Love Poems by C. Randall Nicholson

Just because I have no interest in sex doesn't mean I have no interest in women. On the contrary, though my interest ebbs and flows, I can be quite heteromantic at times.

Confessions of a 7th-Grade Loser

For the first half of seventh grade I had a huge crush on this ninth-grader, but I was terrified of her. Eventually I did manage to say hello to her and we became good friends, and I also became friends with several people that I met through her, especially the indefatigable Michael Frohm. But in the meantime, I wrote this repugnant sentence that I guess you could technically consider a poem. I would skip it if I were you.

I berate myself for not having the courage to speak, much less confess my passions, in the presence of the comely female whose mere existence both attracts and petrifies me into a state of miserable insanity, which will persist until the truth of my feelings is somehow made known unto her so that she may either comply to fate or release her vengeance and disfigure my already unattractive visage into a worse state, and then I may once again mourn my losses in solitude – but my vocal chords are seized by paralysis when she is near, and it is inevitable that she knows of my feelings; although fear will prevent me from telling her either through words or through ink until she has acknowledged and tolerated my existence, and already I suspect that she suspects, for my smiles and stares have not gone unnoticed, but her intentions are unclear – will she let me live, and possibly return my feelings, or am I better off dead before she has the chance to reach me?

On Valentine's Day 2009 I wrote this for a girl that I had met at Youth Conference in Albany the year before and continued to correspond with via e-mail. I had already confessed my feelings for her and asked permission to write a poem so she wasn't totally blindsided by it. She wrote, "That was so amazing! Untraditional, but in all the right ways. Thank you (and Happy Valentine's Day!)" It's kind of cringe-worthy now, but come on, I was fifteen.

I noticed you that Conference night;
You stood out in the crowd.
You had an attitude and you
Were being rather loud.
It wasn’t instant love right then
Because that isn’t real;
But after “just a Mormon dance”
My interest grew with zeal.

You talk a lot, that much is true,
But please don’t take offense,
‘Cause I held on to every word
And most of them made sense.
We have so much in common
Though I couldn’t tell you so
And your strangely random weirdness
Set my spirits all aglow.

Compared to all of that of course
Your beauty is skin deep.
If that was my main concern
I’d really be a creep.
But for poetic purposes
It seems to be the case
That if I want to be romantic
I have to praise your face.

(Which certainly is not to say
Your beauty’s not impressive,
So please don’t take that wrongly
And begin to get aggressive.
And in a kind non-lustful sense
I’ll honestly remark
Your body is quite lovely too.
Please don’t get mad and bark.)  

Back on the subject, anyway,
Let’s start with your complexion,
For though this rhyme’s predictable
Your skin is pure perfection.
Your eyes would be the next big step,
So logically I’ll voice
They are my favorite place to look
(Or were, when I had a choice).

So much life’s inside of them
And joy of sheer uniqueness
They make it somehow possible
To overcome my meekness.
Your nose is great as noses go
Bizarre as that may seem
I’m not mad for noses but
Of course yours is a dream.

Your ears I guess I must admit
Do not stand out that much
But just ‘cause they belong to you
I want to kiss and touch.
(If those Hobbit ears were yours
I’d have to change my mind.
Though human ones are normal
They are not my favorite kind.)

Your hair, however, is superb;
It ought to win a medal.
The color and the texture both
Would make the matter settled.
To run my fingers through it
Is of course a selfish wish,
But I would trade both pinkies and
My whole life’s worth of fish.

Your lips I must have saved for last
Because they are the best;
Your eyes may win for looking at
But not a function test.
Such red and juicy lips I pray
Will someday join with mine;
I know I don’t deserve them
But they still would suit me fine.

Perhaps I’d best quit writing now
Before I creep you out;
Take everything the nicest way
Whatever it’s about.
Your physical appearances may  
Only be skin deep
(Shoot, I already said that –
I hope you were asleep!)
But anyway, for poems’ sake,
Whatever this one’s worth,
A happy Valentine’s Day
To a goddess born on Earth!

Ka-Thunk

Unfinished and written about no one in particular. If my lunch table friends had seen this, it wouldn't have helped their erroneous belief that I have a foot fetish. (I don't. I just feel that every - almost every part of an attractive woman is attractive.)

Ka-thunk ka-thunk ka-thunk ka-thunk
So my heartbeat goes.
It speeds up when I see your face
And when you leave it slows.
When you speak it skips a beat
And takes a while to start.
It swoons above your gorgeous feet
And every other part.
Ka-thunk-thunk thunkity-thunk-thunk-ka
At least it’s working now
It’s messed up; I should fix it but
I’m sure I don’t know how.

I Don't Have a Darn Thing to Say

After my first date in January 2013 (yes, I was nineteen, don't judge me), I suddenly felt too awkward to even talk to the girl in question, despite having previously worked up the courage to ask her out in the first place (albeit only at the prodding of a friend who promised to double with me). So I wrote this, and then redacted the expletive in the refrain so it would be more suitable for Mormon audiences. Before that, I toyed with "I haven't got a bloody thing to say" but I'm not British and couldn't make it work.

You know I get tongue-tied when you are nearby
It's something I can't overcome
When my eyes meet yours then my brain starts to fry
And then everything in me goes numb

If you want to talk then you'd better start talking
Or else you'll be waiting all day
There's nothing I'll do besides standing and gawking
I don't have a darn thing to say

I feel like a twelve-year-old, feeling like this,
Like next I'll complain about cooties
Just think of the pleasures of life that I miss
By being so mute around cuties

You might wonder why I'm not trying to speak
Or why I won't call for parlay
Besides being quiet and awkward and meek,
I don't have a darn thing to say

We had a good time Friday night, so I'm told,
So now you must think that I hate you
I don't say a word, though I once was so bold
As to ask if I ever could date you

Be glad that I never attempt to converse
In a friendly and casual way
I don't because then things would only get worse
I don't have a darn thing to say

How Are You So Beautiful?

Written in early 2013 about no one in particular.

Forgive me if this question makes me sound a little dense,
But how are you so beautiful?  It makes no freaking sense.
Seeing is believing, yet I see but don't believe this,
And if I were an artist I don't think I could conceive this.
I never thought I'd see a girl like you before I die,
But now I have, and I have questions – namely, how and why?
There are some natural laws on which this planet's life is founded.
There are some certain boundaries by which living things are bounded.
And sexual reproduction makes some awesome things, it's true,
But how could simple chromosomes make such a thing as you?
How could recombining genes produce such stunning beauty?
Do you realize what this means, you darling little cutie?
Every life form here has some degree of imperfection.
The cause of it? Mutation. The result? Natural selection.
But you, you don't have any, at least none that I can see
(And I'm an expert, too, though I don't have a PhD).
Darwin's brain would self-destruct if he could ever see you,
And then his wife's would do the same 'cause she could never be you.
Okay, that sounded shallow, and quite rude, and therefore wrong,
But take it as a compliment. Now, moving right along...
So tell me, please, I beg of you, what is the cause of this?
What is the driving force behind such great attractiveness?
Do you come from another planet, as yet undiscovered,
Where life is not restrained by all the laws we've yet uncovered?
A sexy planet where a sexy race like you survives,
Of sexy extraterrestrials leading sexy lives?
Or maybe where all life is perfect, land and air and sea,
Or can be made to be so through advanced technology?
Technology! Now there's a thought! I see right through your scam!
Your vision of perfection is a perfect hologram!

Untitled and Unfinished

I don't know how to act when I'm around you anymore;
You make me feel a feeling that I've never felt before.
My mouth goes dry, my heart speeds up, my lungs get short of breath;
I'm either deep in love with you or on the verge of death.
I need to hear you, must be near you, though I fear you dearly;
I meet your eyes and realize my brain won't function clearly,
For you're a princess, angel, goddess, breadth and depth above me
And I'd be quite insane to think that you could ever love me.

Also Untitled and Unfinished

Can you see into my soul when you look into my eyes?
Do you like what you discover? Does it come as a surprise?
Do you see my feelings all laid bare upon a table?
And do you understand them? Can you grasp them? Are you able?
Do you know my hopes and dreams, my triumphs and my fears,
And can you see the scars from all the pain of prior years?

Alicia: Or, My First Serious Non-Rhyming Poem

Alicia was the name of an uber-gorgeous and sweet girl who was once in my ward. One time I anonymously left flowers on her doorstep with a note saying "Roses are red, violets are blue, but neither of those varieties are in this bouquet so I guess that's irrelevant and I'm not really sure why I brought it up." (And I didn't specify that the flowers were for her because I didn't want her roommates to feel bad.) When I posted this on my old blog on July 12, 2014, I didn't use her name because I was afraid she or someone who knew her might actually read it, but I think enough time has passed now. I wrote:

The first (and only) non-rhyming poem I wrote previous to this was called "Ode to Poems That Don't Rhyme", and it was making fun of them because I presumed they required no talent.  I repented late last year when I met a girl who writes utterly gorgeous non-rhyming poetry which you can read here: http://thirdfig.blogspot.com/ Anyway, a couple nights ago while I was busy having insomnia I came up with this non-rhyming poem which may or may not be based on a true story.  I didn't think it was great but feedback was positive when I posted it in AMSSA: Social and no one said it was creepy, so here it is.  In any case it comes from my heart.  So my heart is the mediocre poet, not me.  Now without further ado:

Here you come with your friend, walking one way as I walk the other.  I was just thinking about you.  But that’s not much of a coincidence, because I think about you all the time.

Am I more happy or scared to see you? I don’t know. Should I run across the street and continue walking on the other side? No – that would be weird, and you would see me anyway.

Yet you are much too far off to speak to, so I am forced to deliberately cast my gaze to the side, to the other side of the street where I should be fleeing to, so as not to stare at you awkwardly; and then, when you come within speaking distance, to return it and pretend I am just noticing you here for the first time.

But before I can speak, you smile and wave, and oh, what a smile! I had intended to acknowledge both of you, but now I am captivated, transfixed by that smile, unable to see anything else, and unable to form such a simple sentence as “How are you?”

“Alfaoenvx lashopwehgdsln alsdhfapsoihf?” I mumble. I don’t think you hear me.

“How are you?” you ask, still smiling. As you come closer, your perfume ensnares my nostrils like nectar of the gods, short-circuiting my brain still further. Perfume is a lie, a trick, an artificial advantage in the mating game of the human species – but oh, what a glorious lie it is! I am entranced, and unable to form such a simple sentence as “Good.”

“Ogahsew,” I mumble. Maybe you hear me this time. “Good,” you say.

Then you and your friend are both gone, past me, though your smile lingers in my mind and your perfume in my nostrils. It’s not fair. You will probably go on with your day thinking about whatever, while now I will be unable to get you out of my head for several hours.

But that’s not such a big deal, because I already think about you all the time.

Analyn

The less said about this one, the better. Suffice it to say that I met her online, we became great friends, I fell in love with her, I flirted with her all the time and told her I loved her, and she flirted back and said that she loved me too, and then I wrote her this poem for Valentine's Day 2015 and she suddenly realized I wasn't just kidding like she was. Yeah.

If I could heap upon you accolades and awards, and create spellbinding art across every medium, still it would not be a fitting tribute to the goddess within you. That is some consolation for the fact that I can offer only this, my weak attempt at poetry to capture some negligible fraction of your beauty. And it doesn’t even rhyme.
 
You are a dancing, singing contradiction. To be in your presence is to be humbled and uplifted, awed and amused simultaneously. You are to be looked up to, though diminutive in stature. You are strong, yet vulnerable.
 
You are like an exquisite antique vase, fragile and beyond price. An enchanted vase, no less, holding the essence of a goddess. I want to guard you and protect you with my life, to see to it that you do not suffer so much as a chipped edge.
 
I want to touch you with great care. I want to hold you in my arms, to caress your cheekbone and to run my fingers through your auburn hair. I want to gaze into your eyes, transfixed and completely under your enchantment. I want to brush your sacred lips with my vulgar ones, though they be unworthy even to speak your name.
 
Analyn. What is in a name? Surely no mere word could summarize you. Yet this one is destined to hold its place among the pantheon of goddesses. The goddess of dance, of wisdom, of charity.
 
I can’t treat you the way you deserve. But please, let me try. Maybe I can treat you like a queen. That would be the next best thing. Let me approach you in humility. Let me serve you. Let me watch in awe as you glide across the floor like something from another dimension, a place more divine and glorious than this one could ever be.
 
You are almost too perfect to be true. Sometimes I feel that you are, and that you must be a figment of my lonely, deranged imagination. But then, with great relief, I realize that you aren’t quite. For if you were my own invention, there are just a few things I would change.
 
I would give you a healthy heart and lungs.
 
I would calm the raging storms of your mind.
 
I would heal the scars, physical and emotional, that have been inflicted on you.
 
I would make everyone who causes you pain disappear.
 
Most importantly, I would enable you to see yourself the way I see you, the way you deserve to be seen. To see the goddess within.
 
I can’t do most of these things. But I will accomplish the last one, or die trying.
 
I love you, Analyn.
 
You’re such a brat.


See Also: Annie, Stellar Love, and Sweet Calise
Main Page: Poems and Songs by C. Randall Nicholson