Someone I like played a mean trick on me, today.
She hinted she might possibly have to go away
And leave me unable to see her for a day;
I wanted to cry, but couldn’t behave that way;
I was determined not to appear upset,
I knew she knew I liked her but didn’t want to show it yet.

Everything conspires against love:
They broke the bell whose song could tell

The hour and the low tone
Of a lovers’ meeting in a sweet, secret place alone;
They hid the book which showed the look
Of her face in the afternoon
When a painter of grace captured her face;
They killed the drawing and the tune;
They ask for cash to call it the moon.

In the tower, where they work, hour after hour,
They care about power.
There is no love, no holy bower.

Couples fight, even at midnight,
Or in the day, when their children look painfully away.

It could be I am thinking of you 
When I think of these stories which are sadly true.

Why must there be these secrets and wars,
When it’s only my love wants to mingle with yours?



  1. Write Through said,

    March 3, 2012 at 8:14 am

    A mean trick was played on them today,
    the possible hinting unable to see what
    we wanted but couldn’t cry, determined,
    upset, like they knew it appeared to go

    away and leave this place to you, but
    didn’t love that broken bellsong, couldn’t

    tell the hour and the low tune of lovers
    meeting sweet in the secret book which

    showered the look of her hidden alone
    afternoon face in paint captured in that

    killing grace that grew the tone for cash
    calling to the moon in that tower where

    you work composing, hour after hour,
    a calm, considered and careful poetry

    there, where no love, no holy couple,
    midnight stories, are sadly true. Your

    power even on the way, thinking of us
    looking painfully away; could it be these

    children, a secret musk, must it be
    only wars, only mingle there with some-

    one like you, love.

    • thomasbrady said,

      March 3, 2012 at 12:05 pm

      I don’t quite know what to make of this; when I first saw it, I thought, of course, well here goes, someone is going to make fun of “A Love-Sick Poet Speaks,” it’s going to be a side-splitting parody, but as I read it, I saw it takes all the images of the poem and strings them along in a different way, making the poet the subject.

      It’s a sweet and intriguing reply.

      Very odd and strangely touching to read it.

      Thank you.

      Now of course I’m curious to who you are…

      • noochinator said,

        June 1, 2015 at 10:38 pm

        It was Des! Desmond Swords….

  2. thomasbrady said,

    June 2, 2015 at 1:49 am

    Was that the poem above he was reading? I didn’t hear it. But it was prolly Des.

  3. thomasbrady said,

    June 2, 2015 at 10:30 am

    I want him to read some of my poems…come on, Des, make me famous in Britain! 🙂

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