The Merchant Poem by Gert Strydom

Who could play Portia, but you?
The quick-witted woman
who really loved
and came to the rescue.

The merchant - just me. And it
was that way, with our life together
and the way that life went
and how quickly
my meagre savings was spent.

Inhuman Shylock could probably be
each and every employer
that misused me
and only offered a contract
of which the time ran out
as quick as the job was done
and no sure permanent job
could appear.

My ships sailing against the storm
would probably be my stories and poems
and when the script overtook us
I had to find other lodgings
as quick as magician
pulls a rabbit from a hat.

And then I wondered sweet Portia,
who’s hand held the knife
to slice into the inmost core
of the heart,
was it Shylock’s or yours?

But now you love me still
and sometimes your sweet voice
thrills me intensely
and your touch makes my hairs rise
and still I am in love
and not really wise.

[Reference: The merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare.]