In honor of Valentine's Day, or as I like to celebrate it -- Singles' Awareness Day, I thought I'd pass along a bit of poetry.
Now in truth, this poem was written some time ago, and it's really a bit more prose than poem, but I honestly can't think of a more appropriate holiday on which to share it, and it's relevant whether you're ::ahem:: attached or not. Don't worry -- It's not too mushy. But that said, have you ever read My Mistress' Eyes? It's a sonnet by Shakespeare (Sonnet #130) in which the speaker describes a woman not of imaginable beauty, but rather of flaws and consequence. Yet through all of her obvious humanity, he is still madly in love with her.
It's an amazing poem, and I encourage you to read it before continuing on below. (Go ahead. It's only fourteen lines and so worth it.)
It was from this poem that I drew inspiration for the following piece -- a man looking at a woman and cherishing not her perfection, but her imperfection. In his memory she is, of course, perfect, but in real life, she is a woman.
Well, the target of this gentleman's affection in this story certainly has softer imperfections than those described in the Shakespeare piece, but the idea is the same.
I hope you enjoy. ~Tet
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Re: My Mistress' Eyes
It all came back to me. As I saw her.
It all came back.
All the passion, all the pain, all the heartache, all the grief. And just like that, the undying, unmatched love I'd had came thundering back into my chest. It was a wave of emotion inundating my heart in that lover's crush I'd felt all those years ago and flushing all common sense and remembrance of our last parting away as a sudden storm. In my eyes, she was like the sun, and in my heart, she was on fire. I couldn't purge this woman's womanly ways from my mind, from my envy. It was her female pride and resolve which made her such the aggravation to begin with. And yet with all her womanliness, I found what I wanted was her female pride and resolve beside me.
From afar I ran my fingers down her curves, my eyes kissed her near-perfect form. Her hair, a radiant raven-black, I felt each strand throttling me, softly robbing me of my will, my resistance to her enthrallment fading... It was her I longed to touch, to gently stroke the back of my outstretched hand against the tilt of her chin, the smoothness of her neck, carefully training any errant strand or lock back to its rightful place. She was a portrait. She was prose. She was verse. Her voice calmed the seas, and her silhouette charmed the night.
She was. Beautiful.
I sighed.
She was also unattainable. Or at least so were my thoughts. But as my eyes connected with her form, the form before me, and disconnected with my memory of her, in all her covetous fancy, it was not her flawlessness by which I found myself intrigued, but rather those tender imperfections which made her real. She was tall, but not too tall. Clever heels betrayed her true height. She was thin, but not too thin -- Her slender form not so much that her curves wouldn't be emphasized by any such garment draped across her as a shining canvas. Her voice was deep and handsome. Her hands showed no signs of primping. Her hips were wide. Her toes were short. Her belly round. Her bust was small. Her eyes were dark. She was. Beautiful.
I sighed.
She was not a goddess. She was an attraction short of goddess. Gorgeous. Glamorous. Glorious. Perfection short of perfection. But this was not a slight of her beauty. Rather, it was good. It was better than good. It was her as she was. It was the ethereal made real. Her Lordship in Human restraint.
It was a woman, not perfect. So very close, but. A woman, less than perfect. So very close, but. A goddess slightly less. A woman slightly more. A goddess. A woman. A woman more attainable. A woman more.
~sb
Now in truth, this poem was written some time ago, and it's really a bit more prose than poem, but I honestly can't think of a more appropriate holiday on which to share it, and it's relevant whether you're ::ahem:: attached or not. Don't worry -- It's not too mushy. But that said, have you ever read My Mistress' Eyes? It's a sonnet by Shakespeare (Sonnet #130) in which the speaker describes a woman not of imaginable beauty, but rather of flaws and consequence. Yet through all of her obvious humanity, he is still madly in love with her.
It's an amazing poem, and I encourage you to read it before continuing on below. (Go ahead. It's only fourteen lines and so worth it.)
 |
| Go on. Do it. I dare you... |
It was from this poem that I drew inspiration for the following piece -- a man looking at a woman and cherishing not her perfection, but her imperfection. In his memory she is, of course, perfect, but in real life, she is a woman.
Well, the target of this gentleman's affection in this story certainly has softer imperfections than those described in the Shakespeare piece, but the idea is the same.
I hope you enjoy. ~Tet
-----------
Re: My Mistress' Eyes
It all came back to me. As I saw her.
It all came back.
All the passion, all the pain, all the heartache, all the grief. And just like that, the undying, unmatched love I'd had came thundering back into my chest. It was a wave of emotion inundating my heart in that lover's crush I'd felt all those years ago and flushing all common sense and remembrance of our last parting away as a sudden storm. In my eyes, she was like the sun, and in my heart, she was on fire. I couldn't purge this woman's womanly ways from my mind, from my envy. It was her female pride and resolve which made her such the aggravation to begin with. And yet with all her womanliness, I found what I wanted was her female pride and resolve beside me.
From afar I ran my fingers down her curves, my eyes kissed her near-perfect form. Her hair, a radiant raven-black, I felt each strand throttling me, softly robbing me of my will, my resistance to her enthrallment fading... It was her I longed to touch, to gently stroke the back of my outstretched hand against the tilt of her chin, the smoothness of her neck, carefully training any errant strand or lock back to its rightful place. She was a portrait. She was prose. She was verse. Her voice calmed the seas, and her silhouette charmed the night.
She was. Beautiful.
I sighed.
She was also unattainable. Or at least so were my thoughts. But as my eyes connected with her form, the form before me, and disconnected with my memory of her, in all her covetous fancy, it was not her flawlessness by which I found myself intrigued, but rather those tender imperfections which made her real. She was tall, but not too tall. Clever heels betrayed her true height. She was thin, but not too thin -- Her slender form not so much that her curves wouldn't be emphasized by any such garment draped across her as a shining canvas. Her voice was deep and handsome. Her hands showed no signs of primping. Her hips were wide. Her toes were short. Her belly round. Her bust was small. Her eyes were dark. She was. Beautiful.
I sighed.
She was not a goddess. She was an attraction short of goddess. Gorgeous. Glamorous. Glorious. Perfection short of perfection. But this was not a slight of her beauty. Rather, it was good. It was better than good. It was her as she was. It was the ethereal made real. Her Lordship in Human restraint.
It was a woman, not perfect. So very close, but. A woman, less than perfect. So very close, but. A goddess slightly less. A woman slightly more. A goddess. A woman. A woman more attainable. A woman more.
~sb
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