O’ to engage my beloved again,
For all is dross that is not(1)…her,
For me to speak her name would cause her rage,
I–a wild animal in her sight, not in its cage,
Her–a muse that escaped antiquity,
A fugitive from Botticelli’s imagery,
Perfumed with gentleness & grace,
and I–a wild animal, quite out of place.
As if I had ignored the markers of Heracles,
When I came into her presence,
And why, O’ me–should I write this?
Because that is how love works,
Some of us merely breath air for it,
Some of us must conquer Troy for it,
Away from my beloved ye feminist beasts!
Like the Furies wrapped about the towers of Dis,
They hiss & hiss to lead her amiss,
O’ how I miss my beloved, my Beatrice!
But my Beatrice doesn’t miss me.
1) Dr Faustus, Scene XIII, by Christopher Marlowe
THE EXILE OBSERVER 