How Lovely In The Garden Are Your Eyes
“How lovely in the garden are your eyes,
by gershon hepner
your lips, your mouth, your breasts, you legs! ” I say,
but she rejects my comments: “Is it wise
to comment about parts that I display
without a choice, and cannot hide? I’d rather
you’d comment on my scintillating wit.”
I say to her: “From what you say I gather
that I have sadly failed to make a hit.”
Although I like to visualize vacuity,
some ladies seem to wish that men would take
them seriously and comment with acuity
about their mind, not body. They will fake
an orgasm for men who are prepared
to listen to their every word before
they ask them to make love, as if men cared
about the play that comes before the fore.
My vagrant moods require some slight twist
before I can appreciate the charm
of minds of ladies I have never kissed
because their serious thoughts caused me alarm,
but sometimes when the night is starless
and they need company, I’ll be their guide,
and tell them: “If by chance you should be carless,
quite happily I’ll offer you a ride.”
Inspired by T. S. Eliot’s “Conversation Galante”
I observe: 'Our sentimental friend the moon!
Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)
It may be Prester John's balloon
Or an old battered lantern hung aloft
To light poor travellers to their distress.'
She then: 'How you digress! '
And I then: 'Some one frames upon the keys
That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain
The night and moonshine; music which we seize
To body forth our vacuity.'
She then: 'Does this refer to me? '
'Oh no, it is I who am inane.'
'You, madam, are the eternal humorist,
The eternal enemy of the absolute,
Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist!
With your aid indifferent and imperious
At a stroke our mad poetics to confute-'
And-'Are we then so serious? '