Sometimes, when I go out,
I meet Boreas,
My fickle lover,
And let him play with my hair.
He is so gentle and wonderful,
Like an excited child,
His attention turned
Now here
Now there;
Always in motion,
But never far away.
I let him whisper in my ear
Sweet nothings;
Let him caress my skin
And toss up the hem of my skirt
For a joke
Blowing me little kisses.
I don't mind that he does the same
To other women
And even to men.
He never goes any further than just teasing.
And, when I get tired of being teased,
I just go back inside.
           ~27 March 2002

7 responses total.

You're getting noticeably better at this, morwen.  :)

well, she is practicing more, isn't she?

<girlish giggle> thank you.  I'm not entirely sure it is very good.  
Can anyone tell me what they think it is about?

        I like it. 

Okay, I'll bite.  It seems to be comparing the wind to a lover.  I just
noticed, though, that the title refers to the West wind, while the text refers
to Boreas, the North.  
  I've been slowly reading, for a while, a history of poetry in which the
author a(n apparently respected) critic, will occasionally say of a poet he
admires that their poetry cannot be paraphrased.  In context, he seems to be
saying that their poetry is such a natural, appropriate statement of its
content that, if it were written down any other way, it would fail to say the
same thing as it does.  The map-territory distinction seems to break down a
bit at these cases.  I feel like this poem partakes of that nature, a bit.

Sorry.  I got him confused with Zephyrus.  If you like, you can 
replace Boreas with Zephyrus and the poem will still work.

BTWE thanks for noticing.  I wouldn't have noticed otherwise.

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