Eight Chambers of My Heart

    Dedicated to me


I have four chambers in my heart, but truly – six:
A heart for running, poetry and magic,
A heart for love (so used to be) – of iron silk,
But why does “magic” so often rhyme with “tragic”?

The noblest chamber I devoted to her,
This girl of eyes so perilously beautiful,
But gushed the blood and died the artery – it hurt:
Not unrequited love, but petty feuding.

Another chamber went to magic, young and old:
For me, for love, for all the worlds, of all the ages,
It pierced the constellations, freezing cold,
For no magician works alone, I fear and wager.

The third of chambers I devoted to rhymes,
They rhymed and waltzed, capricious little critters,
They told me writing museless was a crime,
The chamber blew, the rhymes went “bileful-bitter.”

I told the fourth to run like waves or gales of wind,
To run for gold, for thrill, adventure, spirit,
To run in winter, summer and to win!
We didn’t win, so I exploded it. Period.

So many chambers – four, they’ll never wake;
I gave the fifth to her again: my muse, my music,
In blood and ink I swore we’re meant to make
Eternal masterpieces, but my oath was useless.

And so the final five were gone. Forgive the lie:
I own eight and promised to a lady
To write artistic, clever, witty lines:
“Eight Chambers of My Heart” we called it playfully.

The six and seven went to hell in a balloon,
Or maybe paradise: in shuttle or dirigible,
I wasted them on worthless rhymes and petty losers,
On love that’s loveless, hopeless or digital.

And yet it beats, it bets, it lets me breathe –
My chamber eight, my honor and my treasure,
I dare say it’s stronger still, more reckless-free
Than any other heart of any measure.

My only chamber writes and rhymes, it loves, creates
It knows hate and love, the whole spectrum,
I knows the thrill of victory, art and dates,
Achilles’ wrath and valiance of Hector.

I love you true, one chamber of my heart,
You’re infinite and warm, and so impertinent,
You’re made for love and rhymes, for sport and art,
You rule by honor, knowing no rule or ordinance.

The poem ends, but life begins anew:
With Scarlet Sails, scarlet love or scarlet poetry,
Another hope, another run, another beau,
To hell the old, the pass;, the doleful.

To hell the love or art that was - in withered chambers;
My rhymes are new, my love – tomorrow, life is changing…