The plant you gave so lovingly Is dying on my windowsill. I swear it’s not a metaphor, It’s just a drooping hellebore. I tend the plant so lovingly, And steadily it goes downhill. I swear its thrips and fungal pus Are meaningless in terms of us. This poor maltreated gift you chose, This sacrificial Lenten rose, Is no barometer of woes That gnarls and twists and guilts. It’s just a plant in dying throes That cannot blame or presuppose. The only thing this flower shows Is soil that’s poor in silts. I swear our love still blooms and grows, As surely as this other wilts. Whatever the bards or historians say, It’s not the pot-plant of Dorian Gray.
We shared a kiss at Cautley Spout, Amid the rush and spray – The waters leapt and splashed about And we were swept away. We fell in love at Hardraw Force, The falls upon the fells, And watched the beck descend its course With tinkling wedding bells. We were engaged at Corra Linn, Beside the change of grade. We took the plunge and dived right in, And let our hearts cascade. There’s something in the water That attracts us to each weir. We’ll face a fair few cataracts, But never shed a tear !
She asked if we could correspond – She asked of me in Garamond. She wrote how long her pen had dried – She wrote it out in Franklin Wide. She thought my slugs were growing cold – She thought me that in Goudy Old. She wept how I was needed back – She wept it all in Cooper Black.
She’d search through slab and Monolith To strike upon her perfect glyph, And thought I could be just her type: A heavyweight, not Candy Stripe. When I wrote back, she liked my scans – No Dingbat, I, nor Comic Sans – My quick brown fox was framed and pressed, And from her font my text was blessed.
She inked her heart across my page, Italicized, in 10-point gauge, In boring secretarial – But god, I loved that Arial. I flew upon its static chill, As if she’d signed in Baskerville. Her monotype shall answer me As fine as Blackface Chancery.
Composited in forme and mould, Our love is set in Gothic Bold – We’re written on such plates as these, My mistress of the matrices. I place my serifs on your sort, Your metal hot, your kerning taught. You shape my bowl and soothe my stem: My Century, my Requiem.
Carrots, caulis, spuds…I’ll need some more, A pack of coffee – fairtrade ? It should say. They’ve haven’t any left ? Well, that’s a bore. A loaf of sliced should last till Saturday, Three pints of milk, or should I get-in four ? It’s only sold in litres, anyway.
A rosy apple keeps the doc away, Although, I ought to see the dentist more… Oh yes, some roses for the special day, And juicy steak – perhaps some sirloin boar. The things we have to do to simply say The things we’ve said so many times before.
Honestly, what do we do this for ? Did great-great-grandmama, back in the day ? And must our children’s children evermore, Until the very Earth has given way ? But who would ever wish to be that bore ? And so we bite our tongues and never say.
Is money to be made from love ? I’ll say ! It brings our brashful boasting to the fore: We peacocks strut and dance the night away And when we’ve had enough, we cry for more. But better to be Caesar for a day, And when the tide must rise, to ride its bore !
But don’t let bonhomie become the boor, Who talks too loud and always gets his way By swinging round a verbal two-be-four – Instead, let your initials have their say When paired upon a lovers’ sycamore. But there I go, just jawing on all day.
Now strawberries are good for five-a-day – Such passion-fruit the steamy hothouse bore… Champagne, of course – is this a good one, say ? No garlic, though…oh my, it’s almost four ! I need to get this supper underway, To let my wife become my paramour.
I try to extol your virtue – And oh, what virtue, fulsome virtue ! But though I rack till I hurt, you Form no vision or flirt. And all my labours exert to Bring on nothing but dirt, With nary a trickle or spurt to Dapple your laundered skirt. Your beauties just won’t blurt through – From I, your lover inert.
You slide your shank in slow and smooth, To dock upon the centre-post – And now a gentle twist affords To ease your teeth between my wards. Your bit precise in ev’ry groove, Your diamond-pick a torsion ghost: A skeleton to probe my fob, And whispers through – an inside job.
You push your shaft deep in the plug, And stroke my barrel from within. My tumbler spins, my cams engage, My deadbolts throw and springs assuage. My keyway holds your bittings snug To activate each driver-pin To line the shear as each is shipped – Then enter in – my locks are tripped.
How much do I love you ? More than a little, but less than hyperbole, More than a tittle, but less than some verbally Spewing of sugary platitudes oozily, Brewing its treacly flatitudes boozily. Not I, my love, to quack with such canards unchecked – I love you so much for your questioning intellect. How much do I love you ? Too much for such plundering – I love you this much for your wonderous wondering.
How much do I love you ? More than a fancy, but less than the stars, More than some chancy allusion that jars. More than a sunset ? A pointless debate, To score and gauge beauty by some common rate. Not I, my love, to shatter the laws of the galaxy – I love you so much for your mocking of poetic fallacy. How much do I love you ? Such answers are always a crutch – I love you too much for me ever to tell you how much.
As she wakes to the wrench of the radio’s blare, She’s not there. As she tries to decide on the blouse she should wear, She’s not there. As she dawdles her breakfast of yoghurt and pear, As she spends all her morning with coffee and stare, As she foregoes her lunch for pilates with Claire, She’s not there. And all her afternoon that passes in her chair, And on the bus and on the train while fishing for her fare, And waiting at the checkout as she vaguely winds her hair, She is always and never quite there.
On the second morning afterly The Feast of Middle-Winter, I walked-out with my true-love Through the brittle lambent-glinter – I walked-out with my true-love Till our cheeks were flush with pinking, And I asked my wind-teased beauty To me whisper of her thinking. The said she thought of Crystal Jack, A diligent delinquent, Who caught the sun and shone it back As glistered-golden clinquant. I walked-out with my true-love ’Cross the sparkled, gelid loam, And so we warmed each other’s breaths Until the starlings bid us home.
Bad girl Ellie – dangerous to friend, Hanging around with her trouble-brewing sort, They always knew how she’d turn out in the end.
Not an easy woman to defend – Probably at what she really shouldn’t ought. Bad girl Ellie – dangerous to friend.
Build your hopes up – and watch them all descend. Hanging around her will only get you caught. They always knew how she’d turn out in the end.
Seeking action ? How much can you spend ? Probably life for the trouble you just bought. Bad girl Ellie – dangerous to friend.
Sex and menace – hazardous to blend: Hanging around, and you quaff her by the quart. They always knew how she’d turn out in the end.
So they tell me – none would recommend. Probably wise, but I’ll take my chance to sport With bad girl Ellie – dangerous to friend – I can’t wait to see how she turns out in the end.
Rhyming Couplets 