Once More in an English Accent

As most writers do, I’ve “self-published” several “collections.” Who has read them? Family. A few interested friends. Premotherhood, I used to take the time every few years or so to organize/finalize new writings. It’s been almost 10 years now since my last self-serving ponderances hit the page. I am in all ways constipated. So tonight I’m rifling through old writings, which is why I’m wincing and flinching. I’ll post one here only as a benchmark from whence I’ve come. It only gets/got better from here. One  hopes. Although, admittedly, I know this one by heart and it used to be my all-time favorite. I wrote it when I was 23, a long long long long time ago.

Once More in an English Accent (for GP)

Barren, dismal scene / from the inside she saw / the trees in the absence of green / and thought perhaps they prefer /

naked arms to the burden of fur. / Amid this thought he appeared / at the door, the long-lost lover, / and with a bend of the neck she began, /

“There was a time when I would have ran / directly to you, embraced you in these limbs. / I would have kissed you with the melodic orginality of Chopin / praising your return, begging you with mercy not to depart /

once more, alas, my heart has been torn apart / into one thousand one hundred pieces. And the leaves, / you see, have just began to stir and start / their flight downward, rejoicing as they dwindle /

to the ground’s floor, grouping together to kindle / the foreseen heat needed when upon themselves will fall / the new life of frozen achievement. They need not swindle / to accomplish what their souls crave, need not hide /

their instinctive desire for attachment, nor do they abide / by social graces not to be too forthright, not to disclose / the noble wrongs against perceived truths; no, we have lied / to ourselves, acting against nature’s wish /

for us to sustain. You, in one fell swoop, did abolish / that which was intended for us. With your morals and pride / now you appear at my door, never before mustering the courage to finish / the delightful fall from grace. There was a time when I would / have overlooked /

your cowardice, for perhaps you mistook / the grass for the leaves. But ah, you have parted too long / from the responsibility of yourself, and I have no pity for the crook / of his own soul, for he who destroys clover. /

Thus, you see, it is not that I don’t adore you, my dear lover,/ for I certainly do, but it is just that you never could learn nature’s song ./ And when the leaves succomb to what is, not fearing the white blanket cover, / I do not mourn their absence as I did yours. /

Quite the contrary, as I am assured of their return through unbridled doors. / I need not embrace them, I embraced by them. I need not / praise their arrival, for their presence is responsible, / like the steadfast journey across the moor with the unchallenged knowledge that one shall make it across in peace. /

I need not beg for their permanency, rather I plead for the release / from burdensome obligations having to hold on to bare branches or my limbs, / which at one time would have tried and tried to preserve those ironed creases / that you crumbled in your hands into one thousand one / hundred pieces. You see /

that which is worthy of my love never asks me to be / untrue to my soul. Worthy of my love, I dare say, you once were / when I yearned for want of breaking your decree, / a commitment to suffering you entered long ago. /

Ah, my dear, remember when I once asked, ‘From where do your virtues flow?’ / Uprooted from your soul’s one true desire / about which society will never know, / thus righteousness, given time, becomes flagrantly immoral. /

I do not know what you now want at my door, mocking me with that boquet of floral, / but I am not the same damsel you distressed. / I am simply a woman watching the leaves fall, forming their own crown of laurel / that sits upon the heads of those who care to stay.”

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