Mediocre poem of the day

A few days ago my wife and I celebrated our seventeenth anniversary, which reminded me of what is, I think quite literally, the only poem I have ever written in my life. This would be because (a) I like poetry, (b) I have pretty darn good taste in poetry, and therefore (c) I know that the stuff I write is pretty crappy. So I just don't write any.

But for my wife's first anniversary I sat down and wrote her a poem. A couple of the lines were bad enough that I just can't stand not to correct them, and there's plenty to criticize -- including the fact that despite the fact that this was supposed to be a love poem for my wife, I spend more time talking about myself than her. Typically male, I know...but listen, guys, my point is that she loved it, and I got full credit for the effort (which, I do have to say, was very considerable effort indeed), even though I don't think much of the poem myself.

I would have posted this on our anniversary but it took me a while to find it. Here, with a couple of corrections where I just couldn't stand the original version, is the poem I wrote sixteen years ago, provided for its historical interest. Actually, I'm putting it onto the blog because that way sixteen years from now when I want to see the poem again, I'll actually know where to find it...

A YEAR LATER
10 June 1990

I’ve never been a fisherman. I hear
The devotees of reel and rod recall
Rich days on stream and mere;
Line arcing in the sunlight; flashing lure
Enticing mountain trout to strike with all
Their water-walking might. Then sometimes I, wistful, secure

In my own room, surrounded by my books,
Imagine learning how to fly-fish. Down
A rocky mountain brook
I’d wade, or take a boat, perhaps. My casts
No doubt at first would court the bushes ’round
The bank instead of teasing trout. But, I presume, at last

My wrist and rod and reel would learn to dance
In harmony, not slapstick comedy.
So tell me, what’s the chance
I’d stick it out? Would my ineptitude
Leave me amused, or in a demon’s mood?
– Who’d be along? – for all depends upon the company.

A year ago we wed. No master I
Of understanding femininity’s
Wherefores and reasons why.
A novice, rather, in the lover’s art,
Unskilled in all those sensitivities
That soften sorrow, guide the healing hand and husband’s heart.

Yet never made God glittering salmon bright
As her entrancing eyes, her dancing grin
A-sparkle with delight.
No leaping rill laughs music quite so sweet
As lilts light-hearted all within me when
She comes to my embrace, or after parting brief we meet.

One year gone by. My love will be as deep
When children come, then go; when sometimes we
Catch moments fit to keep,
Or see our parents sleep
In death’s deep life, or age ourselves. No doubt
We’re clumsy yet. But I know we play out
A lifetime love, and sure I am that we will always be
Three comrades: she, myself, and Love, a merry company.