Not a worthy excuse

 

It would make you angry

my not writing

just because

you are gone.

 

You were the one

who so often

encouraged me

inspired me

pushed me

roused me

applauded me.

 

You who were the one

who always

expected more

who insisted

‘you are a better writer

than you believe’.

 

Even on different paths

in recent years

your first question

‘what are you writing?’

your firmest advice

‘write about everything’.

 

It would make you angry

my not writing

just because

you are gone.

 

You would not see

my sorrow

at your passing

as a worthy excuse.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I wrote this year last year on the death of a close friend and mentor. Almost on the anniversary I learnt a few days ago of the passing of another friend, not nearly so close, but a friendship that goes back to our teens. A sense of great sorrow. It is a reminder of one’s own mortality when our friends die. Especially when they die before their time.

Art by Anne Magill

 

 

Paradigm

You are

the paradigm

by which

I measure

all others

and judge

myself

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art (detail) by Pierre Auguste Cot 

 

 

 

Not Falter

Not Falter

.

He can sense her in every footstep.

Every cracked, grey paving slab,

Every rust-red, crumbling brick,

Every light-filled, laughing window,

Every mocking, welcoming sign.

.

He will not bend.

He will not falter.

.

He can see her in every stranger.

Every passing, dark hunched shadow,

Every bare-legged, smiling girl.

Every wide-eyed, staring child.

Every joyful, oblivious lover.

.

He will not bend.

He will not falter.

.

He can feel her in every heartbeat.

Every rapid, strained, urgent breath

Every drum-tight, bursting sinew

Every white-knuckle, clenching fist

Every streaming hot angry tear.

.

He must not bend.

He must not falter.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo by Roxess

I wrote this in a a spare hour a week or so ago at the request of someone pulling together an anthology under the overall title of ‘Struggle’. It is a rough and ready poem, but it captures a moment in my life.

 

Stepping outside

I seldom step outside of Romantic Dominant.

He is me, but then he is not. He is part of me, but I am not part of him.

The last post was my 300th in the Notebook. There were a couple of hundred more in Love Affair Diary. And there were still more in the blogs before that. I have known a few of you for all that time. There are some of you who know me well. A rare few I have been fortunate enough to meet. And I have learned much about one or two of you. Sometimes beyond words. I am grateful for what was shared.

It is not over by any means. There is surely a finale. To steal and modify from Leonard Cohen – Like any Dominant he is watching for the card that is so high and wild he’ll never need to deal another.
I hope it is someone heavenly as sin.

So far it has been a glorious experience. To be read by friends and strangers is far more than my story, or at least the fragments of my story, deserve.

So I’m stepping outside of Romantic Dominant for just a moment.

To say – and I am sorry it is such a cliché – thank you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

PS Some readers have taken this post as a farewell. It is not by any means. It is just a thank you.

 

Never, ever.

They have escaped.

Their bolt-hole, far beyond the cities, out of reach of the railway, along narrow roads of high wind-swept hedges. Where the sea is always cold and clean and the air is fresh; mewing with gulls and tangy with salt on the rugged coast.

Where their walls are stone and two feet thick, the floors wood and slate, the same reassuring grey as the roofs and the sky when it is brooding. Where there is no telephone, no broadband, almost no connectivity in the ether. Where work has been left far behind and any lover is out of reach.

They are easy together. They have grown as close as blood family over the many years of knowing. They are silent often, contentedly sharing each others’ thoughts. They read, listen to music, walk for miles across the wild countryside, laugh at the same things. They eat and drink well. Expensively and healthily. He writes. She designs.

She is tall, elegant, slim, intelligent, shy and blonde. He is taller, long-limbed, distinctive, creative, with friendly but sometimes piercing eyes.  They are a well matched couple.

But they never, ever fuck.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Anne Magill

 

Proof

Proof

 

She does not know

Her own beauty.

Her reflection in the mirror

Cannot convince her.

 

She does not see

Her own sexuality.

The way he catches his breath

Will not persuade her.

 

She does not believe

Her own sweet grace.

The truth of his adoration

Is not enough proof.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from inf23

 

This poem was written a few days ago for someone who does not realise just how special she is.

.

 

.

.

 

To make me smile

Beauty and I have a date.

Lunch. A week from today. In the place we said goodbye in August.

It is strange friendship.  For me the attraction is obvious. She is young and breathtakingly beautiful.  A pale-skinned, dark-haired, brown-eyed, diminutive beauty with the body of a perfect goddess, legs of celestial design, and the smile of an angel.  And yet it is more than that.  As much as I adore her physically I find her adorable personally. She makes me laugh. She makes me want to hug her with pure affection.

And although, in my darkest and most delicious fantasies I would strip her and bind her and make her gorgeous body dance with pleasure and pain – I also have a desire to champion and nurture her, and keep her safe from harm.

It is what she sees in me that is the mystery.  She knows I want her and it both disturbs and delights her. Perhaps there is a tug of excitement in being so close to the dark creature that she is deeply aware that I am. Perhaps there is joy in the knowledge that I would never go beyond the boundaries she has gently drawn – even in suggestion or proposal –  so she can safely bathe in my attention. Perhaps I make her glow.

I might wish that she has a submissive ache, a hunger, an itch somewhere deep beneath her skin.  But in reality. I know it would have surfaced long before now.

The simple truth is not carnal.

She simply likes me.  As a friend.

That is more than enough to make me smile.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

 

Postscript

She says that she is done.

I believe her.  She has a good heart.

I have taken down yesterday’s post.  It was a knee jerk reaction to a perceived threat which I am no longer sure she was making.  To everyone who commented privately and publicly, I thank you for your kind words.  I don’t deserve them,  But they are appreciated, every one.

It has made me reflect on myself and my actions.  I truly have no wish to hurt anyone or deceive anyone.  On-line relationships are real relationships – they are between real people.  The lack of physical proximity does not mean that there is a lack of passion. Or that the suffering is any less when something is lost. Sometimes the distance makes the yearning, and the isolation even greater.

I try to be as honest as I can possibly be in all things – the fact that I am continually lying to the woman with whom I share my life and who is my best friend is enough stain on the soul of any man. Yet I resolve to try harder. I will be even more candid in my dealings with those with whom I come in contact. I will try to make it more clear, if there is a subject of a post, precisely to whom it is directed. (I know what it is like to read oneself into the posts of others when actually you were the last thing on their mind when they wrote it.)

And to anyone I have treated with less kindness, less candour, less respect and less feeling than I should have done, then I apologise.

I am truly sorry.

.

.

Art by Anne Magill

 

Be Home Soon

 

The rain falls,

drops like tears

on the glass.

The light fades,

yields to a night

without stars.

 

You will be home soon

 

The air cools,

makes the house shift,

creak and moan.

An owl hoots

somewhere near.

A wild sound.

 

You will be home soon.

 

The clock ticks,

marking time

in endless seconds.

The day breaks,

grey and empty.

The rain still falls.

 

Please come home soon.

.

.

Copyright the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from smokedval

.

This poem was written many years ago for someone whose lover did not come home that night. They never came home again.

 

Strangers

Is there a moment when it happens?

Or is it that a million moments accumulate into an eventual realisation?

Relationships change, they evolve, they shift. Circumstances fashion them, events alter them, decisions divert them. Love has countless patterns and textures that can shine or fade. It is never constant. It has a restless dynamic that, even when seemingly at peace, stirs in the darkness.

Once in a lifetime we are perfectly loved. Love is given to us with a purity of soul that almost blinds us. Absolute adoration. Glorious submission. It is a love that would give up everything. It is rare, unique, special.

But even such wondrous love cannot flourish without hope. I gave her everything I could, but I took away hope. I carry that burden among many other burdens. All of my own foolish construction.

She has survived. She is braver, stronger, more resilient, more at ease. For her, and perhaps for myself, I am no longer what I was. I never will be again.

For the man I am, with all my vanity, my ego, my pretensions and my self-deception, I would rather have no love at all than find myself in the slowly lengthening shadows of what once raged and burned so brightly.

We must be to each other what we never wanted to be..

Strangers.

.

.

Originally posted, with small variations, in both my Love Affair Diary and Shadows & Dancers blogs.  I have a very personal and special reason for re-posting it today, and do so with a heart that could hardly be heavier.

Painting: Journey’s End by Anne Magill