Love & Company
Love poems for strangers
For Judyko
I’m done with New York,
But not for the reasons you think.
I’ve been looking up for stars or,
A familiar breath or a breeze,
Only to find the cost of this dream —
My intimacy.
And although life is truly,
In the daily acts of living,
Those parts of myself deemed ugly,
Where I’ve also found faith.
Yet peace eludes me,
And pieces of me lie scattered,
Distorted by city lights,
So that which makes me pure,
Is almost no longer,
And that which makes me weary —
Creeps up on me like a cat on certain mornings,
To make me beautiful,
For no apparent reason.
For Carly
Many things have been born in New York,
Like the word Bystander,
To slip into the background like,
Rain dripping from a broken pipe,
To rhythmically stare at someone’s distress,
Because someone else,
“Ought to fix that mess.”
So this love stored in a pile of crates,
Waits for someone else,
To tell that story,
To break another heart,
While mine steps over the heels of fate.
But the safest bet is rarely the most rewarding,
So, a bystander's heart,
Will meet the pain of inertia,
Moving on but never,
Lingering for a while,
So meet me here,
maybe,
Where the sun sets and
maybe,
In the time that it takes,
We’ll fall in love.
For Carola
I’m only just discovering,
All the flavors of self,
And oh these thoughts seem to,
Stay with me way past my bedtime,
Since I never knew all the ways,
Pleasure could make itself known to me.
So thank humanity,
For taking a name and giving it color,
With which to bathe my dreams,
And bless that skin,
That skin that is unfamiliar,
But instinct knew I would hold this hair,
And graze this neck and whisper sweetly,
“life is capable of small beauties.”
Maybe your touch will feel more like myself,
And you will light a torch where,
No one else has yet been,
And maybe desire has always carried a red purse,
And lipstick to stain my bare belly burgundy,
And leave your mark,
The promise of whispers,
On my left ear.
For Olivia
Love comes in seasons,
And seasons,
Will always come to pass.
Time separates winter from autumn,
And summer from spring.
And distance (despite the latest tech),
Is the antithesis of touch,
And only through contact can,
The seed become the tree.
I will find ways to forgive love,
For not ripening,
For neither have I.
And just like time turns leaves brittle,
It makes trees grow strong,
And when the season is right,
So too,
Will love come along.
For Emel
The unbearable lightness of being is more than just a title,
It’s that immemorial feeling,
That wakes you in the middle of the night,
To ask whether God is still around.
Burden brings life meaning,
In ways little else does,
Love; when folded into itself,
Creates a life that is now my own.
My little joys are hidden,
Where burdens bares me down,
Like the whistle of a kettle —
carries the certainty of tea,
Or the laughter of children —
Turns sacrifice into something,
I breathe in.
I want to occupy the same lightness from which,
Art is born,
To no longer be defined by love,
And rejoice in lust and rebellion,
And still,
Life would have no meaning,
Lest my burdens,
Give me a home,
To call my own.
For Anthony
Love seems to await those who are patient,
Those who find time to let people linger,
Way past our bedtimes,
Since those are the ones who stick around,
And as long as you’ll be there,
I’ll find a way to make eight a.m. breakfast,
Taste different every day.
And I’ll find a way,
To awaken with a new smile,
And I’ll even make this laundry feel fresh again.
Maybe love is that balance that gives,
Routine flavor,
And bathes habit with the scent of spring,
So, as long as I choose love over lovers,
I’ll taste the gift of chance all over again.
The purpose of Art is to render the ordinary strange again.
Henri Bergson came up with this word that I love, “infraordinary,” which I understand to be a certain quality of attention the poet brings to daily experience. Recently, I had the chance to listen to a few strangers talk about love. In return, I turned their experience into a poem— turning their Love strange again.
The end goal of this observation process is to unlearn categorical thought and see things in such a way that widens the gap where real change occurs. Poetry maladjusts us gently; it mirrors our uncomfortable truths.
Unpacking our beliefs about love is a hard pill to swallow. The more one digs into the multiple experiences of love, the more one realizes it's a true co-creative process (and a rather strange one at that). Love — even in the pleasure of solitude — brings with it a deep sense of belonging that keeps us from falling into the vertigo of loneliness.
Love can be the instinct telling us to go out of our comfort zones and try red lipstick for the first time; it can also be what gives routine meaning — like a mother who finds in her child's laughter the most beautiful of sounds. Love is the fracture that lets light in, invites us to let go, to take the jump, and to risk venturing off in Solitude (but never alone). Love is always an invitation (never an excuse to check out) and, in its truest form, will always hold up a mirror with which we can see ourselves more clearly. For those brave enough to engage, the gift of this co-creation may be something shameless and extravagant (like only life itself can conjure up).
A Chinese proverb says, “An invisible red thread connects those destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle but will never break.”
In conversation with D, a friendly stranger, he pondered, “I think my red string has eluded me in this lifetime.”
I doubt he’s the only one who feels they are dragging a loose thread, leading nowhere. Maybe the problem is that our imagination of love has become too narrow, contaminated by cinematic portrayals of romance. Maybe love is vast, and those strings do not venture far off into the distance but bind us to those who dare ask the difficult questions that will lead to depth.
Love is found in intimacy and the people we share it with, of all times and places.
A quote
“A generous heart is always open, always ready to receive our going and coming. In the midst of such love we need never fear abandonment. This is the most precious gift true love offers — the experience of knowing we always belong.”
— Bell Hooks, All About Love.
