Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2011


by robert dale

If her eyes be crafted by Ra, then her pupils be the Sun.
And to cup her bosom would be to gild it with gold,
Or to hear her music, a betrothal of rhyme,
Formed by her beauteous lips, like roses, to match,
Would speak a melodious passion
As soft and as new as the early springtime breeze.
But I cannot be brave for her, my Miranda.
Nor can I hear but her thorny prose.
And to not tell her that gold is no more than a metal
Is to lie, for we be star-crossed lovers.
Where I am the moon to eclipse those incandescent eyes,
Or she, the devoted fire to scathe, be ignorant to my zeal for Prospero.
For as chaste her womb may be,
She shall never be a man, for which He made me.

Added: 13.03.2011

Judges' comments on this poem


Lovely poem