He says my comments on his verse are things engendered from a grudge or two but never notes explicitly just what these grudges are or how and why they make the things I say and demonstrate about his lack of art untrue.
I wonder if it’s something that he’ll ever do.
I’ll wager that the answer’s NO.
Just like the way he writes his imageless didactic “poetry”, in this regard he’ll stay all tell, no show.
Yesterday, a song upon the radio called into memory a crisp October Sunday morning when after we, both twenty-somethings then, awoke and breakfasted, you jacketed yourself in tweeds against the chill outside, and pulled your floppy hat around your hair into a flannel crown, put on your slender-fingered black kid gloves and wimpled up your face within a scarf that framed your chin and mouth (I said you looked just like a fetching nun), to come with me, adventure bound, to browse, togethering, the Portobello...
I’ve searched and searched your manifold submissions to this site. But I have never ever seen in what you write: that you have done what Alfred Douglas, Yeats, and many others deemed the poet’s job: and that’s to sunder hearts with honeyed words displaying rich invocatory and lyrical finesse, to make a woman tremble and be breathless with desire, and conjure wonder out of nothingness
Kiss by kiss I move across the landscape of your skin exploring then your valleys and your plains your rolling hills and mountainsides until I’ve mapped out in my senses with my tongue the secret paths and hidden trails that lead into your hungers and desires.
You are quite right to love a woman’s thighs if they are soft as eider down and smooth as any of the finest silks and free of weighted faults.
If so, then you are also right to praise and then exalt them as god’s gift to men, especially because their upper reaches verge into an easily accessible clitoraled orfice that has many powers that can render most men weak and prompt from them a cry of joy, and when explored impelled to leave their parents...
Her lithesome thighs bring out my sighs because of the convergence at the top of them into a cleft that’s called the honey pot, the very thing that makes all men from Adam on bereft of sense and so inclined, impelled, constrained to bury their desire in it up to the hilt and say aloud, assuming this was something made, and gifted from, above for pleasure and at times for love, “What hath God wrought?”.
My dancer dark, blue eyed, who has the power to lance me with desire with just the subtle way you bend your wrist within a port de bras: How wondrous it must be to breach, defy the surly bonds of gravity and come to feel within your sinews and your flesh what only angels know.