I have clung to this world, this life
with such indulgent determination,
relishing religiously the certainty
that it was meant for me and I for it.
I composed verses even in youth
although intent on teasing forth far
more than admiration from fairest
a lass I had only naively adored.
Words wound through me truly
tempting taut a mild milkweed
of a man who barely understood
pain any more fully than pleasure.
I chased the fae around the world,
wailing in my misfortunes and
climactically moaning all too severely,
like a player on a soiled stage.
I adored life with all its ambiguities.
I lusted after anonymous lovers
in the guise of a noble companion
with words borrowed from the Bard.
Yet the closest I have ever come
to unfettered unadorned passion
has been while standing naked
beneath boldly Brighid’s gaze.
Insensate now these pillars of my past
innumerably cluttering dusty drawers—
I will have no more of them, of this
persistently pointless pattering,
for inspired by you, my dear friend,
have I finally learned how to speak.
İstanbul 22 December 2021
George Ellington 