You’re tender, I’m astringent,
few detours to the sweet.
Our love is not contingent
on synchrony of beat,
the marriage of two true minds
some say that Shakespeare praised––
perhaps De Vere, but who minds? ––
the thought is sweetly phrased,
for marriage is a mélange
that thrives when two are polar,
immune to every challenge
as canine is to molar.
So love me, being tender,
astringent though I am;
be victor, and surrender,
when battered by a ram.
10/21/05
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Brilliant from start to finish. From the title to the last line. Excellent rhythm, rhyme, imagery and sentiment and a fitting end to the anthology.