3rd May 2014

Sonnet 139

They say "She looks like you!" I pray they're wrong

And their optic nerve's joined up to their heart

Which is what brings on sentimental tongue:

Poets shouldn't treat brain science as art.

Digress Age 10 you dressed me quelle quelle sight!

 Enforcing thus  Mother's will harsh aside

Early pubescent wearing  bouffant might

Be more than my ore-prest defence could bide?

I don't do pain I'm no poet God knows,

One reacts to one's thoughts as enemies,

Me and my meditations are old foes,

But both fighting Freudian injuries:

I'll not be like Nabokov's waxwing slain...*

"Wait!  All we saw in you was her pre-pain..."


*Refers to the long poem at the start of Vladimir Nabokov's novel "Pale Fire".