Whenever I think about genders, I find myself up against a big wall. They are
so complex, that any approximation of their essences is quite beyond me, and
without their essences, how can I find what qualities and behaviors match them?
So, when I try to form an opinion on the statement “Women are the superior sex,”
I find it nearly impossible to get anything beyond a vague, but highly poetic,
opinion, better expressed in poems than in philosophic word-tangles. So here
goes.

By the way, I was just beginning to write the second stanza when I was told to pick up my sister from work. In my poetical abstraction, I ran into my garage door with my car as the door was going up.


Four-And-A-Half Romantic Sonnets

O pity not my hands, sunburnt, begrit,
That rest abiding in your smoothed palm.
Abhor my dull and clumsy speech and wit
Insensitive to mental tension‘s qualms.
I will not ever rant or rave or rail
If you but ignore, deprive, insult.
I must obey my queen, or else I fail.
Respect for you befits even a dolt.
Discard me, shove this man, O shut your eyes,
Upon my dirtied clothing and visage.
Grab your silken glove and strike, despise
My swarthy cheek with royal shame-barrage.
O find uncouth all things that make a man
But Sweet, I pray thee, do not pity what I am.

O every word that from your soft speech drips
Adorns you with the wisdom learned by fire’s
Thrice-Godly edge. O when you move your lips,
Your facile mind’s Bach’s pen, Liszt of lyres.
When circumstances play you (sorrow and delight)
Or others puzzle you beyond mere mind’s
Frail power to untangle, your fright
Shows not, great heart, but insight the day does win.
I languish in the yelling, bloodied air;
Heartless, I live and act by thoughts alone
Indoors, all beauteous things are your care
And not a king could want a hol’er throne
Than the one you own in times of urgent dread
When, through love, you tend a sick one’s bed.

O what am I, but a muckle thinking sword
Whether I deal in weights or corn or steel
Bright numbers, soldiery, or Micr’soft word?
I cannot match your double mental wheel!
In what fair school, by what strong exercise
Can I obtain one-tenth of what you have
In way of love? If I am not supplied
With love, I am merely very bad.
How can I hope to have the worthiness
To speak, though I love you and you love me.
I know you burn to give me just one kiss
But my acceptance would be unworthy.
My strength must grow before I take your hand
O sap it not by pitying what I am.

TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honour more. (This stanza by Richard Lovelace)

The rainbow has descended from the sky
As I return from my campaigns abroad
In which I chased the foe and he did fly
And I walked o’er newly conquered sod.
From glories of my peacock retinue
In midst of which I sit in triumphed state
And perfect peace, while clerics pay their due
To me, for God and I our foes did abate,
While as I sit, in content solemnity
In virgin white and manly martyr-red
There is one thing I want. It is to see
You, and for us twain to be be-wed.
I have returned from wars in foreign lands.
Which of us is now the better man?


Divine Irony


Our God is like a heptagon
To nothing can they be compared.
When Aquinas, the paragon,
Thinks upon God, he says “Beware!”

Our God is above smallest sense,
Too delicate and large for thought
The shape is below math-art’s talents
Drawn with the Tools, this it cannot

For God cannot be seen, and shape,
Is unlike love, or spring’s first rose,
Or mountain peak, or taste of cake
Or Catholic life that by grace grows.

But one way He is unlike the shape
For any shape cannot do this:
Reveal Himself in Human Make
So let us rejoice in this!