[poetry]: Darcy

by (c) Nin Harris 2013

White shirt, green lake;
an image etched in the vision
of many would-be Lizzies enthralled by
dark curls and introspective eyes that
flash across your screen, accompanying tea at 5pm
followed by a dinner of asam pedas and rice.
Wet plastered against white cotton
and on powerpoint slides in lecture halls;
inducting a new crop to the creed
of genteel and governed love.
I smile over clenched teeth
and tell them over tea and tapioca cakes that I am like Darcy
because my good opinion, once lost is lost forever.


Perhaps I will be punished by
a Lizzie Bennet in a man’s form.
Perhaps, I will treat him to an awkward proposal
that despite my better judgement…
…which he will then spurn with heaving chest
and moral indignation at not being
marked a superior and highly amiable species,
like Keira Knightley in a tropical downpour
wailing his wounded anguish to the overcast skies.


This is before he is wooed by
bounteous estates, and massive tracts of land.
My worldly possessions
and tasteful collections will merit praise
moreso than my lordly demeanour,
introverted arrogance , and mordant wit.
He will fall in love with the lustrous green
of moneyed gardens and the white sheen
of Grecian artefacts.
Of course, quite naturally,
a wet white shirt will clinch the deal.