The six words of deadly power
Came so easily to his lips
As he stared at the moon—
Immortal, it seems.
But heavy his wings fell
Upon his back,
The fading memory of revels
Weighing down upon his mind
As he lifted his weary head,
Holding back tears:
He’d shed none for himself.
So he said—
—And from the core of his soul,
He believed as he said—
“I DO NOT BELIEVE IN FAERYS.”
The last syllable fell still as it left his lips.
He faded
and died,
His violent denial of self complete.
This night,
Like many other nights,
I took upon myself to write
A poem entitled “Suicide.”
But the story I had to tell,
I knew, could not at all end well.
To take this tale, too hard to bear,
And set it down into words fair?
The thought fills me with fear.
For who could say if my lament
Might not itself cause the event?
If grammar is glamour,
And poets have power,
Can truth become lies
(Or versa the vice)
If I clap my hands and refuse to believe
What I must write
This night?
The words that came to this son of man
by Cupid, the mighty god:
“Seek out this lady,
This new Spartan queen,
And speak to her.
Tell her I regret the wounds I have caused,
That the hurt to her psyche
Is my fault and no others.
“Tell her for as long as she listens,
Until she forgives the harm I have done,
Until the wounds heal.
Thou my servant, pray thy words are a balm to her heart."
My heart went out to this lady,
For well I knew
How long the pain lingers
When Cupid’s first gold arrow pierces the heart.
“And how,” I asked, “will I know her?”
So then, by art or by skill or power divine
(I know not which)
Her image appeared
Between me and the god.
Oh! Had I known,
Had the god better prepared me!—
—But no warning might have sufficed
To prepare me for this beauty.
Her hair was gold, flowing like the autumn wind,
a breeze carrying leaves aloft;
The glamour of her figure,
The grace of her curves,
Was beyond the ken of any poet—
God, man, or anything in between.
The stars seemed to dance in her eyes,
as though she had trapped them,
as though she were hiding another world.
One could scarcely believe such perfection existed.
Yet she was more real than real,
Beyond the mind of any god
to conceive, create, deceive.
I did not know where to look:
The whole of her was so great,
No part was left not enhanced by another.
Rightly I judged her, then,
The last wonder of the world.
So brightly she shone, her light the light of fire.
Just by looking I began to burn.
Here was beauty that would tempt angels;
Heaven’s hosts would gladly be damned
If only she smiled as their reward.
With such a glory as hers
Being sin itself,
At last I understood why the Nephilim were counted among the great.
Most of all, I longed to hear her voice.
So I turned to Cupid,
Sorrow mingled with wrath:
“Cupid, alas!
You have deceived me!
What words do I have
That such beauty would hear?
What could I say,
That she might forgive?”
“It is your habit,” said he,
“To obey my commands;
Though you are a favored toy of the Muses,
They offer you no love.
So go, then! Speak what words you are able.
It is I, Aeneas’ brother,
The mocking shadow of
Then he held out his hands.
Slowly I perceived he held no arrow.
His left hand was empty:
In his right,
A Vulcan-forged shield.
No world-in-miniature,
No past/future glory
Was its decoration,
But only her face, her lovely lips marked with my name.
I took the shield in my hand,
And the desire to protect her was kindled in me.
“Your desire,” Lord Cupid said,
“Will be your protection.
But beware, for it shall fall on you
To protect her from your desire.”
I kissed his empty hand
And went on my way.
Often, it was my habit
To turn and stare at her image,
Until my eyes could handle no more.
So armed,
Like Alexander entering
I raced toward my end.
