Below is a famous poem written 300 years ago, followed by my imitation of it. I don’t know who inspired Andrew Marvell, but a younger version of my middle daughter inspired me.
Dedicated to moms who have the thankless job of dressing their young children in January.
To His Coy Mistress, by Andrew Marvell, 1681
Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust;
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
To Her Stubborn Daughter, by Sheela Clary, 2020
Were I but chill enough, and kind,
This whining, sweetheart, were no crime.
We could lay upon your horse-themed bed,
And your face could grow more red than red,
As you explain why on this winter morn
You want to wear the shirt you’ve worn
For five days. We could, in fact, stay there all day,
As you’d continue to convey,
Your willingness to thrash and fight,
Till the fall of Betty White.
While I describe what good folks would say
To smell that filthy rag each day,
I’d be more than happy to assert
Your clear commitment to your shirt.
An hundred years should go to praise
Its clouds, and on its rainbow gaze,
Two hundred to take in each hue,
Thirty thousand for the sky’s steel blue.
An age at least for every reason,
Why clothing should not change with season.
For, sweetie, you deserve attention,
As the middle child, a cruel invention.
But at my back’s a cry of pain,
Your brother’s hit his head again,
And other chores before me wait,
A lifetime of hot meals to plate.
So in a custom tried and true,
I’ve got some threats to share with you.
My affection will no more be found;
Nor, on your cherubic cheeks will sound
My zerberts. Your Lego house will face foreclosure,
(Ditto that stupid fort enclosure.)
Time out’s a fine and good retreat,
But none, I think, do there get sweets.
Now therefore, won’t you shed that jersey?
Can’t you just show mom some mercy?
Can’t you see she’s in the right,
And deign to let her win this fight?
……………
Oh, just go downstairs! I’ll hoarsely rattle,
my white flag raised on this stupid battle.
I’ll stay behind and a moment steal
To clear my head and cool my heels.
Let me seek to put aside
My wrath, despair, guilt and pride.
Then tear through breakfast without pause,
As though this chapter never was.
So, though I could not turn the fuss
My way, we’ve still got time to catch the bus.
