MERRY: I want you to finish those two love sonnets.
MATTHEW: No, we’re writing Countrie Matters.
MERRY: No, you’re writing Countrie Matters. I’m doing nothing till you finish the sonnets.
MATTHEW: Then fine. Fine. I’ll finish Countrie Matters myself.
MERRY: No you won’t. You’ll bang your head against the wall, pay for the wall's therapy, find a new masochistic wall to bang your head against, and never write a satisfying line of dialogue.
MATTHEW: Says you.
[Insert ten-day-long montage of Matthew banging his head against the wall, paying for the wall's therapy, finding a new masochistic wall to bang his head against, and never writing a satisfying line of dialogue.]
MATTHEW: Okay, okay -- I give up. I’ll finish those two love sonnets. Just give me a clue. Give me a clue about the Countrie Matters rewrite.
MERRY: It’s not working because it has to be about the romance. Which means rewriting the second half top to bottom.
MATTHEW: [Dawn breaks on Marblehead] Of course!
MERRY: After you finish the sonnets.
MATTHEW: Of course.
MERRY: And make notes for four more.
MATTHEW: Stop! Will you stop please?
So here they are. And it looks like there will be four more.
MERRY: At least.
MATTHEW: Oh shut up.
And when I see couples entwined around
Each other’s arms--so warm and tightly held
That each heart vibrates with the other’s sound
And each one’s gaze is by the other spelled--
I picture you beside me, and I dream
Of your arm crooking mine--of our unfull
Hands folding tight together, till, like cream
In coffee, we become inseparable--
A whole that’s greater than our lonely pieces,
A double vessel only joy can fill,
A kiss that consummates as it releases,
A single heartbeat with a double will--
A love our lives will tender in the heart of
And never have to touch to be a part of.
You twine your arms in mine, making a warm
Cat’s cradle, and some hurt thing in me cracks
And melts, and suddenly a thunder storm
Howls where my heart was, striking like an axe
Against the root of all I fear, till crash
Goes my pride, crash goes logic. In despair,
I watch as all my fears drown in the flash
Flood of your touch. They flail. They gasp for air.
They scream for one more breath, and screaming die,
And all my comforting terrors are torn
Out of me like dead roots, dead weeds, till I
Am in your soft torrential arms reborn:
The child of fear beside his father’s grave,
Empty of all except a love that’s brave.
The first 4 in this series
Copyright 2010 Matthew J Wells