To love well is to want your love to live
more than a few years’ life, to breathe in art
after the stilling of their mortal heart.
All poets who are lovers want to give

eternal life, so want their work to last
and hold their love and loved one to the eye
of generations. Yet we know we lie
in saying this. All Sappho’s girls have passed

into the dust of graves, the ash of flame.
Books burn or rot, love dies. Love’s memory
is something even art can’t guarantee
Even Anactora is just a name

Whom Sappho sung. And yet, my love, I’ll write
Words that for some few years keep your name bright.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s