What The Heck am I Rambling About? #4 – For James

Happy Belated Valentines Day to you all! In this ‘What The Heck Am I Rambling About?’ I discuss the fourth poem in the ‘Autumn, That Bastard’ poetry collection titled, ‘For James’. Hint: it’s a love poem.

Check it out here before going on a head to get a better understanding of what I am about to ramble about.

Rather than being something that having some hidden message, the first line of the poem (which is also to be read as the title of the poem) clearly articulates the audience and the second and third stanza outlines the feelings, or rather with the pun, what the matter is.

“It doesn’t really matter… matter. / What is the matter now?”

Sunk ships references ‘shipping-culture’ in terms of pairing up two peoples. The men part references gay-dating culture but with my boy, there is no sense of destruction… which was at writing of this poem, a different tone from other encounters with the gays.

You may notice a bit of a pattern if you’ve read Authenticity, Leviticus and this poem. The poem get’s meta, reminding the audience why it exists. It is reminder, an endless reminder. You may notice that there are a sprinkle of oceanic/beach metaphors in here. I refer to it as the sea captures discovery, journeys and excitement.

Linking up to the ‘Autumn, That Bastard‘ Collection, I show that Autumn is not always shrouded in challenges. In the last few stanzas, I refer to this being a reminder. Autumn is a cyclical being and like many periods of our life, has it’s up and downs. This particular ‘Autumn’ is an up and critically-acclaimed success in my opinion!

I love you, James!

Check out my other recent poems:

For James (Poem)

Site version post can be found here

For James,


If I may be melodramatic for a moment,

Stars would do injustice to the number of times

His face has crossed my mind,

His heart has beat in sync with mine,

And those hands would, in my sleep, of mine would mime.


Now – that is over.

Two clasps hands, face on a pillow

With a mattress of peas or feathers,

It really doesn’t matter… matter,


What’s the matter now?

His smile.


Cliché? I think more-so than any other.

I’m a sucker for the same.

But only once a week, a month, oh no.

Perhaps that’s the biggest shame.


He may be the definition of spring,

But like a sea, I know no obvious season.

I splash about, waves more rouge than a mountain.

I’ve sunk ships and many men in my wake,

But in his gleam, I only paint the sand a different shade.






And from those sandcastles resting,

Are leaves torn, red and brittle – like gold –

That adorn it as spires do reaching up and up,

Like God knows he’s a sinner, but

God has not refused his imagination.


But he triumphs over that sore,

Hollowed out groves we will rest in.

Let the restlessness of pollen claim my every pore,

Bringing new meaning to the original sin.


Bushfires are just around the corner

And I am engulfed by that heat –

Of the metal to flesh that’ll linger –

Because fire’s never neat.


But I don’t solely live for the looks, that aesthetic.

Its is the choir, or perhaps the birds who have lulled .

It is a song that makes the renaissance look pathetic.

For he is an immaculate sculptor and his chisel would not have dulled.


Love poems are for dramatists,

To woo, or to instruct how.


My purpose is not a proclamation,

But a reminder

Of a trance that brings me sedation.


One of warm hearts, puckered lips and a tight embrace.

A unique calling,

But as endless as the tide.


© Christos Floratos 2019