first of all, that I’m all for that…
but Dr Freud asked me if I’d call you in –
that is, invite you – for a little chat;
there’ll be no fee, of course…
Sylvia, would you sit over here,
and Ted, you over there?
I’ve read your case notes
which my secretary compiled, from
your previous poems – she’s quite
well-read; indeed, I believe she’s now applied
for a post with Mr. Eliot the poet…
Now I understand you’re both madly in love
and – ahem – can’t wait to ‘get at
one another’ as they say these days …
I guess the ‘Do not Disturb’ notice
may be there for days, ha ha?
but a word of admonition..er.. advice:
although in theory two artists co-habiting
is a great idea in theory – you’ll understand
each others’ situation, help with tax returns,
maybe use the same literary agent –
it’s not all plain sailing: creativity
comes in individual cycles; it’s known
today as ‘biorhythms’; you’re down,
he’s up; he’s down, you’re up
and since you already, Sylvia,
have – harrumph – issues,
these cycles could conflict
quite vigorously; with considerable care
you can make this work
to your advantage; we had marked success
with a previous pair in your situation,
Robert and Elizabeth..
But it will require considerable care,
as I said; and there’s always the chance –
my Hollywood clients face this constantly –
that one of you may find your public fame
outstrips the other – this can be difficult;
I’m treating several well-known couples
for this very problem; Richard and Elizabeth
were frequent visitors here in Belair…
a marriage of two fine creative artists
can become like crows picking at
the flesh and then the bones..
So I hope you don’t mind this little chat;
best wishes, and I suggest
you come and see me again
not too soon – who needs psychiatrists
when they’re in love, ha ha – but
not too late?
My receptionist
will see you out…
this Hollywood practice,
though busy and, ahem, quite lucrative,
brings me much sadness, as my
wives have often commented…
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth ‘s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love ‘s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom:–
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Leave a Reply
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.
Leave a Reply
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Leave a Reply
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Leave a Reply
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.