Fantasy And Love
The Poet wondered about the place of fantasy in love poetry and it seems to be parallel to the function of the fantasy of fairytales for children.
Should fantasy be pruned from poems of love or more added?
Should children be kept from fairytales or should writers write even more?
Moralists claim fantasy is not a good vehicle of truth and should be pruned except where they agree a worthwhile truth emerges - so heavy pruning is in order and they wish to exercise the right for more than their own fanilies for the good of society.
To hold back on the development of imagination and fun in thinking in say, strange situations, limits the use of the mind and expanding the use of greater areas of the brain.
Should we use more of our brain that we are given - born with or for the rest of the development of mankind, limit it?
That is the dilemma of the moralist. In future generations their children will be left behind and their passion in love hindered.
Can there be any use of fantasy in love poetry other than revealing truth? What about just for the fun of it like laughter in love promotes well being?
Moralists do a disservice to mankind forever to say no.
Cut your hair and trim your beard Dave Doolan
You are not The Wild Colonial Boy
Jack Doolan was his name, Jack was his name.
'I will not cut and trim' said Dave Doolan
'I will not cut and trim until she says,
No! not until she comes ten thousand miles,
Ten thousand miles to live Down Under, here.
She loves me, I love her - no cut nor trim,
I will not cut my hair nor trim my beard,
I will not cut and trim until she says
No! not until she comes ten thousand miles,
Ten thousand miles to live Down Under, here.'
You are a disgrace, children look at you
To find your face, mothers hurry them on.
Cut your hair and trim your beard Dave Doolan,
You are not The Wild Colonial Boy -
Jack was his name, JACK Doolan was his name.
Made bold by your love the Poet peeps at you
In bed asleep all winter warm, toes out
And with wizardry he transports the scene
To Outback's warm springs and your toes dip in;
You wake not so your bed clothes removes he
And low and behold your nudity divine!
Engulfed then by the fluid of the spring
A smile, a blush, a flush appears on your face.
Enough is enough thinks the wizard pleased
And he transports you back to bed back home
Where you awake and not frightened at all
By the Poet made bold; you smile and you blush
Your toes pull in, never ever to tell
The spell you worked too, to embellish his.
This is a complete fantasy and the only thing real is that the Poet's love has toes and he loves them. Could such a poem win greater admiration from his love? If so then the poem is successful. Of course she would love such a romantic fantasy. It's fun. It is sensuous. The Poet plays the role of the Wizard for many reasons - such as he wishes to impress his lady even more than he can just being a plain man. Telling lies? No! in the fun of fantasy - like he laughs - few laugh more than the Poet. But the Poet's long hair and beard these days gives him the appearance of a wizard.
Love was at the beginning, though not heart
Hard not to believe though we can't check back
And when man could write of that which took part
In smile, in thought, in touch, matter of fact
And dwelled deep within, heart centred it felt,
Even later when man peered in he claimed
Love was there like love before heart was spelt
And now my feelings felt, on love are blamed
Hard not to believe you're central, love's home
As heart words from your pen make clearly seen
Unseen love by eye, yet seeing hearts known,
Words for sweet young worlds that have not been
Oh into what gold leaf love you've fashioned -
I believe no more - now love is reasoned!
If we compare this sonnet with the previous one, the first one is a fantasy and this one is more of reason.
There is only one God, a male you say?-
The God of Love, loving by himself first
Then lonely for years till man came to stay?
The love I know gave birth, quenched a babe's thirst -
A male would know such love without females?
The Priest knows of love, God knows of love too;
Sounds like a male's yarn told by drunken males
And sober this Poet thinks deeply of you
And pities God lonely for all those years -
Praises Him for thinking like a woman
Without a woman's prompting, making tears,
Making all those womanly things for man.
Wow! - if God had a woman and climbed high
Like I've climbed high - He must have or die!
Is this sonnet a fantasy of the Poet? I guess it depends on your point of view. Is the Poet serious? What is his point? His lady is so important to him the Poet suggests God in all His years of loneliness - the birth of God? to the creation of mankind needed a woman and because He created so well He must have had the company of a fine woman like the Poet loves who loves him. No matter what the reader thinks he or she must see the Poet smiling as he speaks in the room of love (the sonnet).
'Twould please this Poet if you knocked on doors locked
And came to windows wishing drapes would part,
Sat down on my doorstep till hours were clocked
Still loving me though mean seemed my strong heart
For then the incense would be drawing well,
The candles lit for love would have effect
As wizardry I perform, my poems tell
Yet nice love I wish, that you choose, elect
To be determined and love alone drew
You to wait by gate and stand patiently,
Such love that nothing done by me anew,
No meanness, no younger looks-rich need be.
Rush, rush, rush to my arms aloud I chant -
I'll never learn; we men don't, won't and can't!
The Poet here is fantasizing he is a dominant male and a mean one at that though he argues that he is not. He puts a guilt trip on his Lady that she might even think he is mean. But the Poet gets lost in his fantasy and thinks for a moment that his chant might work and that he would like the Lady who ran to his arms so. He is coming out of his fantasy in the last line. What is the point of the fantasy? Perhaps to convince his love that she has to prefer long term the Poet to a more dominant male? - (have you seen the poor poetry the very dominant male trots out? - so thoughtlessly male!)
Your love gives power that youth cannot yet know
For they who look and test are fooled by age
But worth on earth comes not from speed you go
Nor things you move nor changes bring as sage.
This Poet has treasure seen as his eyes peer
Out from slowed frame and lost signs of vigour
That thieves would do years for if they came near
To knowing such teaming wealth, such glamour.
This man is loved which shows in his eyes' fire
Which comes from every cell and his young mind
Of which they who hear and measure may tire
But Kings and Wizards have not wealth combined
To match the Poet and the man loved by you.
You've given him power of the universe too.
Now you should have the idea that fantasy in love poetry is in! The poet who has little needs more. Beware of the poet with none. His passion is sure to fade - his poetry has to be limited. A practical man perhaps who will become duller and duller, less romantic as the years go by and won't read fairytales to his children.
The Author of Hate said to me today
'I'll grant you one kiss of your love tonight
If you agree it's your last and you'll pay
The penalty of love planned with Hate's might.'
Dying for her kiss with boldness I said
I'd concede for how could Hate beat Love's greed?
I'd kiss a kiss all night till dawn in bed
And while we kissed write notes how we'd be freed
By some way Love halting Hate's death threat
When my kiss ended, my life ended.
My love wrote a note and grinned-kissed me wet
And I died in her kiss and Hate losing fled,
So she kissed me warmly with love till dawn,
The spell broken, died twice more then reborn.
To feel for those who are sad though we're not
Has double count through love, praps triple too
Where hands of Love above touch those who aren't
With disbelief, say those who see Love hates too.
What worm can survive where triple love grows
And devour silken cords 'round kind lovers?
The Poet looks not for worms and weaves as he goes
Silken cords while his Lady's love hovers -
Her heart is his, he weaves some more to bind.
The worm loves threads that own and constrict her.
Loving him, keeping love's riches in mind
The Lady leaves the worm little succour.
Which of the counts counts most in the Poet's heart?
He'd squash the worm and bind her with words' art.
We're parted distance-wise; we're Devil tarred?
You claim confession can clear your black name?
But Devil, love hindered, desired love barred,
Two made lonely, two with hopes dashed, love slain
We will not allow happen; we challenge!
You have no power over love; we'll make known -
When eyes of love meet eyes of love you cringe;
Followed by tender kisses - how you groan!
And poetry must make you pass pained sighs
Of weakness - so confess weak Devil - now!
Release us from distance, repent, change sides -
Find love, embrace not in lust - no lies vow.
No longer tarred we will vouch your weakness
And Devil, your confession won't contest.
Born I was to be old in love with you
To die well warmed by smiles that live love's fire
And catching your eye with my last breath due
I'll wink and you'll know I've had life's desire
But before that day comes let's make warm nights
Where moonlight's part's small though conducts music
And heart beats take over sealing love's rights
For we know in the grave there's no magic
Yet from beyond I will send butterflies
That will alight on your head in sunlight
And owls though it's moonlight to wink love's eyes
Who'll hoot from the distance that all is right -
You warm me, you warm me - that's what they'll say-
On earth and in heaven your warmth has sway.
Let's celebrate love and successes bold
And picnic down by the river with me
Where our smiles replace warmth when the sun's cold;
Champagne the sparkle where the water's muddy -
From wicker hamper I'll produce surprise
Things dipped in chocolate like cherries and all
While Roman-like lying on a rug, wise,
Releasing balloons to the skies and call
Out to the universe our pleasured praise -
Our butterflies in winter messaging
Those on whom they fall hours soon or in days.
Let's celebrate love and successes sing -
If this is our winter where is the hail?
Our smiles would melt golf balls - love cannot fail!
He knows from the Goddess one cannot hide
For poetry shows Poets' inner-most thoughts
Long words, tastelessness screen yet love's best side
Has music heard though high walls, have strong forts.
Love follows his run along the river,
In traffic sunshine lights the flowering gum;
The Poet can't flee to shops with peace either
Nor watch girls pass by hoping love to numb.
His gloom gives way to love from his Goddess,
His step lightens, his face brightens, speech laughs -
Words on buildings, words in books become his;
He seeks her love in sky and 'long earth's paths
And finds her beauty there and everywhere -
Nothing else drowns sadness of hiding's dare.
And while these songs each small, in number large
Mind sung, more far flung than the Poet had dreamed
Which daily layed and hatched no pain, nor charge
Were sent same day across the earth, sky beamed
To warm his love with fired pen's white hot words;
Despite success, despite not one note lost
Distance has cost more sighs than most love-birds
Who nestle, whistle and blush, cage just crossed.
The Poet's task's trebled, to write, bear and do;
His book of songs, each song small has large aims;
If Love came from above, smiles from there too
Money so made should shrink oceans and plains
But Love has higher plans than two made one
Though books of love shouldn't hide all wonders done.
There was this old codjer who slept outside
In the park last night and temperatures dropped
Way below expectation and he survived.
He was found thought dead but rolled over smiled
Dreaming and woken remembered his dream.
On examination for exposure
A nurse found stuffed in his clothing a book -
Pages of poetry which were the source
Of his dreams although he had not read them.
So the paper of the book kept him warm
And the words fed his mind with thoughts of love -
A modern day miracle it was claimed
But the old codjer said that the paper
Thicker than newspaper saved his loveless life.
There is even more benefit if you read 'Two Hearts Two Cities' though stuffing pages in your clothing judiciously could save your loveless life.
Order with the illustrator Zora Knight - firstname.lastname@example.org
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