To those who would rush me before my time,
Speaking blithely of joys of the flesh,
You claim you hear chariots approaching behind
As though Death, at your shoulder, stands ready to thresh.
Truth is, if you value my heart and my mind,
And not merely desire my form,
Is it not worth it to you to be gen'rous and kind?
Or am I but a jewel to adorn?
There are joys in the hunt and the chase, in all life!
One can choose to forego parts of that.
But regret follows those who dispense with a rite.
Courtship ought to be more than a doff of the hat.
The game is to separate the chaff from the wheat,
Would you hasten me out of my dole?
If you have not the patience to wait for my meat,
How much time will you give for my soul?
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ReplyDeletePublished in Sifting Sands Literary Magazine, 1996. This one was never submitted, but the editor saw it and requested permission to publish it, anyway. I later regretted agreeing to it, as he really didn't understand why it was written, and "corrected the title" for me.
ReplyDeleteTo His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell was the inspiration for this (actually rather poorly written) poem, hence the title's intentional misspelling.