I was born before my time and after yours.
And in that moment of quantum coincidence,
I realised – like director of film experience –
the love that I feel for you is absolutely true.
It doesn’t depend on what you say or silence.
It doesn’t demand to be heard or made damn violent.
It doesn’t require my acquiescence to science.
All it needs me to do is make that big leap
Of magnificent faith: you fabulously did enjoy
Yourself unruly at The Woollen Mills on Bloomsday in the
As much, in FACT, as I have described, already, all light-
Headed, all bewildered, all amused and bemused by the events
We have shared, this very briefly, in this shy space of love we have craved
To make up
In the weird way we
So from the Joycean rebirth of my miseried life to a quite different
Thriving – and maybe partnering and wifeing! –
It now does entail me as the man I’ve become to make that
Great jump between thoughtful and done.
I love you so much that the pain of not saying to your voice
And your face now overcomes my timidity.
And whilst they have said rightly more than once that
Love conquers all, the truth of this matter to hand
Is that I never accepted it would conquer me again.
I am ready then, Claire, not to hurt you with a passion
Of unstoppable force, of indisputable remand, but –
instead and in deed and in fact and entreaty – to give myself up to that
Moment of choice: where the words I have written may be spoken –
Me to you! – in a place and a time of our election and mention;
And maybe I will fail to convince,
And maybe I will fail to persuade,
And maybe I will fail to make once more possible
This ever so peculiar
I feel we have been playing all this time.
But in that grand jump and leap and faith-
ful[l] – that great stand of man, that cool band of life, where
Husband and wife do declare,
One more time, the reason and rhyme of love’s curious
Suitabilities, its intricacies, its fearfulness, its tearfulness
And, finally, its ability to rescue us from the POVerty of solitude,
Where need and want will fuse in one, and the two we are right now
Become the singular connection amongst the plural humanity
That I saw so plainly, so wonderfully, so gorgeous, in
The you that you are: that fair skin so glorious, those astonishing grey cells
For a hand and a hug and a sign
Of our love: so very real, so very wheeling, so very might …!
And so the moment has come: I have to contemplate failure.
I have to make that weird feat of lover through centuries.
I have to take that racking step; that moment of real truth.
I have to speak to you, not through my thoughts.
I have to voice in sounds and words
And unbounded moments
Of terrifying truth the reality of my actuality.
For that is the truth: the horizon which freezes.
The teasing is over.
The love must end or begin.
For love from afar is no real love at all.
The only love which really counts is that of touch and fine embrace: where
Hand in hand, arm placed across lap, we race to kiss and suck and muck
About in grand humour and amusement damn playful:
The entertaining rest of our lives played out as unending fun.
And so I have come to this conclusion, my love;
I have come to this grand realisation;
In order to succeed I have to contemplate failure;
In order to win you over I must assume I may not.
And ever since I was rejected again and again – and again I tell you! –
By wife and lover both,
By awful conspiration, by terrible
My life and ability to love that unruly was utterly hardened and unable to see
The good anyone contained in their kissing and their sexing and their
Eyeing and their waning
And their sleeping and their simply wanting to be next to me.
And you broke that hard shell; you did, Claire, for sure.
You did with your kindness; you did with your share of wondrous
Perceptions, of amazing, of crazing, of unfazing wild certainty: the
Certainty of life; the
Wisdoms of thrive.
So now it befalls me to make that phonecall.
And it will be quite the biggest thing I’ve ever gone and done.
For whilst driving and flying and becoming this me
Were achievements all bold, and all told, and all [re]counted, my
Final act of uncomfort zone is right here this morning-time; so
No wake for me at all,
No wake for me.
And when a lover understands that without a woman like you
He has to lead a life of sad cocoon, of weary dark room,
Of never seeing further than a coffee or muffin,
Or fairheads seen only from a distance out there –
Never stroke or stoke up
Never fly the heights
Of physical shudder –
And never ever give up rudder to the
Finger of beloved and re–
Loved and seen
Much, and done daily and touched up, and touched down,
And frowned upon and then made truly well,
Oh the hell to it all: you will get my call today!
I love you too much, in your brains and your beauty,
Not to risk one more time
The Bloomsday of our minds!