More than I could bear

The church bells are ringing.

Tuesday is practice night for the faithful and unfaithful campanologists. The peal is uneven, discordant and untidy. A novice is hauling the rope. The sound disturbs the silence. The evenings are usually so quiet here.

I sip my wine. It is nothing special. A syrah grape without provenance, but it fills my mouth with blackberry, and pepper, and smoke. And summer. And memories of her.

She was far too young for me. A child when measured against my grey hair and dark experience. And yet she touched me in a way that few have ever done.

She was lithe and slender and had eyes that saw beyond the obvious. She was as sharp as a glass shard and far cleverer than she realised. Her demeanour was a mixture of swagger and vulnerability. She had the face of a model and the bewitching smile of a girl. She pretended that she was five foot six, but she wasn’t. Her legs were breathtaking, her breasts spectacular on such a petite frame.

She was as heavenly as sin.

She gave herself to me with poetic solemnity and a glorious sense of drama. In retrospect, I think she meant it. She lived for the moment and, just then, with her head bowed, I was the moment.

I am a master of discipline, manipulation and control. But I’m not sure I could ever have tamed her.

She was a wild and wayward spirit.

I don’t know what has made me think of her. Perhaps the confusion of bells, the wine in my mouth, spring rising, the overwhelming certainty that evening is descending on me fast these days.

We drifted apart.

I am glad we did.

She would have only disappointed me.

And that would have hurt her.

More than I could bear.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

I wrote this some years back and rediscovered it a while ago. I like it, so I hope readers do not mind the repost.

Art by Thomas Saliot

 

Words in the rain

Thunder rumbles again.

The day has darkened and rain is falling. Pale silver threads against a backdrop of green-black trees.

It is June. Only days away from the solstice. Here in leafy England, the nights will soon begin their slow, steady, inevitable drawing in.

The sun shone bravely this morning. In my secluded, fragrant garden, I sipped tea and listened to bees buzzing, to the gurgle of water in the pond, and to an insistent song in my head that would not stop playing.

And now, at my ancient oak desk in this far more ancient room, on this quiet, directionless, stranded afternoon, I cannot remember the words.

I want to write, but I have no words at all.

I notice I have just absent-mindedly typed your name onto the page. I stare at it in pleased surprise. It is as if you had just whispered my name. I delete it. You are beyond secrecy. Only you will ever know about you.

The thunder is closer.

It sounds like warfare, the moving of celestial furniture, the roaring of mythical gods. Unexpectedly a bird is singing in the midst of it all.

I think about you. Not in any structured way. Where you are. What you are doing. What you are wearing. What you are thinking.

I hope, hopelessly, it is about me.

I think about your beauty, your body, your eyes, your mouth, the elegance of your shoulders, the shape of your breasts. For a few moments, my mind wanders down paths divinely carnal. I sigh at my own predictability. And at the holding of my breath.

You are so far away. Always.

The thunder is passing. Weakening, Grumbling and groaning in a more distant part of the sky. The rain is easing. The single bird has become a small chorus.

I stare at my page. I have written nothing.

But, sweet angel, I wrote it for you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Written in a different June, long ago.

Art by Thomas Saliot

 

More than I could bear

The church bells are ringing.

Tuesday is practice night for the faithful and unfaithful campanologists. The peal is uneven, discordant and untidy. A novice is hauling the rope. The sound disturbs the silence. The evenings are usually so quiet here.

I sip my wine. It is nothing special. A syrah grape without provenance, but it fills my mouth with blackberry, and pepper, and smoke. And summer. And memories of her.

She was far too young for me. A child when measured against my grey hair and dark experience. And yet she touched me in a way that few have ever done.

She was lithe and slender and had eyes that saw beyond the obvious. She was as sharp as a glass shard and far cleverer than she realised. Her demeanour was a mixture of swagger and vulnerability. She had the face of a model and the bewitching smile of a girl. She pretended that she was five foot six, but she wasn’t. Her legs were breathtaking, her breasts spectacular on such a petite frame.

She was as heavenly as sin.

She gave herself to me with poetic solemnity and a glorious sense of drama. In retrospect, I think she meant it. She lived for the moment and, just then, with her head bowed, I was the moment.

I am a master of discipline, manipulation and control. But I’m not sure I could ever have tamed her.

She was a wild and wayward spirit.

I don’t know what has made me think of her. Perhaps the confusion of bells, the wine in my mouth, spring rising, the overwhelming certainty that evening is descending on me fast these days.

We drifted apart.

I am glad we did.

She would have only disappointed me.

And that would have hurt her.

More than I could bear.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

I wrote this a few years ago and rediscovered it last year. I like it, so I hope readers do not mind the repost.

Art by Thomas Saliot

 

Your legs

.

Your legs

bare-skinned

in jeans

in a skirt

in stockings

in heels.

.

Your legs

kneeling

walking

bending

stretching

on tiptoe.

.

Your legs

dancing

crossing

parting

tangled

with mine.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by Thomas Saliot

 

If we were strangers

If we were strangers

and I saw you

in a cafe

reading a book

or on a train

gazing from the window

or in the park

walking your dog

or in a restaurant

laughing with friends

or in a supermarket

checking your list

or in a car

stuck at the lights

or in the office

confident and sure

or in a crowd

standing out

I would still want you

like sin

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by Thomas Saliot

 

Neophyte

Neophyte

.

In the middle of our conversation

my eyes are drawn

to the pale,

translucent skin of your throat,

to the shadowed hollow

and your perfect bones.

.

I am struck blind

by the holiest of visions.

.

Later staring out of the darkness

my fears are stilled

by the soft

remembered curve of your smile,

and the touch of your hand

when once alone.

.

I am sublime 

with glorious religion.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

This is by no means a new poem of mine, written some years ago and posted here a number of times. But one always adores a neophyte. 

Art by Thomas Saliot

 

Winter solstice

He thinks about her.

He is sipping red wine. It fills his mouth with grape and his heart with hope.  Outside it is still raining.

Earlier he had walked the hounds in a brief respite from the deluge.  There had been a delayed monsoon waiting in the dying-leaved trees.

A hidden sun had set invisibly over his grey, sodden, dripping village before four o’clock. The afternoon had been swallowed up by night without a whimper

It is the shortest day.

He lives by the seasons and can already feel the change. The days will lengthen from now. It is a clean, beckoning, hungry new page.

He will write her name on it.

He does not know who she is. And yet he already senses her presence in his life.

He cannot be sure if they have yet made contact, chased shadows, crossed borders, traded smiles, touched hands, exchanged truths, offered up words, or painted pictures on a blank canvas.

He is unable to tell if they are already gently familiar or are completely unconnected strangers.

Yet he is certain, at this change of the solstice, that she is there.  For him.

So he takes another sip and leans back into the soft, comfortable leather of his chair.

He can almost smell her scent on his fingers.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

I was certain I had posted a short piece some time ago inspired by the winter solstice which, in the northern hemisphere, is today. I looked for it a few years back and I eventually found it under the title ‘Her scent’. I had actually written it in 2012. Time flies.

Much has changed since then. Sadly both of the hounds mentioned in the piece have died. The village has been swapped for an even smaller one. And I left behind a business life some time ago to focus on my writing (a success) and do other things.

But the words seem to capture the day and the time. So I posted this last year and the three years before, with a new title to celebrate the day. But with the same art. I think it meant something to me at the time. I do believe posting it has become a Winter Solstice tradition.

Art by Thomas Saliot

 

Good things

Good things

seldom happen

randomly

by chance.

They usually need

more assistance

than just hoping

for divine intervention.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not a brand new post, but always true.

Art by Thomas Saliot

 

Periphery

Sometimes

two strangers

catch sight

of each other

at the very edge

of their own

periphery

and both wonder

the same thing.

Yet one

or the other

or both

need to step

into view.

They sometimes do.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Thomas Saliot

 

Words in the rain

Thunder rumbles again.

The day has darkened and rain is falling. Pale silver threads against a backdrop of green-black trees.

It is June. Only days away from the solstice. Here in leafy England, the nights will soon begin their slow, steady, inevitable drawing in.

The sun shone bravely this morning. In my secluded, fragrant garden, I sipped tea and listened to bees buzzing, to the gurgle of water in the pond, and to an insistent song in my head that would not stop playing.

And now, at my ancient oak desk in this far more ancient room, on this quiet, directionless, stranded afternoon, I cannot remember the words.

I want to write, but I have no words at all.

I notice I have just absent-mindedly typed your name onto the page. I stare at it in pleased surprise. It is as if you had just whispered my name. I delete it. You are beyond secrecy. Only you will ever know about you.

The thunder is closer.

It sounds like warfare, the moving of celestial furniture, the roaring of mythical gods. Unexpectedly a bird is singing in the midst of it all.

I think about you. Not in any structured way. Where you are. What you are doing. What you are wearing. What you are thinking.

I hope, hopelessly, it is about me.

I think about your beauty, your body, your eyes, your mouth, the elegance of your shoulders, the shape of your breasts. For a few moments, my mind wanders down paths divinely carnal. I sigh at my own predictability. And at the holding of my breath.

You are so far away. Always.

The thunder is passing. Weakening, Grumbling and groaning in a more distant part of the sky. The rain is easing. The single bird has become a small chorus.

I stare at my page. I have written nothing.

But, sweet angel, I wrote it for you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written in a different June

Art by Thomas Saliot