My Husband, Bob's, Poem to Me in 1978

In Defense of Poetry

My love, I know it must seem strange to hear

The cadence of Elizabethan times

Spring from the pen of one who all his life

Has only known the dry and juiceless, jangling

Rhythms of the speech of modern men.

Yet now my words do seem to tumble forth

And shape themselves, sans effort on my part,

Into the meter of th’ immortal Bard,

And seek, thereby, to tempt you into being

My Juliet, despite the barriers

Of space and time, that, cruelly, do keep

Us from that loving union, which beyond

All doubt, is our eternal destiny.

Such thoughts as these, born fresh and tender from

The heart, as from a womb, would wrap themselves

Inside the warmth of verse, and shun the cooler

Garb of dull and lifeless prose. So true

Is this that I am sure Love’s Architect

Could never build more than a humble hut

Without the varied instruments of verse.

It is not mere chance that all the sweetest

Tales of love that have been handed down to us,

That give us glimpses of the ecstasy

That only lovers know, are told in words

That sing and dance, that burn inside our minds

With fire and smoke and heat, that only the wet

And wintry depths of silent death can quench.

The poets do pluck the harpstrings of our hearts with

Wondrous skill, and all of us, drab creatures

That we are, starved for the manna that only

Beauty from the heavens can distill,

Do yield the secret music of our beings

To their artistry.

So, is it now so very strange that I,

In seeking to give voice to thoughts and feelings

That fall not lightly from the lips, should turn

To verse and try to strum the lyre of poetry?

“My love for you is like a rosebud that,

Responding to the juice of life that flows

Into it from the roots below, sunk deep

Into the dark and fertile soil of care,

Has just begun to swell with joy and open

Up it’s soft and tender petals to

The glowing light of heaven; fearful of

The heat and brightness of the day, that have

The pow’r to scorch and shrivel, unless there is

A ceaseless stream of nourishment, but yet

Determined still to reach it’s full fruition

In the splendor of a full-grown rose, that’s

Bared at last to wind and sun and rain

Mature and strong, and sharing with the world

A beauty that a fear of life and pain

Could have forever hid.”

----Robert E. Field, 5 Sept 1978