Sublime Love Poetry

Influenced by Basho.

 

Hi. Well, in case you didn't know I am a man of Deep Emotion and Raging Passion. Within my heart beat forces which I can scarcely control and one of the few things which can help me express the thoughts and feelings that I feel is Poetry. When I first started where I work there was also a French woman working there who was a woman of almost unparalleled beauty; for me, she was proof of the existence of God; it was as if the Creator had personally designed each and every aspect of her being because surely, her existence could not have come about by accident-she was living proof of Intelligent Design.

Anyway, I hadn't been here for very long when I found out she had handed in her notice; I was heartbroken, I hadn't even had the chance to talk to her; so I did the only thing I could, I looked Deep within myself and composed a poem:

Oh! French maiden who art named Estelle,
Hear my plea that I do say,
Although its true I don't know you very well,
But, my Earnest Wish is to have sex with you one day.

However, instead of calming the raging emotions running through me my act of poetic creation only fanned the flames of Desire even further and so in a whirling miasma of Pure Artistic Inspiration I fell into a Poetic Trance and from within me the following was Born:

Mysterious Gallic femme,
So appealing to men,
What of chance perchance to when?
That I may bone you in my den?

The creation of the former poem left me spent, exhausted, a hollow wreck. I had poured my entire being into the creation of the poem and it was if I were merely a shell. With what remained of my will I managed to drag myself to the mountains where I lived the life of a hermit in the pure natural mountain air for several months and eventually I found that within me there was life again; my energies were restored, and my broken heart was mended

But before I left the mountains I scrawled down a final poem to My Love on the side of a cliff where I think the rain has since probably washed it away. It was the thoughts of a man who knows he has lost, but has come to terms with the thing that has departed:

A terrible thing it is to feel so much grief,
Of which you, French Beauty, are the Architect-in-Chief,
My Love for you though it should be known is not shallow,
For I would hate! my dear for you to think of me as fallow,
No! The thing I admire most stridently about you is your Mind,
Although, it's true that every time you walk by I do stare fix'dly at your behind.

At last, I was at peace.