16.Ode to My Angry Beloved

16.Ode to My Angry Beloved

                                            By JH Sayyar

1

O wrathful muse, whose brow the tempest curls,

Whose eyes outshine the lightning’s fiercest flame!

Thy voice, once dulcet, now like ocean swirls,

Breaks softest air with sorrow's thundering name

Ah, bitter rose! Thou bloom with thorns anew,

Yet still thy petals hold the morning dew.

2

Thine anger, love, is like a wayward gale

That bends the boughs yet feeds the burning pine,

And though thy frown may make the lilies pale,

Still in thy ire, strange beauty dost thou shine.

A goddess scorned! Yet all the stars obey

Thy moody course, thy dark and bright array

3

I wronged thee not — or so my heart believes,

Yet thy disdain hath made my spirit bleed.

Did I not strew thy path with autumn leaves!

And tune my soul to every secret need?

But thou, high priestess of thy sacred pain,

Hast cast me from thy temple’s golden fane

4

Still, I would drink thy silence like cool wine,

And clasp thy shadow when the moon is dead.

For even in thy rage, thy wrath divine,

More warmth I find than where cold reasons fled.

Strike, if thou must! But let thy strike be sweet,

More kind than parting, and more whole than fleet

5

O Beauty storming in thy proud despair!

Thy thunder shakes the shrine where love once lay,

Yet in thy wildness is a balm more rare!

Than all the peace pale Dian steals away.

Fury and grace in thee together move,

And from thy wrath I shape my truest love.