We both know that he has been profligate in every sense of the word.   That he has neither integrity nor honour. That he is as false and deceitful, as he is insinuating.
—Elizabeth Bennet

His character has been so totally blasted by his profligacy and imprudence, that he is seldom admitted into respectable society. 
— Mr. Darcy

His affection for her soon sunk into indifference; hers lasted a little longer; and, in spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to reputation which his indolence, extravagance, and fickleness had gradually banished.
— Jane Austen

Février 14: Eleanor d’Aquitaine

 

I made you a conceit to mitigate my guilt.

I thought Eleanor of Aquitaine would suit you,

your place in time– a man below your prison cell

singing just above a whisper, to comfort you.

But this sonnet is disingenuous,

it is my means of avoiding a betrayal–

an anachronism to protect interests.

I love you, and in spirit will remain loyal

to you forever, though I will never exist

in all the graces of your life responsibly,

there will always persist some unresolved spirit.

The whole history of romantic poetry

is littered with the bones of the well-intentioned

(and this is why our love need never be mentioned).

 

 

Février 16: la Proposition

 

There are moments in life when privation demands action,

when words come unbidden, seemingly from another throat.

I have been waiting for this condition to do me in,

because for so long, I’ve ignored my needs, my very soul.

I’ve been afraid for years—now I have no choice but to speak

as a married man, who tempers his love at his peril.

Therefore, my confession is not an act of bravery:

it is my cowardice projected out into the world.

I understand our love could never be consummated,

though it seems this proposal is no less invidious:

to endeavor to love you as a friend, an acquaintance,

a benign soul that would never shame my wife, Lydia.

I will find a way to honestly earn your allegiance

where our respective futures needn’t hang in the balance.

 

 

Février 18: Probabilité

 

This love is beginning to look like an empty promise.

I’ve been overruled by the pragmatic course of nature,

a muted voice that insinuates a deeper purpose:

protect and preserve your own, build a home and a future.

I should never have surrendered so quickly to my wife—

as Gracián would say, I lost my position of power.

So now, there is nowhere to go with this conjugal lie.

I once believed that our love was merciful and tender,

but ‘twas a deception: our love is a con, a shell game

where happiness is denuded by probability.

This marriage has become cynical, an intricate maze

of hidden impulses and furies that lead to nothing—

like critics, we heap contumely upon each other’s souls

desperately searching for a sovereign we can rule.

 

 

Février 24: Waterloo, Revisité

 

After the ball, I felt disconnected

from the shrill voices in the drawing room

rising from those intertwined, half-naked

bodies on the floor—yet all I could do

was intellectualize my impotence,

give it some otherworldly gravitas.

Anna sat in a chair, hand to her breast,

and surveyed the room like a field marshal

scrutinizing his indolent unit.

I was half-paralyzed and I wanted

desperately to flee her discipline—

yet the absinthe kept my body molded

to the cushions, the floor in ecstasy,

a sea of fingers writhing at my feet.

 

 

Février 27: Foi, Espoir, Charité

 

From the time the sun reaches its zenith

to the time it lowers past my window,

I am useless. You are the sole reason

for my ennui, as I press my elbows

into the bed, imagining your face

with its enigmatic complexities:

the large eyes that mysteriously change

to indignation from serenity

with just a simple tilt of an eyelid:

your diminutive and elegant nose;

your hair, as dark as ink; your sanguine lips

which open like an importunate rose.

Faith, Hope, Charity: I have known them well—

yet none so fair as you, mademoiselle.

 

 

Février 28: Radeau de la Méduse

 

We lay on the bedroom floor, the curtains

lifting gently like sails. We are adrift,

in a remote landscape where uncertain

lovers dare to pose, indiscriminate,

naked, and fully aware of their fate.

It’s hard to proceed toward the end, knowing

that every wasted breath is a mistake—

every errant stroke a cause for falling

under deepening forces—every kiss

belies our secret, every breath released

perjures our love. The walls are so thin,

a membrane between the world, our bodies—

we should proceed carefully in the dark,

where no light reveals the joy in our hearts.

 

 

Mars 15: L’épée de Damocles

 

I am afraid to lay with you in bed,

afraid to dream, when my pain takes the shape

of images too vivid to repress

the next morning—and so I stay awake,

listening to the cadence of your breath.

When my index finger lightly traces

the contours of your necklace (which stretches

taut between your breasts each time you inhale),

I begin to suspect that the odd blade

which rises then lowers beneath my hand

is a bad omen, and that it’s my fate

to be paralyzed with indecision

and cowardice, like Damocles crying

out That sword! That sword! to the tyrant king.

 

 

Mars 25: L’Apparition

 

It’s said that when a man’s heart resists guilt

it is compressed, like dry leaves in a book

or a fossil under layers of silt.

I have taken a duplicitous look

between the covers, and invented lies

to justify the pressure in my chest—

even as I stumble through town at night,

trying to remember your street address

or which key I should use for the back door.

Then a voice calls to me from a window,

Ma petite chou-chou, venez, mon amour

as I balance above the tall hedgerows

to see an apparition—a white sheet

billowing from your bosom to your feet.

 

 

Mars 29: L’Enfant Sauvage

 

This is the plight of feral children

who never forgive their parents: we grow

silent in the beds of injured women,

imagining one errant word below

the blanket might be used as evidence

against us. Not even God in heaven

could pry the truth from our lips, or evince

the tragedy which our deceit portends—

but drunk, I will reveal my true nature

when I nudge you awake and then intone

earnestly “I will love you forever,”

while secretly wishing I were alone,

in some romanticized childish longing:

that every woman find me appealing.

 

 

Juin 11: Un Canaille Déplore

 

How I miss those days of drinking too much,

squandering my fortune on spirits and song

just for the sake of a strange woman’s touch!

Alas, that time has passed and I’ve grown numb.

The odd gesticulations of a cad

nothing more than liturgical rhythms,

some perverse mimicry of sit, kneel, stand

(though I never thought to memorize hymns

or mire my conscience in long confessions).

What was it then? Why was I so compelled

to wallow so stupidly in my sin,

seducing my way backwards into Hell

(and then, descending fast, cry out “My friends!

I am doing my best to make amends!”).

 

 

Mai 02: Portrait de l’auteur

 

The scoundrel, having written one judgment

too many, decided to turn his pen

on himself (and thus began to invent

the conflated shape of a confession).

He perused dozens of antique volumes,

mining history for its pantheon

of famed liars, traitors, and vagabonds

to find corollaries with his actions.

The final portrait had Iago’s tongue,

Rasputin’s eyes, Hamlet’s mind, Judas’ lips,

and Machiavelli’s heart (an amalgam

of a schemer, rake, dandy, and sophist—

an ignoble savage with no better use

than to write terse monologues in les lieux.

 

 

Mai 15: Cocytus

 

Like Virgil, I have been a cryptic friend,

a cipher. The man I betrayed knew this

and still followed me wittingly to hell,

knowing that he would not find Beatrice,

(suspecting I had defiled their union

with my vanity). And yet he trusted,

hoping that it was all an illusion,

that salvation lay beneath the surface

in some cathartic descent. To my shame,

I laid a laurel at his feet, and said

“I will never betray your trust again”

even as I contrived to betray it,

with an ease too calculating to see

(a calculus too easily conceived).

 

 

Mai 30: Ma Dernière Confession

 

Deception can be a pragmatic tool

which may be utilized for future gain—

to others, it’s a means of survival.

I belong to the latter, petty rakes

who willfully chew themselves up at night,

then spit their hearts back out onto paper,

those who never tire of their wretched plight,

contemptuous of loyalty or faith.

Dear Love, even Iago would reflect

on his own sins with greater mercy, once

he learned the darkest secret of my act:

that I only pray to mute my conscience

(to keep my sinful past from its fair due),

even as I willfully prey on you.