A Poet’s love. Is never forgotten. And a beautiful Lorde song.

“As long as the poet’s words live, the beloved will be, in a way, still alive too.”

Shakespeare

“If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.”― Mike  Everett

“If a writer loves you, you will always exist. Your name will be permanently etched into paper, your physical descriptions printed in ink. You will flourish in their writing; their articles, their journals, their short stories, their poems. You will always be frozen in time.” Unknown

A poet’s love..

The oldest poet at Port Austin wrote to journal. Did I find Hemingway “Agnes”? Did I learn the suffering, like Salinger, because of ” Oona O’Neil”?

Us poets and writer, we adore love and we seek love. Do we seek forever or to create a new chapter in a life seeking adventure?

The ancient poets told us. When we write. We make our lover names, forever. We make beautiful places, more wonderful and we accept war as norm. 

Us, who love the books. Us, who adore the dance of love. Us, who seek war over kisses, we shall learn. Maybe we didn’t want enough?

In a sweet dream in Germany. I told the pretty German girl. If a poet loved you. You will live forever in poetry of wishes, betrayal and nightmares. Poets love to write more than life.

Now the old poet see flashes of beautiful faces, he remember dancing and drinking in London. He remembered he promised a beautiful Scottish girl, a wedding and forever. Now just words, he had written. They became.

Now his exhausted mind needs a whirlwind of hope to excite his soul. He don’t seek voices no-more. He is content with Lake Huron and the Port Austin pier. He told the night. I do remember her. My beautiful Sheena.

She told me on a warm Spring day. If we kiss with the night sky above us, if we dance till midnight. Will you promise me forever?

He made the poet’s promises and now dear Sheena, is the poet’s lasting dream, she is his lasting sadness. In his words.

Now like Hemingway. He drink the whiskey alone and he write alone. Now like Salinger. He had damn the need of love.

Bukowski told me many years ago. Us, who love to write. We must suffer to write and love isn’t our wealth. Cigars and whiskey, never broke my heart.

The old poet take off his shoes and he walked part-way into the Lake Huron and he told the stars. Please tell the kind ladies. Never love a poet, never love a writer. His true love are words.

Dancing Coyote