The Love that Searches

O Aphrodite! Lend a line that fits
This un-romantic tongue. A polished phrase
The hips! the waist! the face! the hair! to praise.
A poet’s passion for these fingertips

Give me the words to mend a tender heart,
Turn jaded ears, or widen bright brown eyes
Wherein I sink so deep I disappear.
The whispers fit to blush a rosy cheek!

Remind me of the blind, untempered love
That launched us both in song, and let us fall
Fearless and strong, in one another’s arms
Replay that soundtrack, when we had it all

Or else — and weep! — the night we met to dine:
My hard-won words. His script he found online.

Just Verse

It seems the duty of a poet, now
To set in solemn phrases, words of weight:
Discourse on love — or oftener, on hate —
But always with a high and furrowed brow.

It seems the place for poets nowadays
Is either in the gallery, or pub:
The one, too fine for tainted mortal taste;
The other only fit for sweat and mud.

Our gift, too grave for light and lying tongues,
Too ancient for the fashions of today,
We’ll leave to more aesthetic lips and lungs:
Re-gift our hymns to souls that lift away.

Don’t think of those who fall! That sinful sound?
The fruit of labours profane, not profound.