Mark Alexander Boyd (1563–1601) was a poet and soldier of fortune who wrote published two volumes of Latin verse, but is famous, if he is famous, for his only known poem in Scots. I post it today in honor of Valentine’s Day, which is my household’s only religious holiday. I also post, after the jump, the only Valentine poem I’ve ever written. Here’s Boyd:
Fra bank to bank, fra wood to wood I rin,
Ourhailit with my feeble fantasie;
Like til a leaf that fallis from a tree,
Or til a reed ourblawin with the win.
Twa gods guides me: the ane of tham is blin,
Yea and a bairn brocht up in vanitie;
The next a wife ingenrit of the sea,
And lichter nor a dauphin with her fin.
Unhappy is the man for evermair
That tills the sand and sawis in the air;
But twice unhappier is he, I lairn,
That feidis in his hairt a mad desire,
And follows on a woman throw the fire,
Led by a blind and teachit by a bairn.
And here’s my poem:
Better Read, A Valentine
Scare, tides & herring. Shift. Sky
at night. Eye flight, the plane half empty.
Light district, letter days, in tooth
and claw. Hot Chili Peppers, blooded,
lobster, roses, River Valley,
remember? Flag flying here
(though cowards flinch
and traitors sneer). Rover.
Rover, come over.
for Jim
Daisy– In North Carolina, we woke up to a snowy Valentine’s Day! In celebration of this snow (which almost never happens anymore in NC) and my valentine girl, Valentina, I hope you will post my poem:
Three Snow Day Triolets
The jet stream’s sudden dip creates a lovers’ coup:
A snow day when children are staying with friends.
Should we spend our day reading, writing, and making stew?
The jet stream’s sudden dip creates a lovers’ coup.
Morning kisses on the couch, making love in the afternoon.
Who cares how long we’re snowbound or the school year extends!
The jet stream’s sudden dip creates a lovers’ coup:
A snow day when children are staying with friends.
All day I bring in wood to make a White Man’s fire.
In comfort we write gloses, triolets, and sometimes kiss.
Our corpse poems burn as one on the same funeral pyre.
All day I bring in wood to make a White Man’s fire
That will match the sizzle and spark of our desire
While you keep one eye on the weather and closing lists.
All day I bring in wood to make a White Man’s fire.
In comfort we write gloses, triolets, and sometimes kiss.
At fifty-one, walking at night on the blessing of new snow,
Our gloved hands grip and we save each other when we slip
On black ice, and you point between trees at the sky’s orange glow.
At fifty-one, walking at night on the blessing of new snow,
You kiss my numb face and feeling there begins to grow.
We talk some more about taking a lovely California trip
At fifty-one, walking at night on the blessing of new snow.
Our gloved hands grip and we save each other when we slip.
John Blackard
http://www.johnablackard.com