qarrtsiluni

by Denise Provost

To his French Mistress

I traveled among unknown men
In lands beyond the sea
And also knew a woman, there,
In full carnality.

‘T is past, that episode’s delight!
The daughter that she bore
I recognized as mine, alright,
And yet I quit that shore.

It was a need I once did feel
To send financial help,
But here in England, could conceal
Connection to that whelp.

I’ve left behind that dalliance,
My prospects here are great!
This history adds to my romance:
“The Deadbeat Laureate.”

*

Her Dwelling was Along my Way

Her dwelling was along my way
And so I found her there,
Disguised as Poet, not roué,
Persuaded her to share

Her maidenhood. Half hidden by
The damp and mossy stones
Skirts hiked, she soon was ridden by
Me. Then I left, alone.

Immortalized in verse, her fame,
Though she has ceased to be!
And Lucy wasn’t her real name —
Indifferent, that, to me.

*

Strange Flights of Fancy he Describes

Strange flights of fancy he describes,
as if of consequence.
This silly tale about his ride
makes less than zero sense.

He tells us that he rode to see
his sweetie pie, one June,
concocting a wild fantasy
about a lethal moon.

What can we make of this excess
of morbid self indulgence?
He manufactures distress —
for this, I feel repugnance.

I pray he’s not as feckless
as he yet pretends to be.
I wish these were words worth respect,
not such frivolity.

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Denise Provost likes form, meter, and rhyme, but is often vexed by Wordsworth. She is not the biggest fan of the Romantics. Her favorite poet is Andrew Marvell.