To my sweetheart
You are always the poem I have yet to write, not a sonnet or a kyrielle, as I know how to write those, you are the poem I don’t know how to write. I have words of love, maybe too many of them, or not enough – I don’t know. Should I employ iambic meter or battle with a more liberal free verse – I don’t know. Should I shadow you with words when I can’t even shadow my feelings. You are the poem I have yet to write.
Now that’s a start an echo of words. It’s not a poem though but a beginning of a poem that I have yet to write. So what if write you in highbrow expressions of intellectual thought painting words into an image of a moment. Impressionistic ideal captured in ink – of the moment, of one moment. I am left with the same dilemma as the moment changes and you are again the poem I have yet to write.
I don’t question I should write these wee writes each week – of you, of me, of whatever drifts into my empty mind, if anything. So I write each week, a moment in seven days and when I edit it has gone, it is the past and a new moment is waiting for my pen and that excites me, it terrifies me too. What if the words fail to come?
Is that not love – exciting and terrifying in one breath, in one moment. To live in the moment without the surety of certainty but the total belief in the righteousness of it. Perhaps that is unfair of me – I don’t know. For me love is divine and of the divine, it is the universal power and I am safe putting my faith in that and fate decides the rest.
My fate is you, my poem I have yet to write – and I know I will write it, and keep writing it.
All ways, always, your crazy-assed poet xxxx