Wednesday, August 17, 2016

Letter to W.H. Auden cc: Foreigner

I don't feel you need no teaching
You know what love is now
Not for weather or for bacon
Or strangers in a crowd.
The kind that plays on Steinway grands
The kind that really sings
Not that which leads to suicide
That isn't really loving.

It looks as clear as ground and polished glass
Lenses light to crystal points of focus
It stinks unto high heaven, since you ask
That reek speaks sweet like the scent of crocus.
Touch a pile of small particles like sand
Dive the water of the river
With a little luck you will understand
That's what it'll give you.

Others often talk about it
Like it is something new
Love speaks of all the particles
Your body's sliding through
There are versions told in stories
That make the heroes tick
But stories have their editors
I doubt you're quite that thick.

And you hear it when you can hear
The lark or blackbird sing
There are times that you can hear it
Above all other things.
You can hear it in the questions
The echoes and replies
And when it speaks you hear it clearly
It does not bear disguise.

Go look at how the waiter feels
Watch the eyes of their pets
Go look when your telephone rings
And look on further yet
And if you can't see it clearly
Don't get it twisted bruv'
If you've searched and haven't found it
First look inside for love.

It doesn't just do party tricks
It works white magic too
It will feed the finest lunches
On only scraps of food
It has opinions on investments
For when the times get rough
And is the finest company
The odd truth about love.

Love's all the water in the sea
And oh the rose has thorns
Love's look out post sways tipsy high
Don't say you've not been warned
If it comes when you're unready
Then it may pass you by
But it is sure to come again
As dawn is in the sky.

You can try blind it, force it, shout it down
Love will be heard
And it ain't shit to be flippant about
Not a careless word
And though it's more abundant still
It's worth much more than gold
That's another truth about love

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