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Love Poem


I'm happy to say I've learned considerably more about love since writing this three years ago. Learning is perhaps the most precious thing in life (after life itself, that is). Here's a love poem nonetheless:

A Love Poem, for Curtis

October 7, 2016

You asked me to write you a love poem.

On the one hand a request so simple –

of course I love, I love so easily –

On the other, as if you were asking me

to take out my heart, or possibly my bowels,

and place them on the table for all to see.

My friend once told me that I’m like a peach –

a soft and fuzzy skin, with sweet and juicy flesh,

and then, in the heart, a pit

impossible crack open.

She isn’t talking to me anymore, or

not often, anyway. She has found love.

And by that I mean… I know not what.

I have never loved another.

That is not true.

I have never felt at peace in another’s presence

That is not true.

I have never felt extended peace in another’s presence over the course of years.

That is true.

I’ve always been restless inside.

So, a love poem.

A love poem from one who is never

satisfied, or not for long,

who longs for song all the time

wants the world to be beautiful all the time

and is always disappointed

by the grisly imperfections.

A love poem, from someone who is filled with fear.

Someone who finds herself alone

in her childhood home

“childless”, and without a mate.

A love poem

from someone who, some days, talks more

to the birds

than she does

to other human beings.

The jays are squawking white I write

What am I to do with love?

Where am I to place it?

There is a phenomenon in this world:

the incredible gap between

spirit and body

between mind and manifestation

And what I mean by that is

so much happens on the invisible plane

that is – talk is easy, feeling is easy,

all the world moves through you at the speed of wind

like a great idea, or a complex dream, so easy this

spontaneous flux,

so quick...

but if you want to actually makesomething

(which we value here so greatly)

if you want to create something physical,

visible, that might even outlast you,

it is a slow and painful process.

we produce we produce

we say we are productive

we reproduce we reproduce

women split themselves open

there is nothing easy about it.

“The tyranny of expectation”

I found this note to self on a

cue card yesterday

last year’s reminder to question.

The measure of success:

just what is visible and

separate from you,

what you can leave behind.

What if

we were only meant

to make simple things?

Things that vanish over time?

Like delicious meals

or woven baskets

transient gifts and tools,

only what is wholly useful,

and then imbue those things with love?

I have a fantasy of craftsmanship

I have a fantasy of communication

I have a fantasy of simple things

all complexity solved

in the quickening medium

of mind and air

where a thought

is no heavier

than a feather.

The word that is spoken, that in the moment it is spoken,

reflects and heals the air

is the most powerful word.

It will never be recorded

and if it is, it will (and should)

make no sense at all.

What does this have to do with love?

Reflecting on all I have and

have not created

only one half of it is visible.

Just because you can’t see my jewels,

doesn’t mean they don’t shine.

Is this one big justification for being an old maid?

No.

I have made brilliant love.

I have cooked brilliant meals.

I have appreciated blooming flowers

and I have spoken words

at just the right time

to heal the air around me.

This is written in some other script,

the cloth the fates are weaving

the invisible fabric of the world

I have added my colours

I have added my colours

I have done my best for all.

So this is my love poem then.

It is fraught with inconsistencies

Its form is awkward, tending to prose

It scrabbles and reaches

It looks back and doubts

It has been written over the course of 15 minutes

in three different rooms in my house

with a warm cup of coffee

and stellars jays screaming outside

and the garbage truck passing by

It is Friday morning

like so many Friday mornings

and the question of love

still astounds me.


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© 2015 by Saskia Wolsak