Unmanned, like a bull bereft of all;
a flaccid decoration without use;
at least if thee had what I have
thou could be a woman;
eunuch hiding your treasure for marriage
and hypocrisy. And leave me with empty decoration; rings without sense,
dresses without purpose.
Go about your business thou say
I want nothing to do with thee now;
yet not a month ago it was all Peggy this,
Peggy that; such are the changes of the seasons.
I can’t give birth to an empty ache;
wet nurse it; teach it its fathers worth;
I can’t tell the ache how we loved,
how we met, how we joyed.
I can’t sit round this mughouse days
and months. I must out into the world
roll in the smell of Man again
with a jug of ale in one hand
and earning a stony crust
from some wight with a jangling purse.
And forget the bull that was castrated.
A curious and intriguing transgenderish ode, my dear Paulloz! “I can’t give birth to an empty ache;
wet nurse it; teach it its fathers worth;” is rathe good in my humble opine onion.
Glad you think so, Mitch. Thankyou.
Very nice bit of ‘proper’ poetry – a welcome contribution. A good poem is about what is not stated, and you’ve done that. Approve.
I agree. Thankyou E-Griff
Ha! Just about as different as I’ve read on here in a long time. Enjoyed reading this one. Again, thanks for posting.