Passion of the Poet [poem]
Forgive me for my passion (but only if you can).
It seems the words which tumble from my lips
are not much heard from mouthings of a man.
Expressions vivid, steeped in deepsome song
and poetised with all delights for which I long.
That may not dovetail with one’s preconceived
perceptions of how people normally behave
when there’s no parachute in place or safety net.
Does such keen ardour make me now unseemly
as it fails to match precisely “normal” etiquette?
Just because my blaze has deeper (drowner?)
colours than your culture nowly has in mind
(perhaps you think my absent reticence is not
so well-refined as you would want it so to be)
and now perchance you have become confused;
please do not fall into the trap of fearing every
cosmic-cruising man effusing open-ended rhyme.
It is no crime to let my words become the bearers
of the love with which this giddy poet is enthused.
It seems that there are many guys and dames
who’ve learned to play some socialising games
of heart (I doubt they really knew them at the start)
instead of bathing clothelessly in passion’s fruitly
tender non-destructive fannedbylovers’ flames.
I understand such holding-back for fear of being
undermined or blown off-track, stabbed in the back.
But that does not bestow the right to ostracise,
diabolise, or fail to be polite. Offence is not a right.
Please understand I will not change. I ask for your
forgiveness but the petals of my scented flowers
I cannot rearrange to fit into the fears which fuel
the course of minds hellbent on stifledom of soul.
Nor can I be conformed to what so many people
have been hoodwinked into thinking is the norm;
for I am not afraid of censure, obloquy, rebuke.
Already now I live a life of exile’s inner solitude.
Forgive me if my passion’s bubbling hot volcano
melts the shell you built around your aching soul.
My only wish: that all be whole [plus pulchritude].
© Alan Morrison, 2019
The Naked Troubadour 