Subtitle: In which I explore the tension between corporal love and artistic love. This is a poem of Aristotelian mimicry and postmodernist intertextuality.
Those who like a handkerchief drop
And fall in love,
I envy you.
And those who for their coy mistresses
Have world enough,
I envy you.
My feet don't fit in Romeo boots,
A sighing furnace I scarce be.
So though you may walk in beauty,
Don't hold your tongue in hope of love -
For when you think I am loving,
I am not drowning but waving.
Though in the past, many a once
A phantom of delight I met,
A red, red rose,
A summer's day,
A lover to me could have been -
Then what can ail me? But,
The ice was all between.
The moment froze,
And she stayed fair:
And no lovers gone in the storm.
When I arise from dreams of you,
All passion spent,
Exacting love;
A hollow head, my muse is fled.
Now what verses compose I can?
Diction-less I raid the treasures -
Stoic lover turned marauder -
The realms of gold,
The Gods above,
Until in words from Amareh
My love's consummation I saw.
My muse! My love!
"I'll hide within my poems as I write them,
Hoping to kiss your lips as you recite them."
An interesting analysis. While lovers tend to think we can be swayed by other loves, more often than not it's our vocations or avocations that get in the way of corporal love.
Erotic Interracial/ Reincarnation/ Suspense]
Gale Sinclair is a marriage counselor who has broken the cardinal rule of psychotherapy and fallen in love with his client, Zoelle Sutherland.
In the predawn hours during a solitary ride on her ranch, Montana Freeborn collides with Seth Phoenix, centaur-turned-man and the embodiment of her psychic visions.
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Amit
Well written and challenging to understand.
Ron