from New Sonnets from the Portuguese:

POETS BE NOT PROUD

I clear my throat, lift up mine eyes and cry:
“I will not soil thy purple with my dust,
Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass”

Why how dramatic! think I, and smile
Though I must admit some part of me does sigh
And tremble and aspire to (dare I say desire?)

Such passion as would treat as trite
And paltry the gifting of my so unworthy heart -

Oh sweet my love let you and I not part
In the moist heat of this very night
Nor let starlight slip envious fingers
Betwixt my hungry lips and thine…

And then, of course, I giggle.
I am an incorrigible giggler.
Poets do not indulge in giggles.
Or guffaws.
Indeed they do not admit to such flaws
Of character as I so patently enjoy…

So not wishing to cause undue distress
I gather up the silken folds
Of my pre-Raphaelite dress,
Toss back the one artfully arranged tress
Gracing my snowy shoulder and address
A mumbled excuse at the gathered crowd,
I run to the closet where I shall not be found
And laugh and laugh.

Oh Poets, be not proud!
Cause here I sit, giggling, on the ground…


Manuela Cardiga