Monday, March 16, 2015

A Love Poem




A Love Poem

I'm writing a poem.

It's a love poem of sorts ... well, one can never be sure.

I mean if you really loved someone, wouldn't you just say to that person, "I love you."

Do we really need the fancy-schmancy stuff, the hearts and flowers, the gushing imagery, the language of Valentine's Day cards?

In fact, when someone writes a love poem, maybe the whole process involves a tablespoon of uncertainty. Maybe, that someone is actually writing the poem to make sure that he or she really, really does love the subject of his or her metaphoric orgasms.

That seems a bit harsh, I know. The thing is that I really liked the phrase, "metaphoric orgasms," so I didn't backspace it out. The same phrase will probably be in the poem. Maybe at the end. Not sure. Not at the beginning though. Definitely not at the beginning.

Want to see the beginning? Here:

i remember the beauty
of your body
behind the frosted glass
of the shower door
and i remember being there
with you
when you casually dropped the soap
and sank to your knees
pretending to retrieve it
when it wasn't the soap
you wanted at all

Did you notice the poem is a bit sexy? Maybe too sexy? Well, don't sex and love go together? I think they should.

Well, never mind that ... what's more important is that the poem is written in the past tense. It's something remembered. That's never a good sign. That always implies something has changed.

I wonder what?

Maybe the love affair is over. Maybe the whole shower thing is about how the soap and water is washing that love and sex away for good. Love down the drain, so to speak ...

Aww ... quelle triste ...

Oh, goodness, don't be upset.

It is, after all, just a poem. The people in the shower never existed, except in my imagination, and if I wanted them together forever, well, I could do that.

The problem is, however, that I sometimes confuse poetry and real life. I can control the way a poem turns out, but I obviously can't control how real life turns out. In real life, there's a whole other psyche at work. I never pretend to know what's going on in someone else's mind. People are simply far too complicated.

And so, you see, the outcome remains uncertain.

I haven't finished the poem, and to be perfectly honest, I may never finish it. Maybe I'm waiting for real life to show me the way.

So it goes ...
 







 








 
 


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