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Saturday Sonnet.

I observe one of our children, smart, articulate, a comic, reduced to silence by the contemplation of the woman he loves. He is distracted. He appears aloof. Conversations with other women in society are less important: he cares but for one.

To be too charming with those one is not bound to is seen by those such bound as betrayal. Sometimes our remoteness is a choice.

We chose another, and to her we bound our troth.


Because I oft in darke abstracted guise
Seeme most alone in greatest company,
With dearth of words, or answers quite awrie,
To them that would make speech of speech arise;
They deeme, and of their doome the runour flies,
That poison foul of bubbling pride doth lie
So in my swelling breast, that only I
Fawne on my selfe, and others do despise.
Yet pride I thinke doth not my soule possesse
(Which looks too oft in his vnflatt’ring glasse):
But one worse fault, ambition, I confesse,
That makes me oft my best friends ouerpasse,
Vnseene, vnheard, while thought to highest place
Bends all his powers, euen vnto Stellaes grace.

Sir Philip Sydney

Love is specific. It is to one person. Don Juan loved all women, but could not love one, and he was a lesser man because of this. If you love, you take great risks, but as a modern punk wrote once.

This is a love song to John and Leisha’s mother
This isn’t easy
I might not write another

Chris Knox

Chris Knox suffered a stroke young, and his children’s mother now lives with a minister of the crown. Like Sydney, his striving ended for naught. But he loved his Stella: so should we all.

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