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?
Can one know any
by his words so written down,
or her diary?
Her silent feet would pace the night away,
(This feline, onyx, crost my path apace;)
From thwarting silence, thoughts of lost love stray,
(Though padding softly, sporting lost love’s face.)
Appeared she, lofty, when I saw her then.
(Though not sincerely real, an I lament)
I felt her smile, soft; I feel, as when…
(We dwelt in hours, not of ours, spent.)
Love of my heart, O whither hast thou gone!
(Doth silent now and withered step thy wake;)
How empty hath thy pedestal, thereon,
(Condemnt our path–recalleth our mistake.)
But no! lamenting love were wrong; but O!
Unspent, thy steps have left me, long ago.
Lost so quietly,
as such things usually go;
does one ever know?
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.
David Emeron: Sonnets 