love – Page 2 – don't confuse the narrator

losing the thread

Amor, Amor
(after Garcilaso de la Vega)

Love offered me a cloth so fine and rich,
 with folds so ample, I could not refuse 
but sewed myself a habit, stitch by stitch.
 I find the garment shrinks with daily use:
 its generous measures pucker and draw tight,
 I suffocate where once I’d room to spare;
I stretch and strain to free myself, I fight, 
yet still the precious fabric will not tear.
Come, show me one who wants to cut these ties –
 these homespun tapes we fashion for our lives
 to bind ourselves to husbands or to wives –
 and I will show you one who’s spinning lies.
 Each wears the cloth he wove, though I confess 
I wonder if mine’s shroud or wedding dress.

Continue reading “losing the thread”

4-ever?

This bench in the village reminded me of the story about the little boy who told his aunt, “I love you millions and billions.”

“I love you, too, dear,” she replied.

At which he burst into tears, sobbing, “Only two?”

star’ku

Watching shooting stars,
your arm around my shoulders

No need for wishes

For those who are looking for more perseids, I posted a few other pieces on the subject of shooting stars this time last year.

In recent years, I’ve tended to do most of my reading while waiting in queues or while travelling. So far, I remain unconvinced by electronic ‘reading devices’, although having the complete works of Shakespeare on my phone does provide useful ‘comfort reading’ when waiting in the bank.

When flying, though, there’s altogether too much time when electronic devices have to be switched off; after all, if I can’t read during take off and landing, how am I supposed to distract myself? So I often read second-hand paperbacks that can simply be abandoned when finished.
Continue reading “notes for a love story”

of love and toothbrushes

in the glass beside the sink
my toothbrush
kisses yours

Having come across the above snippet in an old notebook, I was reminded of a definition of true love.

I couldn’t quite remember it, though, and it’s taken me nearly an hour to track it down; it wasn’t Shaw, as I had thought, but Somerset Maugham, in The Constant Wife.

Maugham’s works are presumably still in copyright, so not so easy to find on-line, and although I have the complete short stories and a couple of novels, I don’t have the plays. Finally, though, I have found the piece I was looking for.
Continue reading “of love and toothbrushes”