Thursday, July 1, 2021

The Kiss (Francisco Hayez), Sonnet #569


 












A critic said what poets write about

Is rubbish, it’s how they write that matters — 

And that no one can write well about love.

The nonsense of a literary tout,

Who delights in poetry he shatters

With a crippling whip in a satin glove.


I don’t remember our first kiss, the kite

She’d made was loose and sailing out of sight.

It was probably then, on our first date,

When the only thing to do was to wait

For the kite’s return, like a falcon called —

Embracing, we felt tongues and lips scald.

The moisture and heat since then are the same,

Without diminution, beyond a name.



My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase at Amazon. Click here:

No comments: