Poem: Alasdair Gray © 2005



"Love is an evil God," the unlovely say.
"She will not warm or kiss or serve us.
"She does not deserve us."
And so they turn to words and wealth and war
and other murderous games which losers play.

The unlovely are special people. They only unite to kill.
They build big pedestals to justify standing apart,
but love is the ardour of a gentle mind.
Lovers give by allowing, and their taking is kind.
It is easy to know the others. We are shrill.

Saying undoes me. Seeing will not let do.
Things numb the hands. Words deafen. Visions blind.
What the mind grasps stuns and deludes the mind.
To say, see, think and feel are all ways
of not having you.