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My multi-lingual lover,
a cultural aesthete,
recited to me poetry
whilst in love's heat:
the soliloquy from Hamlet
in a brogue of Northern France;
Daffodils by Wordsworth
in a language of Romance.
There was once a period
when for a whole week
erotic temple chants
were sung in Classic Greek.
For her traditional poetry,
always stressing the rhyme,
keeping strictly to its rhythm,
moving strictly to its time.
She was my lover for a winter,
sadly for only just that one,
and with the coming of the spring
had packed her bags and gone.
She wrote to me from Burma
where she took a lover of the Chin
reciting to him Shakespeare
In her flawless Mandarin.
a cultural aesthete,
recited to me poetry
whilst in love's heat:
the soliloquy from Hamlet
in a brogue of Northern France;
Daffodils by Wordsworth
in a language of Romance.
There was once a period
when for a whole week
erotic temple chants
were sung in Classic Greek.
For her traditional poetry,
always stressing the rhyme,
keeping strictly to its rhythm,
moving strictly to its time.
She was my lover for a winter,
sadly for only just that one,
and with the coming of the spring
had packed her bags and gone.
She wrote to me from Burma
where she took a lover of the Chin
reciting to him Shakespeare
In her flawless Mandarin.
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