Going on a date with a poet

One day, he swore,he would explore the west, track the settled sun until it surrendered to the blind-black sky, then follow its path by its reflection in the moon and stars. I shall be a solarnaut, a helionaut, an explorer of the wildest west, where the rivers meet the sanded sea, and the animals finally swim to their nirvana, eyes wide open to the shining ribbon on the squid-ink sea.

Well, I think the light over the gasworks is pretty neat, I said, regretting again going on a date with a poet.

Living with a poet

The nets on the quayside are not the wiles with which I charmed you. They’re nets. They’re not the fisherfolk’s dreamcatchers that took our ambition. They’re nets.

The dinghy bobbing on the incoming tide is not your spirit that soared when you first saw me at the party. It’s a boat. It’s not our hopes and dreams before the love tide turned. It’s a boat.

The gulls that swoop down on the flecks of foam are not poembirds. They’re gulls. They are not lyric snatchers from the frothing deep. They’re gulls.

My heart is not – my heart is not a cartoonish pink, arrow-pierced. It’s my heart. It’s not, I’m afraid, any words that you may say. It’s my heart. And yes, it’s broken, but it will mend.

Call yourself a poet

I think –
It’s been said before.
No, I –
Really, it has.
Well, what I’m trying to say –
It won’t be new.
If you’d just let me –
You have to make your voice heard.
I really –
You need to say something new, something never said, and you have to say it out loud.
Well –
Out loud. You need to say it –
I love you.

I love you.

I said, I love you. And that’s never been said before, not by me to you, not here, not now.
Be quiet. Stop now.