It’s funny how a poem deceives you:
Its tantalizing, sweet caress
Inspires, consumes, then loves and leaves you
To deal with an unfinished mess.
Does it afford the Muses pleasure
To give their gifts in meagre measure?
To whisper softly in your ear,
Then suddenly just disappear?
And so it often goes with lovers:
You’re swept away, then wined and dined;
You spend one perfect night entwined,
Then find a note upon the covers.
In love and art, ‘t would seem that it
Is prudent never to commit.


2 Responses to “Deception”

  1. 6 June, 2008 at 10:39 pm

    poor brent….
    but: as long as it makes a nice poem, you’re allowed such an unyouthful amount of mistrust.

  2. 9 June, 2008 at 11:15 pm


    the time will come
    when, with elation,
    you will greet yourself arriving
    at your own door, in your own mirror,
    and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

    and say, sit here. Eat.
    You will love again the stranger who was your self.
    Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
    to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

    all your life, whom you ignored
    for another, who knows you by heart,
    take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

    the photographs, the desperate notes,
    peel your own image from the mirror.
    Sit. Feast on your life.

    Derek Walcott

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