by Paul Stevens

My love's not like a red, red rose:
she is a red, red, rose:
I stroke her blushing petals,
her sweet carpel just glows.

I fly the howling storm to her;
my stamen I employ,
with yo-ho-ho! the pollens flow
into her bed of joy.

I feel it rising in my sap -
a hot and heady power,
the urge to be the force that through
the green fuse drives the flower.

Sure, nothing is so beautiful
as Spring, when everywhere
fresh freesias - jail-bait - strut their stuff:
I lurk in parks and stare.

I fondle plump wisterias,
and pansies, when I dare:
and sometimes, letching for rough trade,
I grope a prickly pear.

My darling dear, my daisy flower,
your stigma is so cute,
your sticky pistils so divine:
I love you, bud and root.

Fair daffodils, I lust to see
your pretty, pert coronas:
there's nothing quite so guaranteed
to cause me massive boners!

You flash upon my inward eye;
I fling my underpants
away, and join you as you toss
your heads in sprightly dance.

When Daphne, fleeing, metamorphosed
to a leafy bay,
it dashed Apollo's hopes - not mine!
It would have made my day!

A nest of robins in her hair
wins my sincerest praise;
I warble love-songs endlessly
to win palm, oak, or bays.

And Màrgarèt, do not be grieving
over Goldengrove unleaving:
those naughty, naked branches set
my pulses racing, chest a-heaving.

The flowers fall, the leaves turn sere,
but still my love runs deep,
and shall endure for you, Dear Plant,
beyond the compost heap.

© 2007 by Paul Stevens


Paul Stevens was born in Yorkshire, but lives in Australia. He has an Honours Degree in English from the University of Sydney, and teaches Literature, Historiography, and Ancient History. His recent poetry is in The Barefoot Muse, WORM, Lily, The Argotist, The New Formalist, as well as the forthcoming Poemeleon, The Centrifugal Eye and Contemporary Sonnet. He is the Poetry Editor (with Nigel Holt) of The Shit Creek Review + II.






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