Between Wavy Lines

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(Reposting of a very old poem ... I will also repost the modern translation)

Qu'ry this: a chivalrous charlatan, I,
          Dareth feign to pen thy prop'r aspect?
                    Aye, f'r thy legitimate contours art yet
                              Ov'rwhelmingly stagg'ring to the gazeth,

And if beheld by the ingraft m'rtal, thus,
          Wouldst rend'r those folk stunn'd to reticence.
                    Such provocative p'rfection f'r a prop'r prose
                              Pedestal doth now standeth thy outlines.

If 't only the ink of mine own quill flow'd with
          The langu'rous liquidity of thy libidinous limbs.
                    W'rds danceth off the wit at but a glance
                              Of thy exquisite epid'rmal embodiment,

W'rds liketh touch, tickleth, tease, tempteth.
          Coequal the wisest of w'rdsmiths wouldst strain
                    To holdeth nigh and effectual, the phrasing
                              Of the diaphanous d'rmal dialogue that

Elucidates the sultry "esses" yond thy
          Shadow paints on the walls and flo'rs.
                    Only those bless'd as i, without pure
                              Sight of the eye, art accomplish'd

Enough to appropriate a competency
          Of fair and f'rm'd appreciation and
                    Charact'rization, of the voluptuous
                              P'rtions that composeth thy physique.

Those such as i w're b'rn to the burden
          Of the darkness, but also bless'd to the
                    Bearing of the tactile and touchable.
                              Mine own pen is the palm, the fing'rtip,

The soft application of skin-to-skin contact,
          The int'rpretation of v'ry tiny electrical
                    Impulses from ev'rything integumentary,
                              And the und'rstanding of all that keen

Inf'rmation being convey'd to the brain. Alloweth
          Me readeth thee anon, alloweth me putteth tactile
                    "Pen" to the pages of mine own soul and psyche,
                              Alloweth me writeth a st'ry th're upon thee, alloweth

Me knoweth with mine own fing'rs and palms
          The wond'rful w'rds that describeth thee in all
                    Thy immaculate, sublime consummation,
                              Alloweth me abs'rb the text of thy curve'd f'rm,

And lighteth the darkness of mine own blind w'rld.
          Transf'rm this beshrew into mine own blessing.
                    Alloweth me beholdeth thee as nay oth'r ev'r shall.
                              As a st'ry, biography, adventure, book, a tale ...

Without end.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2018



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Date: 4/6/2018 10:19:00 AM
I'm sure if I rummage around, I would fine a few os and es I don't need Greg. Although initially hard to follow, there's no mistaking the flow from that red hot pen of yours. Fab as always.
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Gregory Richard Barden
Date: 4/26/2018 4:52:00 PM
Thank you so much, Jean - I'm glad you enjoyed it! Most folks don't care for this faux-Shakespearean style, (it IS a bit hard to follow, unless you've read a lot of it), but it's cool that someone out there got their head around it! ;-) <3
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