The Magic of Infatuation, The Marvel of Reality

————

She loved him then, when still a lad

and she a lass, but Galahad

ne’er seemed to notice her bright eyes

(wide-set, and rather large in size)

which never took their gaze away

except, perchance, he peered her way

and then, head turned, although she yearned

to meet his glance, admire his lance,

and maybe, someday, to advance

and gently cough so he might doff

his helm and say, “A lovely day,”—

she’d feel so gay and then be off

without reply, though he might spy

her eyes both bat, then like a cat

(though with a blush) she’d quickly rush

and hide within the underbrush

beside the moat where she could float

and watch him, hidden and remote,

without revealing how appealing

was his form to every feeling

which would swell within her breast—

and through the night not giver her rest—

until the two became as one,

their vows full-pledged, new life begun.

But first she’d need to interfere

with his romance of Guinevere

(of Lancelot we hear a lot,

but he was not Gwyn’s only plot).

No simple task: she’d need to ask

for Merlin’s aid, though sore afraid

he’d be amused—and she refused—

because her kind, by him, was used

for potions and for magic spells,

though not the ones for wedding bells

and bringing love to disparate hearts,

feats not beyond his mystic arts.

But how could she approach this man,

with knowledge of when time began,

a mage of such uncertain age

that eons were but just a page,

and she so short of life and stature,

fearing that he might dispatch her

rather than to act the cad

’twixt Guinevere and Galahad

(although he knew what lay ahead

when Arthur learns Lance shares her bed).

She needn’t speak in human tongue,

for Merlin is of those among

the very few who always knew

not just his voice, but others’, too.

And so she hid beneath his hat

(by creeping past his sleeping cat)

among the potions on his shelf,

and though she felt beside herself

near vessels filled with eye of newt,

and wart of toad, and mandrake root;

quite unprepared, she trusted fate

to make the best of plans formed late.

He soon arrived and reached within

his pointed hat and with a grin

pulled out a rat and owl and bat,

perched on his shoulders as he sat

(although the bat hung from the brim

a moment, right in front of him,

so he said, “Please remove yourself

and take your place beside the elf

upon the shelf where you belong—

you know my patience isn’t long.”)

She saw he was a friend of those

with fur or feathers for their clothes,

and pond’ring why his hand passed by

her face within her hiding place,

she realized she needn’t fear,

for Merlin had a friendly ear.

It seems he knew that she had come;

no mighty “Fee, Fi, Fo” or “Fum”

would scare her from his giant’s lair—

he knew her want, her why, and where.

But splitting fair queen from her beau

was futile—fates were sealed—and so

he said, “Instead, let’s place our focus

on your passion’s misled locus.

You believe a knightly kiss

would bring you new life as a miss

whom he would want to have and hold,

the one to whom his life is sold.

It’s just as likely he would turn

into a creature you would learn

to hold and have then give your life

to carry him through every strife.

But as for me, I’d be remiss

not warning you the purest kiss

might not abide through thick and thin,

for wooing doesn’t always win

forever-after happiness:

though sometimes more, it’s often less.

Far better that you stay a frog

and love your every pollywog.”

By Ken Gosse

From: United States

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