Freya there, French-kissing Zeus,
And Bodhisattva wearing German drag,
Trying to cover up the parts that sag.
I just ignored it all — it was no use:
Without an inkling, and with no excuse,
I told my friends, “Don’t worry. It’s jet lag.”

My Sweet Woodruff

I lost all my respect for you and yours
When disappointment caused your maiden aunt
To turn into a raving sycophant
Among the always-titivating bores,
Shining all their old shoetops, on all fours,
While they disparaged my sweet woodruff plant.
I say they’re overfull of precious cant,
Claiming they’re vegans — the lost carnivores!

I put sweet woodruff in my potpourri,
The good scent of vanilla, new-mown hay,
And virtue. Since day before yesterday
My room has been sweet-scented, pleasing me
With something better than your family,
Your captive hearts, and your flat feet of clay.

Every Time We Meet

Write me a letter if you must complain,
Since every time we meet things start to burn;
Events move past the point of no return.
Now, if there still was anything to gain
I’d make the effort, but it’s all in vain:
What’s there to understand? What’s left to learn?
Just this one thought, darling: best we adjourn
And live apart — here I’m thinking of Spain.

You were a beautiful but faithless bride:
The day before I ran, you still could thrill me,
And then that last evening you tried to kill me.
Was what we had still good? I can’t decide.
Now, every time we meet, I’m terrified,
So if you think I owe you something, bill me.