Queenly height

The remote worship of a woman
throwned out of their reach
plays a great part in men's lives,

but in most cases
the worshipper longs
for some queenly recognition,
some approving sign
by which his soul's sovereign
may cheer him
without descending
from her high place.




From Middlemarch by George Eliot (1871)
(originally written in prose).

Golden girl

In the summer stillness
your beautiful
feline gaze
hides mysterious thoughts
we'll never come to know.
Never was there a more confident
lovelier princess
more capable of making men's hearts
dissolve like pure snow.
Your golden silk hair
your petal-like skin
that youthful
determined
hint of a smile
the liquid blue in your eyes
and the handsome line
of your brow

would make Leonardo himself
think twice about his model
and bow.

Fate's tether

Imagine writing a line in a poem
thinking it's original
when in fact it's already been written
by somebody else
- and a proper poet at that.

Such candid wit,
that presumed accidental craft,
will seem too crafty
to anyone but you
(and if the opposite should happen
it would still be your fault).
No one will believe you,
of course:
an incredible coincidence
will never sell as much
as the pettiest,
lamest little fraud.

So, how can a minor poet
avoid such nasty inconvenience
as giving an intimate utterance
an already owned form?

Obviously, the only guaranteed way
would be to quit writing altogether.
But then he would have loved and lost...
And besides, what's left of life,
when we are no longer tied
to fate's tether?

Old fools revisited

Hands on their laps

or hanging lost

they behave nicely

trying to be good girls

and good boys

to earn that extra cookie

after tea.

They seem to concentrate

try to focus

but all they do is sit and wait

in snug acceptance

staring into space

hollowed out of hope

just waiting

in vague remembrance

of now meaningless shreds

of past life.

Ironically,

time can be so generous

when you no longer need it.