A Poem For the Day After Valentine’s Day
It’s February 15th, and while some readers may have woken up this morning in a haze of romantic bliss, others will have spent the day asking their pets where it all went wrong.
This poem is for the second group. It first appeared in an earlier version in the December 2011 issue of The New Guard; Big Think has graciously allowed me to reprint it here. I don’t usually post original poems, but as you’ll see, this one deals to some extent with literature as well as love. If you’d like Book Think to feature more material of this kind, please let me know. Enjoy!
Valentine Variations
I
Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
Spring has decided
To try someone new.
II
Violence is red,
Neurosis is blue.
The blood of my heart
Has a purplish hue.
Frozen with dread,
Spineless straight through,
I drain half a wine bottle,
Plotting my coup.
Moses’s Red
Dividing in two:
The crowd drains around her,
I stride up on cue.
Poses are shed.
Guileless blue
Eyes rise to meet me:
“No, I’ll drink to you.”
Cozy in bed…
Skylights imbue
Us with the reddening
Tinge of the view.
III
Rosé with bread.
Violins coo.
Candlelight melts
To a pool of white dew.
Goes to my head.
Wine hits me too.
Her eyes are diamonds,
My insides are goo.
Roses are red.
While this is true,
A man’s got to do
What a man’s got to do.
IV
“Oh yes,” she says—
Violates a few
Ancient state laws
And a modern taboo—
Does all the things
I’d been asking her to,
Now that we’re wed.
Somehow I’m blue.
V
Grossness is said,
Vileness spewed.
The door of the room
Of the night of the feud
Closes. A lead
Silence ensues.
A court case blows open.
We’re both going to lose.
Noses are red,
Eyelids are too.
The case is straightforward.
My tie is askew.
VI
Roses are blue,
Violets are red.
Meanings are constructs.
The poem is dead.
Prose is unread,
Stylists are through.
Composers are next,
Says the Paris Review.
No, I misread—
Music went first.
I stare at my desk
And prepare for the worst.
Orchids are green!
Daisies are pink!
This wine’s so delicious
I can’t even think.
Cirrhosis ahead:
Bile will accrue.
Little by little
The bill will come due.
Roses are rose,
Violets are violet.
Love is clear prose,
Even dying won’t style it.
Houses in rows—
Twilit, outspread.
The verdict is autumn.
I’m going to bed.
VII
Spring is in session,
The docket is full,
The heifer with bailiff eyes
Summons the bull,
Gold fuchsia indigo
Ochre vermilion
Are phlox poppies hyacinths
Mums by the billion,
Senses are evidence,
X equals Y,
And a couple in Paris
Decides with a sigh
That is subject to further
Judicial review
That roses are red
And that violets are blue.
[Image via Shutterstock.]
