The Portrait of the Poetaster as a Man - Book X - Affectations of love

My love, I would not show this verse to thee,
Though not for wanting to advance my cause,
But as, all heart's wishes, bar one's, close yours,
I'd bow to you and ask my privacy.
So these, the words ne'er given you from me,
And were they sent, in modesty I'd pause,
But thus you leave me with an open clause
To praise your charms unto eternity.
So let me say that I am fond of you.
Exactly why, I neither know nor care.
Suffice to say a fondness of the heart.
Where on spectrum's fan? Platonic in hue.
Below sweet nothings is the normal share
That Cupid grants with asymmetric dart.

And if my words had her as their subject,
They'd deafen her to whom they are addressed
Because in spite of all, she's not possessed
Of will to hear from those whom love has wrecked.
It's not that she declines the ones abject,
But she's content in her delightful West
Nor cares to have her East's youth repossessed
And that because her heart's home lies perfect.
And should my verse approach with its ardour,
My rags of worth, associating thus,
With her pure heart, would form a dissonance;
What reason for a change of demeanour
To one accepting negative as plus
When she's already found her resonance.

And she would shy were she to know I wrote
And she would blush at honest love declared,
Just like suspicious fox would not be snared,
Although I do not trap, I write and note.
It's fair to say I stay too young to dote,
And thus my love from slavish wants is spared,
And she should feel no shame to be compared
To ever constant love which conquers rote.
The compliment - the mildest yoke to bear -
And yet perhaps in this she sees deceit
Or senses things whose shades she would not see.
I will ignore this ban, and say she's fair
A beauty tip to toe, from head to feet,
And offer her a height's simplicity.

And were I worthy words to whisper her
They'd fail in worth allowed in her address,
They would fall short and she should seek redress,
The words would miss perfection and would err.
Before love's first template I but falter,
And shown the universal I'm the less.
Can I compare the model that's peerless?
Language can only fail or else alter.
And thus revealed are worlds on worlds of worth,
And with the first I needs presume her ear,
And was this won my words need lack all flaws,
And could I overcome my spoken dearth,
The third of worlds is barred as needs her hear
The plea of one without deserving cause.

I would not wish for fear that want might breed
An imperfection in your heart's pure glaze
(Its gloss as sleek as ermine pelt displays)
Whose surface mirrors depths of measured deed.
And thus your heart should hear, not glance, my reed,
And need not know to you I give the bays,
Whilst manifold discovered pearls amaze
And prove your heart of finest fruit the seed.
Fair nature needn't praise the botanist
Who but depicts, recording form and mass,
May miss the inner worth that parts reveal;
Admiring specimens, no scientist
Would eat the peach that represents the class:
And thus I would not wish for my ideal.

In all this time I've wondered how you were
I've never doubted that you live and thrive
In some well suited fashion and derive
The best of now, not needing to defer.
I knew I'd never need a raconteur
To tell you're steeped in joy to be alive,
Succeed in bliss where others only strive,
Your grace emits self-satisfaction's purr.
Comparing this content with what I know
My life's effort appears untenable,
You beauty, me the unforgiven beast;
With my objectives seen by you as low,
And yours remaining unattainable,
You'd represent the most, and I the least.

Were drop of rain to see the printed page
And wonder at the ordered black and white,
But know the magic that is ink and type
Would smear if water trod upon its stage,
Would print enamoured drop decline its wage
And wish that it were dry so then it might
Partake of print without performing slight;
Would dry rain usher in another age?
So could I cast my love to such a mould
And trace my self-negation's asymptote,
Approaching none to add yet not to one?
I fear the feat can but be thought and told,
And trying would not even gain your vote,
Negation lacks an element of fun.

And from my heart I wring these lines to time,
Graffiti's scrawl is all that you would see;
To scratch into the wall, the way I do,
Disjointed verse, were in itself a crime;
To add insult to injury my rhyme
Attempts to sketch perfection, and would woo
When difference bars; these failings, one and two,
Should thus constrain my art to static mime:
I'd be a statue of a man who dives
Into the river of forgetfulness,
And I would seek Lethe, my eyes half closed,
A mind's cool dearth of beeless winter hives,
Prepared to leap, my face expressionless,
Heart torn between what's know and what's supposed.

Were I the strangest veg the world could grow
It would transpire that you were carnivore,
Although you would become a herbivore
If I were changed to Russian sturgeon's roe.
But I am not a caviar and so
Do neither tempt nor hold a worth in store;
I fear that you remain an omnivore
Without a taste for my rich stock of woe.
Although my love ignores your appetite
And shop's discarded goods still bear a price
However many times they've been marked down,
And only as it isn't fair or right
To gift a heart in trade as strands don't splice;
Though still I give you mine to make you frown.

And if the case falls out that you and me
Remain the last survivors of a war,
Both radiated, yet maintaining store,
Perhaps I'd show these lines of prosody
And yet preserve my anonymity
By saying that I knew the lines were poor
And claim I knew the author and his flaw,
That he addressed some belle of history.
A true oblivion, and love's reprieve -
H-bombs, shock waves, the apple of my eye -
For one of Dylan's they prepare the ground:
If jesting 'Let's go play Adam and Eve'
I'd be obliged to prompt you your reply:
'No thanks - just look what happened last time round'.

A veil of innocence, a bubbling rill,
This playful stream completes a wealth of charms,
And who'd deny soft spoken claims for balms
When they are coyly intimated still.
My veil of innocence, a different pill,
Akin to ignorance, the kind which harms
Both me and those enfolded in my arms
Through play of what would seem a stunted will.
And thus a mismatch of naivety:
Whatever latitude, whatever show,
Sweetness would but invite my bitterness;
Together, incompatibility;
I'd gift, a gain: you'd gift, increase of woe;
Such difference must preclude a happiness.

When God was granting gifts to chosen fair
He put a piece of glitter in your eye
The such as sparkles (star that lights the sky)
And with its glint suggests both charm and flair;
That spark at first reducing unaware
To putty, those who happen to but spy;
A beam or fire, the glowing rays belie
Perfection of the God that gifted flare.
And psychopharmaca induces glaze
And makes my eyes expressionless and dumb,
And though my heart is grasped in rapture's fits
You'd think me brain dead from my vacant gaze
That seems to say that every nerve is numb;
It can't make sense to join such opposites.

And I have known you dress with end effect
Of an Athena from the head of Zeus:
She fit for war - you only letting loose
Untamed desires which you alone direct;
And every stitch and fold and line, perfect,
You colour what you wear, mauves, blues or puce,
The blending borders merge, a melting mousse
Delighting palate, textured and select.
Dare I aspire to splendour such as this
When fashion's blaze intimidates and cows
A soul which was at times acclimatised
But now through hardship finds itself remiss
In duties paid to beauty, it avows?
I set myself to suffer tantalised.

And anyone who thinks a smile a smile
Need learn the variations in a set
That mark the pearl from ebony and jet,
Divide exception from the rank and file.
This learnt then learn objective facts are vile
Beside subjective feelings which, well met,
Convert a gall to manna, bounties net,
And add new worlds of worth which then beguile.
In this my love so strong that I'd regard
Objective tokens wholly by the by
And listen to the music of my heart:
Such smile echoes the strains sung by the bard
And speaks of love as words can only try
Each nuance used to sharpen Cupid's dart.

Some mixtures of qualities do not fit:
Valour and patience, nous and bookishness;
Although I've known one combination bless:
A woman's beauty merged with biting wit.
And having seen this blend of fired spirit
Exalted with feminine gracefulness
The other tigers roar but seem toothless,
Impressive, their tinsel can but flit.
To captivate attention with her looks,
And then to entertain with quips and wiles,
To silence one with glance or turn of phrase,
Encourage others, drawing as on hooks,
To conquer hearts and minds with sense and smiles;
Two faculties rolled into one amaze.

And talking of familiarity
With love and its geography and rules
Mine is a darkness lit by scattered gules,
Yours light, equal to your maturity.
And any join of day and night might see
The day eclipsed, its light turned blackened pools,
Or night banished, its cohort blinded fools;
Could opposites become a unity?
Despite my love I'd say the answer's no:
Such merger asks negation, me or you,
And I'd not love a frog from kissed princess.
It fails through me, so let my gules still glow,
I'll love what's bright and from my shade I'll rue
That matched I'd make our light to lifelessness.

And were your pity for me currency
(Monetary, not that which lets me live)
Your generosity would yearn to give
And still you'd not expend your treasury;
You'd buy whatever jewels and finery
Would add to making hearts competitive;
Sort pain and pleasure through luxury's sieve
And sift from silt the grain of harmony.
But gifts of heart are only golden dreams;
Your pity soothes but then exacerbates,
The fateful causes that produced it first.
Although it might dislodge supporting beams
You would be harsh but true, whose pity waits,
Until I gain a grace or fall, self cursed.

And that which strikes before all else is joy:
Although a thousand drinkers drink a drink
You'd be the one to glow as glasses clink
And gain the simple pleasure and enjoy.
You'd see the beauty in all, nought would cloy,
Not just in alcohol and in the pink,
But little things, a smile, a friendly wink:
Rote and your glitter forge a gold alloy.
And were this joie de vivre matched by me
I'd also laugh and play and raise my glass
But sadly joy and woe don't intertwine;
I think my existential misery
Must relegate me to a lower class:
You'd be the pearls, I'd have to be the swine.

Classification that's necessary
Is elemental, with me my own pyre:
I am the water that wants to be fire
And if I can't, I'll seek affinity.
I want and crave impossibility,
The opposite is object of desire,
You are the fire to whose love I aspire:
To me (before all else) contradictory.
My love might say that opposites attract,
My sense would talk of fire and water mixed,
And sense ignored I'd listen to my heart
And try arranging fire and water's pact,
And when it's obvious that can't be fixed
I would proceed to burn, and love the smart.

Shall I compare thee to the break of day?
Thou show more truthful promise, art more fair:
Some evil omens taint the hues dawns wear,
And daybreak is dispersed by constant ray:
Sometimes the eye of heav'n, hid from display,
And oft alone without combining flair:
And every gleam of beauty must despair,
To accident or time a due must pay.
But thy eternal splendour shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of thy grace and charms;
Nor shall Death boast a shaded ownership,
As thou, imagination's sphere, parade;
With each that reads and reading thought disarms,
A planted kiss upon thy living lip.

And if you granted me an audience
My nerves would get the better side of me
And I would anguish over company
The joy of which should banish reticence.
And would this angst be mark of deference?
Or be the fear of love, the fear of she
Who holds my heart in perpetuity
And whose desired dominion withers sense?
The fear is neither: I compare myself
With that which was, the flourish of the past
Which you recall, my present state uncouth
And like the cancer of my former self;
You show me my disease, I stand aghast:
Love, which should be my joy, reflects harsh truth.

To you there is a multitude of parts
And to each part variety of acts;
The pupil shines and largens or contracts;
The voice it speaks or sings and love imparts.
Each line and curve moved by your slightest arts
Has worth exceeding all my earthly tracts
(As each from your perfection but detracts)
And worth exceeding mine and many hearts.
And thus I fear a harsh comparison,
In trepidation I aspire to you
And offer sacrifice, my heart and verse,
And beg you take the whole, or some portion,
And hold me in your heart, a lovelorn shrew:
Though (in their worth) your heart and mine obverse.

And when I say that I aspire to you
I do not deem to dream equality
Nor think you anything but royalty
And me a nuisance of a fly to shoo.
As awe filled scholars from the greats imbue
The echoes of extant vivacity
Though quite aware that in reality
They'll never reach despite attaining to.
You are to me a work of genius
Revered and loved, also adorned with praise,
Perfection for which I can only yearn;
My study, loved labour of Sisyphus:
I hang on every point, then with one gaze
Which warms my heart, I learn new love to learn.

It's clear I'm not to you what you're to me:
No, I to all and all to me would show
The former nought, the latter nectar's flow,
In both equations there's asymmetry.
And what are you and what am I to be?
The seed and matted husk cannot both grow:
You earn your joy and I must know my woe,
In question there's no similarity.
And thus I can't connect what's yours and mine,
You rarefy my love which lacks purchase,
If but as then, we knew a shared desire;
We both have hearts (although your heart's divine),
I ask, could they be joined in lasting bliss?
Perhaps not. Odds ignored, I'll yet aspire.

You are the hearth that gives the gift of heat
I, firewood that desires to be consumed,
I wait beside the fire in warmth illumed
Obedient at my mistress's feet;
And added to the fire - my life complete;
But is the night too warm? Has spring time bloomed?
A log too many? Have expenses loomed?
Perhaps this fire is used to burning peat?
And through my love of you I know my aim
But this purpose must be reciprocal
Or else I'm left a key without a lock,
Discarded wood beside my fiery dame;
That said, the choice is yours to burn what fuel
You see as fit for your discerning stock.

I count on fingers all your positives
As they exceed the ten I move to toes
And when beyond the twenty number grows
I see that all become affirmatives,
Countless testaments to superlatives
And attestations beaming like rainbows
And glist'ning forth as dew on fresh blown rose;
This sum of some, the complemented gives.
And were my digits worth the worth they count
And seeped that worth from limb to trunk to heart
I might presume to show the love I know;
But as it stands I treasure drops from fount
Ignoring source and what your rills impart:
I'm caught upon the stasis of the flow.

Although in other times (they're fond recalled)
Your heart and mine knew an equality
There's now a marked superiority
Which always was: my heart belied, was walled.
If I remember mine was closed, yours called,
Then time unravelled asynchronously,
And mine was open like an injury
Its seeping exudate your heart appalled.
Now mine is healed and dry: reverential,
And recognises yours the better heart,
And mine not worthy to receive its balms;
In all of this the flow's not sequential;
I've given you a piece of verse: a start
In saying that you floored me with your charms.

There is your beauty, but also talent,
To find not each but both displayed in one,
It were as if the grace of God you'd won;
This pair they form a perfect complement.
You capture hearts without the will (unmeant),
And then you capture minds (as if for fun)
With demonstrations as to how it's done,
Exemplifying reach of mind's trained bent.
My love leaves me not knowing left from right;
I love you for your femininity:
I love you for your mastery of skill;
You're like the grove that shows both shade and light,
A work of art of mixed equality,
A choice to choose each side of which will fill.

And there are things your beauty shows to me
A love of life and evenness of mien
And though your attitude's one of disdain
It grants to me required humility;
Your heart instructs, mine is the devotee,
To condescend to mine it does not deign
But sets the example from which I gain,
One demonstrating rich simplicity.
And thus I owe a debt for what you show
One that I wish I could repay in kind
And as I cannot I resort to verse;
That you might read and reading learn to know
My heart and knowing it perhaps could find
Some worth in sow's ear claimed as silken purse.

I stand amazed by beauty in your face,
A noble countenance which does not mock
And shows the inward charm of which you've stock
The rest have linen, you present fine lace.
I stand and look upon perfected grace,
The way your delectations interlock
And make a fusion to which people flock,
Yours tell me I was born of different race.
And all attraction's seeds are sown by hearts,
And this of yours swells, magnifies the rest,
This which of yours God granted from above;
An aeon each to each the other parts
Devoting you all time, approaching best,
The age that's last should show your heart and love.

And I was captured by your beck'ning smile
And looks suggesting depths of playful joy
And your demeanour neither lax nor coy:
Pictured maturity, it did beguile;
Did I detect a woman's love of wile?
A still existent longing to enjoy?
A pleasure permanent that would not cloy?
I looked in hope and saw these three a while.
You thus with intimation won my heart,
Inviting promises did captivate,
Enticed with irresistible allure;
And in all this I still can't see my part
My role was passive - someone else's bait -
Laid on purpose - to burden - not to cure.

I wandered unaware of love for you
Until both years and more divided us;
And if I knew a love I made no fuss,
I sucked on country pleasures as swains do,
In me platonic innocences grew
And only now my thoughts form exodus
Towards your realms which turn me Tantalus
But teased with what I never knew I knew.
And were we once again the two I miss
I would declare what feelings moved my heart
And run the risk that I would isolate
But gain the chance to realise a bliss;
Recalling then, I never played the part,
And now I think on it it is too late.

You were the cynosure for your beauty,
But there was something else which some despise:
It was as if rocket fuel fired your eyes
Propelling shafts of light from you to me
And you aware of this with certainty,
And with this gift of glance you'd hypnotise;
And what the hand dare seize this fiery prize?
Who could aspire to its sublimity?
I fell in love with your optics and you,
We said we'd wed - I already promised,
And rationale chose the former vow,
I hadn't learnt yet 'Better none than two',
With lack of candour, jealousies surfaced,
And might again, had you the same eyes now.

Before all else, my love for you was pure,
And showed simplicity of soul and mind,
But absolute in that it was refined,
A proof requiring flame from you for sure;
It's true you caught me with a well known lure
Although you didn't think I was a find:
Regardless of the flotsam's play, you shined,
For Cupid's dart, you offered me a cure.
The love of you was that which armed the dart:
A womanhood with rightful certainty,
A woman knowing little want or need;
The lust was what propelled it to my heart:
A womanhood with liberality,
A woman reigning over act and deed.

I knew you in the besséd bliss of youth
And would have read you Donne's love poetry
Had I not known (or felt) with certainty
Your heart was not accustomed to such truth;
I read alone (for self invoking ruth)
And thought of you as you would never be,
Saw us depicted in the Extasie,
The break of day was real in verse, forsooth!
It is surprising with my odd ideas
That our affairs persisted past a fling
Or that indeed they started up at all;
Most strangely afterwards, and through the years,
There were echoes, which, pregnant of nothing,
Suggested rolling all into one ball.

Your shock of hair and eyes were red and green;
Your manners' meaning: provincial not prim;
And when we met I noticed you were trim,
The finest of your race I'd ever seen.
I was idiotic and drunk and keen
You drank but not enough to grant my whim
My quite unconscious love was full to brim
And friendship over years was my love's screen.
And in my heart I knew I was outclassed
By beauty, youth and your intelligence,
On catching sight of you, sure, I desired
Naivety of aspiration passed;
With growing knowledge of my ignorance
I wouldn't try to seize though I aspired.

I think I could have meant something to you
If not for drink and immaturity,
Which went together surreptitiously
And with this pair of ills my chances flew.
We kind of fell together, didn't woo,
Then for a time (mine passed idyllically)
We stayed a couple, but untypically;
And then we fell apart (we lacked a glue).
With you ahead of my experience
We smoked for England - joined in more than tar,
I came to know your close embrace and kiss.
Though now to recollect might cause offence
(For only Eliot may go this far)
Your bust filled promise of pneumatic bliss.

You effervesced, sublimed, did not recede,
You squeezed a glint of joy from everything,
Your smile, your turn of phrase, the slightest thing,
You showed a font of pleasures, yours the lead;
You knew your voice and mind and choice and deed,
Most liberated young woman living:
I would have sacrificed to anything
To join (though manacle) that which was freed.
Although our lips approached and touched to kiss
And though we both were equal in our youth
Dividing us somehow I felt an age:
You leaving as I entered where I'd miss
The glimpse of you that love had seen as truth:
A view of some fine player on fine stage.

The French have given names to lots of things,
As names suggest, their kissing is an art
With which they point and sharpen Cupid's dart
And leave the stung to hunger for what stings;
For them, what great advantages it brings:
The most unguarded access to the heart
Is quickly opened up in whole or part
To raise or dash a tinsel hope on wings.
I think you were not representative
(Although perhaps you were ... they only say ...)
Though France was home (of kissing you'd a grip);
Initial steps in love were tentative,
You kissed me once, then almost straight away,
Ideas contracted to 'relationship'.

I'd strongly doubt if you or I recall,
And though we met, the most of yours and mine
Was correspondence course with line on line
Of trivialities sent each to all.
The little jump of heart when post would call
Perhaps an invitation (not to dine)
And when together we would drink (not wine)
A faux pas then the drink might make me fall ...
And after our innocent letters ceased
The strangest situations through the years
Would bring your name to mind with little ground;
Maybe my stock of love for you increased
(Although I don't remember any tears)
And waxed because (quite simply) you were sound.

So it was: you were young and you were fit
(I'd go so far to say without a flaw)
You knew fine well that I was spoken for
Which just enhanced the pleasure gained from it.
I didn't win your grace with charm or wit
Your choice took charge and though we'd met before
(Though not like this) recalling I implore
Will any leave the final female hit?
And was I able to evade the blame?
It really matters not - the true is sage
A flitting love, and joy, fit hand in glove.
If I was young again I'd do the same
But I am old and wary of my age
And less distracted by the calls of love.

So my problem with love, as you can see,
Is not about her, but revolves round me.