Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Let's doodle hearts on our notebooks...

I guess I've been feeling gushy because I've been quoting the last couplet of an old poem of mine for the last few days. I hope this doesn't make me sound narcissistic. I have a tendency to get certain lines stuck in my head, and some of them are my own.

For example, sometimes I'll randomly think, "I have loved but one man all my life, and I have lost him twice." It's from Cyrano de Bergerac. I don't even own a copy and haven't read this book since sophomore year of high school (so I hope I'm not totally misquoting). It still gives me chills

The only problem with this is that the line then loops over and over again until something else comes along.

We've all got our problems, I guess.

In the fine tradition of playing a song in the hopes of getting it out of your head, I've decided to post the poem here for all of you. Let me give you a little back story first. I wrote it in my notebook in less than an hour while I was supposed to be studying for my geology exam in college. My now husband had asked me to go bowling with him and our mutual friends and I stupidly said no because I had to study.

Then I went to the library and wrote a gushy poem instead. But I did cram my heart out for that exam. And it didn't doom us, as we started dating when we returned from winter break about a month and a half later.

So without further ado, here's the first poem I ever wrote for my husband:

The Argument

My head was stern. “Forget him quick and think on him no more.
I’ve never had to warn you of such foolishness before.”
I sighed apologetically, “I know, I can’t explain.
This war between my head and heart is driving me insane!”
“Dear girl, be still,” he said, “and let your reasoning prevail.
With logic on your side you can be sure you will not fail.”
“I promise I will try,” I said, “to fight my errant heart,
Or else by inner turmoil I will soon be torn apart!”
“This seems a case more serious than I before did see.
Despair and love and aching hearts are meaningless to me.”
Then spoke an airy voice, “Sweet girl, I beg you let me speak.
For I alone know what it is that makes your knees go weak.”
“Who might you be,” I asked the voice, “who knows my secret pain?”
“I am she”, it answered back, “who gave true love its name.”
I smiled, but my head told me, “Do not talk with that tart;
She that is my enemy: the fickle, flighty heart.”
“Dear girl,” whispered my heart, “I tell you love is bittersweet.
But do not scorn the sunlight simply to escape the heat.”
“Enough of this,” my head declared. “I’ll listen to no more.
I insist you go back to the way you were before.
For no one enjoys fainting on a hot midsummer’s day,
And that is why the wisest know that inside you must stay.”
A moment only did I need to make my final choice.
When head and heart fell silent I prepared to give it voice.
“I cannot always shun the day,” I said to my dear head.
“Since I would rather be alive, I choose my heart instead.

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