For J

There is no shortage of poems written by besotted men,
Extolling the virtues, real or imagined, of women with whom
They have fallen in love. I've composed a large pile
Of the things myself: heartfelt bleets and wounded howls,
Metaphors featuring mythical beings, objects in space,
And who knows what else, and I've even written a number
For you, but I must write another (because I'm besotted).
Love is like pain: it's there or it isn't; there's no point to
Trying to gauge its intensity. Do I love you more than
I have loved others? I've no way of knowing, but this
I do know: none of the others so loved in return;
None was so happy when I reappeared, and none,
To the best of my recollection, was half so beautiful
As you are. I could go on, but I don't think I will.
Here's one more poem to add to the pile. Anyone else
Who will read it will frown. "Is there no end to this
Type of verse?" There isn't. There won't be,
But I didn't write it for others. I wrote it for you.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 49 times
Written on 2018-10-28 at 14:19

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text