Tonight's Poet Corner: Love Theme
Love Theme
by Belinda Roddie
Oh, my heart! How it sings.
It recalls symphonies of strolls
in parks dank with dew and tears.
It pays homage to the bards
who serenaded women, poor
fools, beneath windows
in the dying dusk of night.
And as the sun rises, they
are left with both their chords
and discord. Passion stirs
irrationally, as the poets always
remind us. The stories we
compose from ink and nylon
strings only tell us of the first chapter.
Nothing more.
How, then, does the novel end?
We would hope like a fairy tale,
that "Happy ever after" epitaph
engraved on our tombstones, like
fairy dust sprinkled on a feverish forehead.
We wish for Hollywood. We receive
a small cinema house instead, though
the romance tastes just as sweet,
like Moscato, or Riesling.
But the palate only clings to this
cloying desire for so long.
We are disillusioned, for a time,
but at long last, we spot gold again
in sunsets. For as the sun sets, we
believe, deep down, that it will rise
the next morning, even without proof,
or humbling confidence. We have
love, in small doses. It's flavorless.
But it gives us life.
This poem was written in memoriam to the brilliant composer Ennio Morricone, who died today at the age of 91. The piece I linked in the title was the procession music for my wedding. Grazie, Ennio.
by Belinda Roddie
Oh, my heart! How it sings.
It recalls symphonies of strolls
in parks dank with dew and tears.
It pays homage to the bards
who serenaded women, poor
fools, beneath windows
in the dying dusk of night.
And as the sun rises, they
are left with both their chords
and discord. Passion stirs
irrationally, as the poets always
remind us. The stories we
compose from ink and nylon
strings only tell us of the first chapter.
Nothing more.
How, then, does the novel end?
We would hope like a fairy tale,
that "Happy ever after" epitaph
engraved on our tombstones, like
fairy dust sprinkled on a feverish forehead.
We wish for Hollywood. We receive
a small cinema house instead, though
the romance tastes just as sweet,
like Moscato, or Riesling.
But the palate only clings to this
cloying desire for so long.
We are disillusioned, for a time,
but at long last, we spot gold again
in sunsets. For as the sun sets, we
believe, deep down, that it will rise
the next morning, even without proof,
or humbling confidence. We have
love, in small doses. It's flavorless.
But it gives us life.
This poem was written in memoriam to the brilliant composer Ennio Morricone, who died today at the age of 91. The piece I linked in the title was the procession music for my wedding. Grazie, Ennio.
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