I wish I'd been the first to write the rose
Though I could not have given it to you;
I am the one with thorns. And I suppose
That years of imitation wear the truth
From metaphors, although the flattery
Is nice. They'd compost the original.
So will you be an oak? My botany
is half-remembered, but as I recall,
An oak has a solemnity and age
That is not yours, and then there are the roots.
You are more wonderful and far more strange --
I don't think I will find a plant to suit.
How would you like to be an octopus?
So unbotanical! Unobvious!


In Reply to the One to Whom I Last Wrote Poetry, Who Was Not Satisfied

If you would be a flower, be my artichoke.
You could be so delicious dipped in olive oil
Like a green Greek wrestler – but now I think I spoke
Too soon, betrayed myself – don't let this blunder spoil
Our courtship. I woo as well as Cyrano
And patient as Penelope – I must be so.
For you I'll be a poet: soft, persuading, slow
So when at last I peel your steaming leaves – but no –
Though not for you that haughty coldness of the rose
Whom you resemble in your dense complexity
Though you are earthily delectable and those
Small spines are no dissuasion, my carnality
Is premature. This is the wooer's art
To make you steam, and then to win your heart.