Tag Archives: Romance

Sonnet IX: Thy Bounty

Posted by David Emeron on

Of mee, my love, hath she my bounty seen,
And hath she of this bounty seen but all;
Hath seen, as heard, and felt, my music play;
If that I love, or that were truly mine;

Hath watched me towering creations glean,
In theory penned, or realised, standing tall;
Hath known the speed at which, once under way,
Some skill, once undertaken, I refine;

Hath seen me write of love, or vent my spleen;
With verse or prose delight her or appal;
Hath she the whole of me, in full display;
Doth praise; with admiration, doth enshrine.

Between such adulation and enthral;
Pray, shall I tell, of that I know, of thine?

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

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Love Torn | Lyrical Love

Posted by David Emeron on

I wrote the following in response to RL King (Lady Day) , not intended it to be poetry, but with the intention of subverting my penchant for wordiness:

Anyone can write.
Anyone can show reality.
Or even bend it to the surreal.
Or to the abstract.
Even bend it to the romantic with your will.
Not everyone can see like this.

Not everyone can see
The romantic in reality.
Not everyone understands.
That to be romantic.
You do not have to bend reality.
You only have to see what is there.
And not ignore the romantic in it.

Just remember–
Just not forget to remember–
Remember not to forget–
Or pretend not to see–
Or pretend you don’t know–
Or deliberately deny–
Or malevolently distort–
What is actually there.

This is what you do when you write.
You see.
You see how it is all there.
If you are not sure it is real.
Because you do not know it directly.
If you simply are sure.
Like there is an instinct telling you.
An intuition.
You believe it.
Sometimes shyly
Sometimes boldly.

When you do this.
Others will see.
They will step forward.
Some will deny it.
But more will say:
“Yes. I see that too.
“I was afraid to tell anyone.
“How beautiful I thought it was.”

via Love Torn | Lyrical Love.

Such things sometimes appear synergistically in…

Posted by David Emeron on

…ways quite mysterious.  Today’s sonnet, and it’s companion are written in response or reflection to this post.  These few offhand words by Lady Day struck me a certain way–sparked, one might say a memory.  Regarding the nature of love, and work, and how, so very often, hard work is the very way, particularly among men, in which we most often express our love.  Need it be that way?  I do not believe myself to be a perfect judge of such things.  I will here state that it may depend somewhat on temperament.  I have found it in myself at times, to be necessary–or at least to seem so–to make myself harder and more practical–and this can, very naturally, push ones romantic nature to the back, while bringing to the fore ones desire to do such practical things as life may sometimes demand. Continue reading →

The case for Romantic Realism, and…

Posted by David Emeron on

…other bedtime stories.  This is in actuality not a formal “case-making” post.  However I do feel I have a thought or two which I would like to air. Not so much regarding poetry, as regarding writing and sensuality in general.

First, I shall add the quote of the original post  here: Continue reading →

Sonnet: Stardate – 50419.1…

Posted by David Emeron on

My love has wings–slender, feathered things–
With grace in upswept curve and tapered tip,
My love would soar–swiftly to adore–
So twisting ever toward, and graceful skip.

So dances she–round and round to be–
Enrapt to bring us care, to bind us kept,
My love should know–you, my love, bestow–
Your Own, as did He dance and graceful stepped.

For now as wed… They–Our Love has said–
Would bear us swiftly hence as spectral ships;
So lovely They–So lighted, Their display–
That would illuminate our Earthly trips.

And lovely see–you and I–as We…
Take flight, as when I tasted first your lips.

  • once more for Gene.

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Intro: 1996

Posted by David Emeron on

Only natural,
That I should try this modern
Canopian form.

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Sonnet: His Nightingale Woman

Posted by David Emeron on

My Love hath wings–slender, feathered things–
With grace in upswept curve and tapered tip.
My Love doth soar–swiftly to adore–
So twisting ever toward, and graceful skip.

So danceth She–round and round to thee–
Enrapt to bring us care, to bind us kept.
My Love doth know–thou, my love, bestow–
Thine Own, as did He dance and graceful stept.

For now as wed… They–Our Love hath said–
Would bear us hence anon as spectral ships;
So lovely They–so lighted, Their display–
T’would ere illuminate our Earthly trips.

And lovely, we–Love and I, and thee–
Take flight, as once I tasted first thy lips.

  • For Gene Roddenberry:
    And, to his memory;
    Who, in all probability,
    And, so very long ago,
    Penned the first two lines.

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