Trying to get a date by writing the girl poems

[bobsmith76]

I had some IM chats with this girl Amy (30 years old roughly). We agreed to meet but then she canceled at the last minute. When I went to reschedule she came up with an excuse to break off contact with me. I'm writing her this poem in a last ditch effort to get her attention. Any comments would be appreciated.

 

You have stated, sweet Amy,

that you do not know what you want out of life,

that you walk aimlessly amid a forest of locusts,

and are surrounded by the wooden stalkers of bewilderment.

In getting to know me, sweet Amy,

I intend to rectify that problem.

I aim to expose to you all the jonquil shine,

all the ecstatic explosion that purpose possesses.

I desire to show you the monalisian beauty of purpose,

how it envelopes us in a euphoric clash of dilemma,

how it engulfs us in the jacuzzi of effort, striving and struggle,

how it mesmerizes us, such that

the oak morphs instantly into the sequoia,

the silver inexplicably assumes the platinum,

and the lynx miraculously buds into the jaguar.

Purpose, sweet Amy, is that distant morning star

that guides those birds that migrate

through reference to the stars.

Purpose is that famed Holy Graal that pushed

Sir Galahad onward in spite of the dragons of iron,

defying the minotaurs of death-blood,

evading those mongreled bloats of pessimism.

Purpose is that "ever-fixèd mark that looks

on tempests and is never shaken,

nor does it bend with the remover to remove,

or alter when it alteration finds,"

on the contrary, purpose knows what it wants,

feels life-flight, soul-breath, and mind-dance

in contemplation of its objects,

then dons the iron armor of defense and offense,

and dives head-long into the flame-jaws,

and stops at nothing until its aim is consummated.

 

That is the first thing I can offer you,

the second thing I hope to invest your life with

is a splendoeuphoric sense of beauty and truth.

Keats said: "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,

that is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know."

I would venture, on the contrary,

that there is a stark division of labor

between the poet and the philosopher.

It is the job of the poet,

"forever panting and forever young,"

to take an idea, cleanse it of its impurities,

wash away all its festering pools of acid,

and mold it into that famed "leaf-fringed legend,"

thus becoming the stuff of music and song.

It is the poet that looks out across the heated scape,

"his forehead burning, his tongue parched,"

and sees in certain phenomena

the crystal dolphin arising from the turquoise sea,

forever splashing amid the sun's diamonds,

eternally at war with the quartz and the gold.

Poetry merely assumes truths

then pulchrifies them, such that a "wild ecstasy"

subsumes the reader into a sauna of mystery.

For the truth is immensely complicated, enormous,

fraught with innumerable contradictions,

elusive, and encoffined amid sarcophagi of slate iron.

Finding truth is like finding five pages in five volumes

in the Library of Congress.

Finding truth is like finding that one earth-like

extrasolar planet amid the panoply of stars in our

pulsing galaxy.

Finding truth, sweet Amy, is similar to all the nailed sweat

and jailed pain that accompanied Champoleon

in his "mad pursuit" to unlock the secrets of the hieroglyphs.

If poets explore this labyrinth,

ultimately their quest for beauty will suffer,

they will become the inmate of Alcatraz's efflux of pus,

therefore, they must refer to truth always in vague

metaphors, imprecise words, merely hoping

that the reader agrees with them.

It is the job of the philosopher, on the other hand,

to propose battle with the skeptics' rhinoceran nihilism.

It is the philosopher that arms himself against

the lies of the charlatan and exposes them

for their true spillage of brains.

Just as Alexander the Great in 326 BC in Sudracae, India,

when all his men refused to jump into a walled city,

armed to the teeth with spear, sword and shield,

he alone jumped into the night-fracas,

and engaged the enemy's snarling caprice,

his men afterward following him and the city obtaining,

so too must the philosopher confront the "marble men"

of falsehood, explore all of truths innumerable dead ends,

and thus ultimately craft a new synthesis of knowledge,

amazing in its predictions,

surreal in its explanatory power,

and wild in its scope, breadth and clarity.

I present to you, therefore, Amy Mesmerèndo,

a man who is simultaneously philosopher and poet,

a man who can not only embellish the truth

with the "silken flanks" of gorgeous blithe,

but can also prove truth's manifold conundrums.

I am a man who embodies not only the poet's

ability to soar with his icaran wings close

to the sun's strike of heat,

but can also elucidate the science of the brain,

expose the contradictions of physicalism,

prove the necessity of the principle of noncontradiction,

define the shape and scope of the ontology of a rational universe,

bridge Hume's is ought gap,

explain not only what exists,

but what can be predicated of it,

and lastly, describe how truth corresponds

to all of reality's inlets, outlets, islands, dales, haunts,

vales, burrows and hallows.

Immanual Kant said: "philosophy is proving common sense,"

and I could not agree more

as I seek in all subjects, biology, physics, anatomy,

information theory, computer science

for any answers, any bright words,

any ravishing idea, such that

"the foster-child of silence and slow time,"

can be defeated and the hymn of truth can radiate

in all its fabled and surreal wonder.

 

Those are the two things I have to offer you, Amy Petunian,

now let me explain why I desire you.

First, sweet Amy, you are a woman who reads,

you are a woman at home amid the word's endless

"variety of experience,"

you are a woman that has grabbed literature's

notorious protean stealth,

held with it sufficiently,

such that you were accepted into academia's

jealous possession and monopoly of knowledge.

Second, rarely are intelligence and beauty one, sweet Amy.

Seldom does Helen's paradox of treasure

fall both to the daughters of Minerva,

as well as to those possessed of

a visual splendo-bath sparklàdo.

When I saw the pictures of "your flashing eyes,

and your floating hair, it wove a circle round me thrice,

and I closed my eyes with holy dread,

and thus on honey-dew fed,

and drank the milk of paradise."

There is no doubt, sweet Amy,

that a beautiful woman is fun to watch.

When I was young, I was always amazed

that when I searched online profiles,

seeking love's stab of the soul,

that those of the beautiful women

exported me to the "dales of Arcady,"

defeated the "unravished bride of quietness,"

and caused my mind to smoke with halluco-bliss.

The smart women, on the other moon,

although they inspired me with hope,

did not gut my reason to the core,

nor left me illusioned with phantoms and spirits,

no mad blood flowed through me,

no quakes or tremblemènto awakened me.

Yes, a beautiful woman is fun to watch,

but an intelligent woman provides for

an endless stimulation of mind,

an eternal ocean of ideas,

and a stirring sea of thought.

You, sweet Amy, have that rare

combination of beauty and intellect.

You don the mantle of Monroe,

as well as examine literature

with the mind of Rosalind Franklin.

You bring to the analysis of poetry

not only the brilliance of Ada Lovelace,

but also splash on your face

all the emeralds and gems that have so often

made men mad with spit-fire and noise-din.

 

So, come, sweet Amy, I propose that you begin

a new life that forever exposes you to the

endless inspection of form, desire, endeavor and mind.

I submit that you take a journey with me

to that one spot in our immaterial realm

that stimulates the spirit into jocund

euphoriations of idea and surprise.

For your health and enterprise, accept,

for your love of the mind,

for your enthusiasm for literature, accept,

for your dance amid the domain of poetry,

for your inevitable embrace of the sun and moon, accept,

let your whole being climax in Eldorado,

let your fortress of strength flower in symphony,

let your citadel of courage yield to the request.

[Andy_K]

It's highly likely that if she ever finds out she's going to consider you at best a fruitcake and at worst a dangerous stalker.

 

Those occasions in the films when a girl is won over by persistence, poetry, and other romantic gestures? They ONLY happen in films.

 

Find a different girl. If this one has broke off contact, the ships has sailed.

[Haydn]

Err No.

 

Bit creepy.

 

 

I had some IM chats with this girl Amy (30 years old roughly). We agreed to meet but then she canceled at the last minute. When I went to reschedule she came up with an excuse to break off contact with me. I'm writing her this poem in a last ditch effort to get her attention. Any comments would be appreciated.

 

<SNIP>

Edited March 27, 2014 by a LoveShack.org Moderator

[ja123]

Why would you waste your time writing this for someone who has blown you off???

 

 

You seem obsessive, and not in a good way.

 

 

Move on, dude.

[Phoe]

Just leave the girl alone, move on.

[kodakgirl]

I am very much a romantic... and this would creep me the hell out.

[Phantom888]

Unless you are a Pulitzer winning poet, don't try to swoon a girl with poetry. This is an area where if you don't have absolute chemistry and connection with this woman, she is not gonna appreciate your poem. Plus, WTF???? How do you expect someone to read such a long poem???

[pteromom]

I wouldn't send her the poem. If she's already cut off contact with you, this is TOO MUCH.

 

I would just be honest and upfront about it, and ask her why she stopped contacting you. She may not answer, but that's your best shot.

 

I think the woman who is right for you will enjoy your writing, because she'll be on the same wavelength as you. But this likely isn't that woman.

[sid3]

Absolutely creepy!

[starla33]

*runs for the hills screaming*

[starla33]

 

 

hammer large pieces of crooked wood against the doors..

 

when i online dated I had guys send me poems and really really long essays. they were deleted.

[Gaeta]

Send it, she will love it ...

[Haydn]

That was a long long poem.

 

when i online dated I had guys send me poems and really really long essays. they were deleted.

[Chalkdust89]

I'll be honest, I started skipping through after only a few lines...but my eyes caught this phrase:

 

"they will become the inmate of Alcatraz's efflux of pus"

 

WHAT.

[Els]

Uhhhhh. I'm all for romance, but this is hugely over the top unless you're both part of some Shakespearean Lit society or something (and even then it's still slightly over the top).

 

No, no, no, no, no.

[Art_Critic]

less is more when it comes to poetry...

 

A sonnet is a less is more example

 

I wouldn't send that to her... too long and she wouldn't read it

[topaMAXX]

OP, you already wrote it. Might as well send it.

[Omei]

When I saw this title I thought awe how romantic, thinking it was gonna be like a 3 line poem weaved into a date ask out like..

 

Roses are red berrys are blue amy is cute can I go out with you?

 

Anyway something like that then I saw the mass text of whatever that was whooooaaaaa too much weird.

[pickflicker]

I had a guy woo me with poetry once. It worked. He could just create rhyming verse out of thin air. A special kind of talent. He even wrote a song for me.

 

But I didn't tell him that I didn't want to see him again. He got a green light. Your light is red. Give it up, you just look desperate.

[Medium.Lumo]

OP, you already wrote it. Might as well send it.

 

I agree with this logic.

 

I think it'll be a long shot but if by some chance she does reply... tell us what she said.

 

How long did you spend writing it?

Edited March 27, 2014 by a LoveShack.org Moderator

[pickflicker]

When I saw this title I thought awe how romantic, thinking it was gonna be like a 3 line poem weaved into a date ask out like..

 

Roses are red berrys are blue amy is cute can I go out with you?

 

Anyway something like that then I saw the mass text of whatever that was whooooaaaaa too much weird.

 

Poetry needs to be short and sweet, I agree.

[Medium.Lumo]

Poetry needs to be short and sweet, I agree.

 

How about if the OP printed out the poem and burnt the edges of each page, making it look more rustic and arty? Would you be wooed by that? Lol.

[RonaldS]

Poetry Writing 101, Chapter 1, page 1:

 

Less is more .

[pickflicker]

How about if the OP printed out the poem and burnt the edges of each page, making it look more rustic and arty? Would you be wooed by that? Lol.

 

Maybe clip off a lock of hair and include it? Mmmm...hawt.

[Goldenbrwn]

No poems, no flowers, no candy, that stuff is only for after she is already with you and you have slept together. On special occasions and when she starts getting tired of you otherwise being a little bit of a jerk to her every now and then.