Saturday, February 12, 2011

My Silent Valentine

Emile Friant Les Amoureux 2

My Silent Valentine

We met in spring and Oh! I loved you well!
Your sweet words sucked me with a magnet’s pull.
Your hands were flags upon a victory wind.
I told you secrets never meant to tell
And crocheted you droopy articles of wool.
My hair for you was grown and kept unpinned.

We parted in the fall with much hot air
Expended in explaining lying facts.
Your lips built a canal; each flatulent word
of ego and self-justifying prayer
floated merrily down in streaming tracts,
written by an inner idiot I’d never heard.

Now I have no love, no heart’s delight
Beyond a rainbow garden and a good dog
That live beside me and are truly mine,
And a solemn headstone clean of praise or spite
Where beneath the earth, beside a crumbling log
you are finally, sweetly silent, Valentine.

February 2011

Image: Les Amoureux (Soir d'automne, Idylle sur la passerelle) by Emile Friant, 1888


  1. "My Silent Valentine"
    Loved it.... so nicely written!

  2. Well shut my mouth, sugar. His rap got a trifle old, did it? I love love love the middle section with the canals and the inner idiot.

    I'm told that worn-out loves make ideal fertilizer. Another sardonic gem from you, Missy.

  3. Fabulous poem, it drew me in and I kept re-reading it.
    The picture seems to suit it very well too.

  4. aghh...never trust a guy who wears a pork pie hat

  5. Dear Readers, If it's my evil, cynical nature making you sad, that I can understand, but if the poem itself is making you sad, I can only ask that you please read it again, or look up the word flatulent or something.

  6. Thank you Rene--you restore my faith.

  7. Terrific read, as always, Joy!!! I love how you slip in lovers of their own flatulent words...hahaha and how they end up as all air even on a headstone. A beautfiul painting to match, too! Thanks so much, oh so so much!

  8. oh - this started so romantic and ended so sad...fabulous write though...the sweet words sucking with a magnet's pull and the hands like flags upon a victory wind...loved it

  9. it...flatulant words...snort. and then of course the punch line...or was it a shovel to the head...or colonel mustard in the library with a candlestick...either way, enjoy the silence...smiles.

  10. silence is golden...

    I'm loving reading Valentines cuz everyone's is different - people dying, unfaithful, some aren't real

    Glad you posted this for One Stop to enjoy
    and from my sick mate - Cheers!!!

  11. Ha! A dead Valentine. Nice one. Love the language of the second stanza. And there's no better companion than a dog.

  12. A rainbow garden and a good dog can make up for a lot. I really enjoyed this, hedgewitch.

  13. I loved the way this was written. In light of this though I see a sense of strength in letting go of a love that was untrue, "dead and gone" ~ Excellent wordplay! =) ~April

  14. Adored "written by an inner idiot"......loved the rainbow garden and good dog....and especially "the solemn headstone clean of praise or spite." Love your sardonic streak a whole lot!!!!!!

  15. Joy,

    You are a form maven!

    Time silences the spite.

    Almost. I had thought about such a past, just this week. I had to wash the silence down with some bottled water.


  16. Dear Hedgewitch: Ohh I love this! I particularly like the lead up and then switch. I was thinking, that this was a lost love not a dead one! Good thing that crumbling log gave me a visual clue! I'd be thinking the old fart would be back again to crush the roses!

  17. Darlin' this is the most honest Valentines day poem I have ever read.

  18. I wonder how can a 'grumpy old witch'(as you called yourself at my site) write such a beutiful poem?
    Every line is a bunch of amazing metaphors about a love which was and remains in a form of 'those were the times when I believed and now look what that they call love has left in me'
    Simply superb
    ♥ anyway! .)


"We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, out of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry." ~William Butler Yeats