"The Acid Test: Advice to My Son" by Joseph Meredith
This isn't a poem by me - obviously because I neither have a son nor am I named Joseph Meredith. This is just one of my favorite poems and I thought I'd share. It's quite true when you think about it...
If she touches you when she talks,
laying her hand lightly on your forearm,
do not assume she is the one.
For some women this is learned.
It is no more than tactile punctuation -
delightful in itself, so feel free to enjoy it -
but not the sign you crave.
For others it is much worse.
They think of it as interpersonal contact,
designed to add positive reinforcement.
Be wary. It means she wants something
you would not otherwise give.
Appraise the curve of her fingers on your arm;
some raptors sport exquisite plumage.
But if she leans into you when she laughs,
her shoulder touching your shoulder,
this is natural - a birch leaning toward the sun -
the free expression of her heart.
Slip your arm around her waist.
If you hear in her voice,
dark and warm as mulled wine,
viole da gamba play, and the region
from your belt to your knees
begins to deliquesce,
there may be strings attached.
Or if she says only things that please you,
you must conclude she is greasing the skids.
She is not the one you seek.
Remember, in talk as in music, some friction
is both necessary and desirable.
Strings do not sound so sweet
without scraping the bow.
And cloves are ground to powder
to mull the wine (I leave to you
the role of the hot poker).
In restaurants you may think you see
sparks of longing in her eyes.
I caution you: move the candle
before the wine arrives.
Between, the flame obscures,
but to the right or left, it gives easy access
to the kind of look that tells -
and darkens the dramatic dent
at the neckline of her dress.
And when you gaze deep into her eyes,
do not seek to see the movement of her soul.
It cannot be done.
When you look into a lake
you see no fish.
What you mostly see is your own face,
distorted, gazing back.
So with her eyes - and there diminished too.
Treasure more the oddities you find:
the tiny flecks of gold and opalescent green
that make the sad grey iris dance.
In other words, should she "speak volumes"
with her eyes, do not think she is the one
before you find who owns the copyright
or check the date of publication.
The sure signs you seek are phantoms -
embers in the ash that seem to move.
You might, though, try this:
Imagine a dim room
down the long hallway of the future
(It helps to have candles here, too).
The shades are drawn. You are in bed
and around the foot stand
several solemn young people looking
vaguely like the face you shave each day.
She prays in a chair beside you,
her fingers touching your forearm.
They are gnarled and pale as roots -
a hag's fingers.
What hair she has is white and brittle.
Her eyes have all but disappeared
into the flesh of her face.
Her voice grates on your ears
like a child's violin.
Now, if you find her
absolutely essential to the scene,
if the thought of her not being there
feels empty in your stomach
and full in your throat,
then, perhaps, she is the one.
If she touches you when she talks,
laying her hand lightly on your forearm,
do not assume she is the one.
For some women this is learned.
It is no more than tactile punctuation -
delightful in itself, so feel free to enjoy it -
but not the sign you crave.
For others it is much worse.
They think of it as interpersonal contact,
designed to add positive reinforcement.
Be wary. It means she wants something
you would not otherwise give.
Appraise the curve of her fingers on your arm;
some raptors sport exquisite plumage.
But if she leans into you when she laughs,
her shoulder touching your shoulder,
this is natural - a birch leaning toward the sun -
the free expression of her heart.
Slip your arm around her waist.
If you hear in her voice,
dark and warm as mulled wine,
viole da gamba play, and the region
from your belt to your knees
begins to deliquesce,
there may be strings attached.
Or if she says only things that please you,
you must conclude she is greasing the skids.
She is not the one you seek.
Remember, in talk as in music, some friction
is both necessary and desirable.
Strings do not sound so sweet
without scraping the bow.
And cloves are ground to powder
to mull the wine (I leave to you
the role of the hot poker).
In restaurants you may think you see
sparks of longing in her eyes.
I caution you: move the candle
before the wine arrives.
Between, the flame obscures,
but to the right or left, it gives easy access
to the kind of look that tells -
and darkens the dramatic dent
at the neckline of her dress.
And when you gaze deep into her eyes,
do not seek to see the movement of her soul.
It cannot be done.
When you look into a lake
you see no fish.
What you mostly see is your own face,
distorted, gazing back.
So with her eyes - and there diminished too.
Treasure more the oddities you find:
the tiny flecks of gold and opalescent green
that make the sad grey iris dance.
In other words, should she "speak volumes"
with her eyes, do not think she is the one
before you find who owns the copyright
or check the date of publication.
The sure signs you seek are phantoms -
embers in the ash that seem to move.
You might, though, try this:
Imagine a dim room
down the long hallway of the future
(It helps to have candles here, too).
The shades are drawn. You are in bed
and around the foot stand
several solemn young people looking
vaguely like the face you shave each day.
She prays in a chair beside you,
her fingers touching your forearm.
They are gnarled and pale as roots -
a hag's fingers.
What hair she has is white and brittle.
Her eyes have all but disappeared
into the flesh of her face.
Her voice grates on your ears
like a child's violin.
Now, if you find her
absolutely essential to the scene,
if the thought of her not being there
feels empty in your stomach
and full in your throat,
then, perhaps, she is the one.