Wrote, of that I wrote
Within a thought once within,
Without is without.
Always it began,
As reliable as though
It ran like clockwork,
My love, did I sit,
Outside, under an awning,
Watched and listened as it rained.
And sometimes, I cried;
All my tears, all my ink, mixed;
And wrote I such things:
Can I know or see a life completely
Through a man’s written word? Not unduly;
Suppose, they have been blurred, and not truly
Intended for me. Nor, though discreetly,
Read of she, her diary, so sweetly
Not a thread of insight nor pathos, nor
A fresh new idea, even hated. More
Of which I name, created? Completely?
Even understand it partly? No I
Think not. Knows my heart Miller by reading
The Tropic he wrought, or Baudelaire from
His Fleurs du Mal? We know, nor care not, why;
And whereupon shall man’s words know heeding;
We merely learn what we, must needs, become?
Alas, though I have searched throughout the nation,
Finding none alive as fair as she;
I thought, most certainly, that some would be
As they, who might approximate her station.
But, there lived not one in all creation;
Not withstanding that, already, we
Have formed a bond unbreakable. To thee
I’m joined, yet none awakened one temptation
That could steal my heart, from thee, away.
Such hurt do now I feel–when I renew
My certainty–for other men, who yet
May never know the firmament to sway
Upon the merest trace of she; forgetting
Time, while they, as mee, their hearts, pursue.
I pity these men
who will never find a love
such as I with thee.
For Thou art she from whom my Manna flows
And Thou art she for whom I do exist
For Thee I have become a hedonist
For Thee Mine own Desire always grows
For Thou art She from whom my Love arose
And Thou art She with whom I do entwist
For Thee I live with Joy from tryst to tryst
For Thee I Write all Poetry and Prose
For Thee I undertake the mundane world
For Thee I go about my daily deeds
For Thee I show my inner self unfurled
For Thee I set aside all other needs
For Thee I Undertake the Pain to Learn
And Thee To Whom I Someday Will Return
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
When I think back through
Those many decades behind us,
I feel lucky and quite foolish
For as each passed by,
It made much more clear
That there was no circumstance
So burdensome that it should keep us
From the place, from the one,
Where we, both of us,
Belong.
But cleft in twain my heart still yearns for thee;
I yearn to see the magic of thy smile;
I long to hear and see the dreams which we
Have always manifested; all the while
Denying to our other worlds the fact
That this discreet perfection had a name.
It lived, in every thought and deed and act
Which in our lives the other would proclaim.
It cannot be enough to kiss and hold;
For it is thee with whom I am in love.
I love not even life as much as thee.
I only dream of when I may behold
My sweet companion–whom I hold above
All earthly deeds–this sister who loves me.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
David Emeron: Sonnets 