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Friday, August 7, 2009

BY LOVE BEGUILED, In Mood, Subjunctive, Edited

In Mood, Subjunctive,

Don't get me wrong.
Should I appear distracted,
Look knocked out by the light.
You make a very strong performance,
A singularity round whose axis my mind spins.

I remember once, years ago,
When I landed in New York,
After living a year and half in Europe,
How the neon of America
Seemed so awesomely garish, and bright.
Yet, when I close my eyes and picture it,

All seems pale before the radiance of your face.

Two people meet for morning breakfast,
Look out the café's window at the steady rain,
Walk here and there along avenues of
Inviting store fronts, and before the day is over
Fall into hopeless passion one for the other,
As though there be something in the air,
Perhaps some electromagnetic charge.
So the occasional electricity might overwhelm us.

Or cupid steals behind fixtures of thoroughfares.
(That day I spied him crouched near a mailbox,
When we began to walk main street in Point Pleasant!)

The winged child pulls from his quiver arrows.
They drip wet with potion. Once he aims
And shoots them, grievously they tear mortal flesh
Making for a ruckus extraordinaire
And expectations suddenly become great.

This romance presses hard upon me.
It’s a love I am compelled to profess.

To gain your confidence,
To prove my mind sound, not at loss to reason,
I couch my verse in mood, subjunctive,
A grammar I use hoping to temper
My over-wrought affection and quiet,
Soften the immodest and elevated parlance.

Were I not to employ this principle of language,
One might believe my love for you be shameless.

The mood may also provide proper relief,
For the all, too far-out attitude, the conceit
Whose command animates my senses,
That I have come to possess,
Been granted a gift of prophetic mantle
By some great and holy higher power.

Understand. I solely express my own wish and desire,
All I say remains contingent,
Of a mind still hypothetical and dependent.

I do not use the imperative, I make no demand.
I have no special outcome in mind.
I live in the fortress called Zion,
And come from it in the Pilgrims' coat and hat.
I look in the mirror and see their collar and tie.
And, like those passengers on board the Mayflower,
I know the Lord to be my helper. I fear not.

Who among your former friends has ever said it better?

And were you to live long and hearty life,
As all actuaries predict, what future friend
Might ever phrase it near as well as I have put it?

And should you for a moment consider,

This lyric arrive, transcending everyday concerns,
That it join, Sentiment Supreme, Him, the real pilot,

When we drove in the white, Ford van and crossed
Jersey's North shore highways, while the soft brown,

Oh that magic, dream-like, living, pale, ethereal,

And somewhat golden light accented the downpours,
Whose constant unleashed falling, seemed more
Like the storm the Lord had promised Noah,
Than any explicable, temporary weather.

Wie es eigentlich gewesen war.
'The carriage held but just us -- and immortality.'

And when we drove that first time together,
Though it is months ago, and now amounts to years,
It seems shorter than a day,
I first surmised the engine's mounts
Were tied to point, and we, too, were belted,
Hurled straight ahead in solemn league.

Mercy, it was Mercy freely bestowed,

Not for this, the one earthly moment,
But for our children’s children,
Drawn and blessed,
A grant for us and them, settled in this verse,
Sure as Gospel once promised to Abraham.

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