A Book of Serenades and Regrets.

   Mary Magdaline in Ecstacy….by Caravaggio.

With the colours of Venus’ palette.

With the palette of Venus I would paint the skies,

Pastel colours gentle for the rising dawn,

That reflect the soft, pearling ivory of her brow.

Wild flowing yellows and bright blue of high noon,

Best describe her vivacious moods!

But of the reserved evening I save my best portrait,

Working with soft, ombre shades of dusky slate,

Would with love’s vigour, brush night’s encroaching skies,

Bestowing a temptress’s grace to her dark, disquiet eyes….

*

We are Born to Love.

If we were born,

To never love, nor feel pain,

From bruised flesh, broken heart,

All in vain.

We would be born,

With blood cold as stone,

Beauty never to be known,

And an exterior skeleton.

A fate predetermined from our birth,

Toward an undesirable death..

In short..it would be hell on earth.

So. . .

Let me laugh, let me weep,

Should I cry myself to sleep,

Then may I wake to a bright, fresh day,

To start anew life’s loving forays.

*

A Prayer to Aphrodite.

Thou art Venus, graceful evening star,

Your light flows over the curve of the sky,

Deliver please, thou sweet light unto me.

Throw upon me, Aphrodite a favour, aye.

Sweep away dull shadows that hide her hips,

Let soft glow fall on rose tender tips,

Of breast, brow, limbs, yea, even every toe..

Allow thee light to a place only lovers go.

Give grace to her dark, disquiet eyes,

Warning threat of dire unpleasantries,

Should’st one trespass oh too keenly,

Upon that revered altar of Aphrodite.

Verily I pray unto thee, O’ evening star,

Grant me on one knee, your full grace ,

Throw benevolent light upon mine humble face,

And desire my love return me soon, her warm embrace.

*

Such elegant beauty.

[Amelie Gautreau, Painted by John Singer Sargent..1884]

True beauty cannot age in this painting held sincere,

Of such delight even after one hundred and fifty years.

Let other men ogle and froth over a film star queen,

I have you, my absolute delight, to finger-tip touch on the screen.

Though your person be long gone into the corruption of the grave,

I hold faith to this image perfect, so perfect, of my fair maid.

I cannot for the life of me remember what vision splendid be,

Better for the tone of ivory touched skin, nor delight imagined within

Such a splendid volume of gown with all the grace thou hath worn.

Fortune itself preserves down time via the artists brush or poem,

To deliver gently to me such beauty when thyself is so long gone.

Timeless is the natural purity of a vision splendid from Nefertiti,

Herself a cause célèbre before even the wiliness of Cleopatra,

With her beauty did stupefy both Antony and the great Caesar,

So did a natural gift granted in excessive splendour lead her,

As with any woman graced of perfect curvaceous body armour,

To take as given and earned gifts of a legion of besotted admirers,

Thrown carelessly at her feet along with volumes of flattery,

Would drown in an ocean of adjectives the nine lives of a cat,

But in the end, there is but herself, undisputed beauty,

Fixed in a silent, stilled, forever young loveliness..and that is that.

*

Love’s Embrace.

I was badly wounded from Love’s last embrace,

My fault for flying too close to the Sun’s passionate face,

Where declarations of sweet joy, sweet love,

Were lost and discarded along with loss of face,

For one does say such silly things whilst in love’s embrace.

Wounded, yes..let there be no contrary debate,

Cut, diced and spliced then skewered on scorn’s sharp stake!

And I swore there and then t’would be the last mistake,

“The last mistake”..heh!..how many times THAT relate?

But then time and loneliness lays its clawing hand,

Makes to one’s heart that exquisite demand,

To venture once more into such dangerous land,

Of adventures of the soul, the heart, again; another last stand.

For how does one idle away those tedious hours of the day,

Alone..save lovely memories of dancing the antic hay?

But that’s it….I have to fall in love..don’t y’see..

I have no other choice but to fall in love..

I HAVE to fall in love…..aye,

Even if this time it’s only just with me.

*

Love poems to a woman.

Where the natural beauty?

Where does nature’s beauty lie,

In the silhouettes of the trees, as I wander by?

In her coursing fields and wide, open skies,

Or is it in the clarion call of a cockatoo’s cry?

Where does one seek such beauty?

Is it in deep silence of the night,

In its vast splendour and quiet delight,

In the dazzling colours of sunshine..aye!

Or perhaps the rustle of Mallee trees on a windy day?

But for me it is not of these things…

Not in the trees nor heaven’s stars,

Nor the deep silence of night’s sky,

For me beauty gently lays, sleepy, and shy,

Therein the soft, beating heart, of my lover it lies.

When can I see these things?

In the morning as my lover wakes,

From the moment first breath on breath she takes,

As from my finger on her brow I stroke,

Moving her fringe so her eyes I contemplate.

So, where the beauty?

Not solely in the physical do I see,

But in a woman’s voice, sweetly, as she speaks my name

With love in her eyes when she looks to me,

Giving hint of women’s contract with eternity…

Therein lies the true beauty.

*

Confetti in the Wind.

I write reams of poetry for my lover,

What else can a poet seeking favour do?

Sweet words of affection tumbling one over the other,

Each phrase wrestling first place to hold her favour.

Adjectives in wide-eyed wonder seeking her grace..

Her name following each in pride of place,

But woe to a poet’s forlorn struggle,

With intent of every emotion a work of art,

But I ask if the pain is value for the trouble,

Fain my whispers could penetrate that cold, cold heart,

And my sweet cues not left scattered, dead at her feet,

Arrows of affection blunted and dull..mocked in defeat,

Blown, the soft rhythm of my rhymes, smoke from candle dimmed,

Far, far away..as pretty as petals of confetti tumbling in the wind.

*

Passing of a Summer Love.

Saw her there in the mall, me on this side her the other,

I was sitting, watching the crowd, waiting for my brother,

Saw her, but not her me..and that’s best it stay,

For it ended years ago in enmity, best let it lay.

Not that we quarrelled openly, hurtfully,

But rather, the animosity grew, a tumour on friendship.

Until it died a quiet death, did that relationship,

No dramatic outburst, more a withering on the vine,

As leaves gently fade to primrose come Autumn,

Soft falling as Vesper prayers whisp’d from a nun’s lips,

In the stulled, mulling air of cloister and dark sacrist’,

Best leave it there..

Not that I didn’t suffer a little from guilt of care,

For each of us exchanged secrets, held in trust,

That could, with careless concern, burn both of us,

But some things lost are best accepted as traded fair.

And anyway..

It was a time she suffered no greying and I..hah!..I had thicker hair.

*

You may desire, but you may not “want”…

Do you think she’ll grow impatient,

And consider her scorn remiss?

Will her wounded heart ever soften,

My serenading, she’ll sometimes miss?

Or will her hot-heated words,

That cut like a carbon-steel blade..

Remain embedded in her eyes,

When once such sweet love was made.

Was it because I wanted her body,

Rather than desire her love?

“Want”, being that frustrated hunger,

For some things we may not have?

Should I rather have desired herself,

Seeking for that certain soul-mate?

Seeking for that sensitive moment,

Restraining from impulsive torment?

Her presence and appealing attire,

Frames the eroticism of my senses,

Forcing from my lips sensual chant,

Unheeding the warning of “shan’t”,

Rejecting that brutal hunger of “want,”

Making me close my eyes and desire,

To embrace into a wanting heart,

A much warmer, slow-burning fire..

And in truth..the better place to start.

*

Lay with me . . .

Lay with me my love,

And let our limbs entwine,

Tight fitting.. as fingers in a glove,

Lay with me my love,

Lay with me . . .

So our bodies together cocoon,

Locked as a couplet of pale, silvered spoons,

Lay with me and we will re-live,

Memories of a youth lost in loving,

In the old flat down “The Bay”,

When all that was needed,

Was sunshine..sandy beach and,

Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord” on vinyl,

With – all – the – time – in – the – world,

For us together to “dance the antic hay”!

Just the memory of that one sweet moment,

Give more than valid reason to say,

“Those.. those were the days!”

*

The Agony & The Ecstasy.

A couplet of poems.

Part one ; The Agony.

Jealousy.

‘Tis jealousy’s finger, I’m certain,

Shapes my thoughts, turns my mind,

Its persuasive strokes caress a concern,

And causes me discomfort inside,

But why not?

Do we not treasure what we value,

So that it holds precious to our parts?

Should a lover not also covert,

Such protection for an aching heart?

What lie is it we tell ourselves,

That our person is without envy within,

No disquiet, no worry, neither suspicion nor sin?

But stay..stay..my jealousy is but a quiet thing,

Held privately, of a part, inside my wretched heart,

To reflect within on mine own failing,

For could I have been the better lover,

Better conversationalist, generous provider?

But no…just as faith wears thin,

From a futility of too much praying,

So too affection blanches away

From love’s prolonged overstaying,

For what possession really can be owned,

When one is but a voyeur seeing,

Those private delights a lover displays,

With some private moment’s viewing.

Then let my jealousy be a trophy,

To cupid’s arrows shafted accurately,

For I can now but turn my eyes askance,

Cold loneliness flow on from lost romance,

While witnessing her warmly embracing,

A new lover to her so delightfully entranced.

*

The Agony & The Ecstasy.

A couplet of poems.

Part #2..The Ecstasy.

A new love.

Faith!…hold true, sweet Aphrodite,

For what you have brought to me.

The raptured joy of new love,

A celebration of joined ecstasy.

But this woman is so precious,

With eyes deep, dark, mysterious,

As black, black pearls from the depths,

Of the deepest of the Euxine Sea!

Her lips a red voluptuousness,

Would kiss the life from me!

Reborn me then with her body lush.

In a rush of pure, heightened ecstasy.

The erotic..Eros..has taken me,

To a place of concealed beauty,

That place where unfeigned lovers go,

Each other to other embracing,

Without shame, without fear, all aglow.

Her long hair falling just right,

Covering those curves of pure delight,

Impertinent in desire to see thee

Naked in sensual erotica, forgive me,

A man who has bask’d his eyes,

Upon vision splendid and desires more,

More of thou’s adorned bodily delights,

To drink thirstily your well of sweet water,

To banquet gluttonously of thou’s gourmet body.

To see your peachy cheeks shining into my eyes,

 A full moon in clear skies..took my breath away,

I kiss it..I kiss it!….fair maid I swoon I must say.

I am but a man who hungers the absolution,

Of thy woman’s erotic, sexual blessings.

*

The Flight of Icarus.

The fall of Icarus has a legion of metaphorical interpretations…so I will add mine in that I believe those ancient Greeks were a bit more basic in their meanings and I too will go for the basic instinct in man and interpret the myth as a desire for the erotic and in delving too deep into the pleasures of female erotica, the young man…indeed ANY man will risk falling from grace and drowning in a despair of sorrowful loss..

The Flight of Icarus.

Wash over me balm of my soul,

Wash over me as sea-waves over shoal,

While I lay me here in my nights alone,

In refuge from waging a long war done,

The burns and wounds that you see,

Are remnants of a battle so, so weary.

What make of man does this man become,

Who has flown much too close to the Sun,

A fool, a jester, maybe a warrior undone?

Like Icarus whose vanity drew him too,

Seeking joys and elation calling him also.

Songs and arising cries from Siren’s Isles,

The warnings given by his father and elder men,

On deaf ears they fell for thrill of such flight

Of fancy, hungering toward erotic nights,

Flew him likewise too close to that Sun,

Too close to the heat of a woman in cheongsam .

Whose warmth and comforts coaxed him on,

To forsake all wisdom, all reason abandoned,

Flattered his manhood, melted all caution,

So to lose free flight, tumble, fall and drown.

Such is the fate avowed men so disdained,

Rejected, betrayed, or perhaps disowned.

Icarus, thou foolish youth indeed,

Were you not warned, why not heed,

Caution your desire, temper your needs,

Lest such sad fortune comfort thine enemies?

But alas such promises of sensual delight,

Lure greater by far than wisdom’s pale enlight’,

And the enticements of such wonderous flesh,

In wanton display will never redress,

What drives a man toward her state of undress,

So yes….

What becomes a man as a man so scorned,

Who has traded home, heart and hearth,

For the desires of a woman would be him done,

Recklessly, foolishly, again, and again…

Flying too close.. MUCH too close to that Sun?

*

The Slight of Aphrodite.

With love betrayed, all reason to stay
And substance for existence gone.
Now…; falling, falling away..
Without sound nor purpose,
To lay like Autumn leaves forlorn,
On the forest floor…
With our eyes turned
From salvation’s door,
Do we strike out alone, down barren roads?
Under the stern disdain
Of the slight of Aphrodite.

*

Love..Hurt..Redemption.

Amare – Love.

Nocere – Hurt.

Redemptionis – Redemption.

*

Amare – Love.

Should it happen, that curiosity was to ask me,

What need drives you to write such turgid poetry,

I believe I’d be hard-pressed to give answer logically,

Except to say I am driven by a thread attached to me.

A thread invisible to the eye, words, emotions, symmetry..

That draws together feelings so difficult to explain in plain prosetry,

Ariadne’s golden thread through the labyrinth of relationships.

And in that eureka moment of discovery,

Everything changes..for in that instant,

What was dull..shines, tedious..exciting, mundane..delights,

All is turned on its head..one springs from bed,

Ready and keen to face the world..All is hooray!

Can there be enough hours in the day..?

Likewise is the love of so many things,

Be it country, family, culture.. that special occasion.

Surely it is that woven thread of sensitive familiarity,

The eyes, the soul, the heavenly spirituality,

That beckons the heart to risk all for companionship,

Lest a thing so precious is wrenched from our grasp!

That, is the best I can make of this mystery called “Love”.

*

Nocere – Hurt.

“It is dangerous to love too much”, my mother warned,

And I could see in her eyes a hungered look of forlorn,

For I wondered on such an unsolicited confidance,

Could it be from an experienced and hurtful incident,

Or warning to beware of too impulsive involvement?

It aches, the ending of a loving affair..it aches after all,

It aches, it aches and aches and aches and aches and aches..

But how to explain such conundrum when it in kind so enthrals,

Can it be that cautious doubt in restraining giving one’s all,

A kind of dread of associating too close lest it brings sad fall?

For with deepest love there comes packaging wrapped in fear,

Whom among us is so cocksure of their being so revered..

So that when the hurt comes we’re not so quick to censure.

For it does hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt incessantly..

Regret, the condiment that burns the heart, tortures the memory.

To relive the moment best recalled that once sung so pleasantly,

The ecstasy fulfilled, the sweetness devoured, desire revealed!

Then to have it taken away in but a moment,

A misplaced word, misconstrued meaning, a foolish thing to blurt,

Gone now, left with nothing but static memory..and the hurt, the hurt.

*

Redemptionis – Redemption.

Sages of old did frame the line; ‘time heals all wounds’,

‘Tis a given to be gracious in wanting to be kind,

Spare the sinner, spare the song, spare the soul all along,

To purge the memory of how desire went so wrong,

Can we take it all back..redeem that which shouldn’t belong?

Did I tho’ not strive to give shape and form to that sin,

Held out as tempting promise by Eve ere life had just begun?

Is there for a whole man a more enthralling temptation,

Fain would regret, cast the entire memory away, seeking redemption?

But that would be lying, denying, allaying what was my intention,

For in truth, there’s enough memory there to inform a legion,

Of sinners and a portfolio of delights to satiate the sincerest voyeur.

Is there truly space in a man’s heart to accommodate redemption,

When in the next moment he suffers again, want and tempting,

Lest he so desires, that one cause, that holds his attention,

Driving his thoughts toward inevitable confrontation..

Mea culpa, mea culpa….mea voluntarium culpa!

With intentions seeking out the most voluptuous situations,

When all the while stumbling toward salacious attraction,

How..HOW, can one in such an impossible position pursue redemption?

*

The Last Serenade.

Serenade.

Spare a thought for the singer,

His song woven and sung from the heartstrings,

With care of a lace-maker’s dexterous fingers,

Teased from the bobbin to the flounce,

Each chosen adjective a picot stitched,

With all the warmth and touch of a besotted lover.

Spare a thought for the player.

Whose ear is tuned to the tremulous harmony,

Whose voice flatters soft melody,

Whose eyes only one sight to see,

When music and word form in lyrical ecstasy,

With eyes focused solely to thee.

Spare a thought for what could’ve been,

Had not a cynical age come between,

Had not resentment spoiled the minstrel’s song,

Had not scorn and mockery come along,

No more will the minstrel sing his song,

The lover’s serenade is silenced….done.

Now do searching lovers meet,

Upon crass “dating aps”, self-flattering tweets,

Distrust, disgust, so many vulgar greets,

Sneering, sniggering dark-corner creeps,

Giving lie to what true love does seek,

No lover’s songs serenading sweet,

The scent of love has gone rancid….the minstrel weeps!