…of this creature called love
My heart is pounding
as I sit before this empty page
for this is a moment
of intense emotions
(and random thoughts)
I am struggling to name them
(anonymity is temporary
for in time all things will be named)
to get them into an orderly line
so that I can separate them
from each other
you see, my heart
my poor heart
(long beleaguered)
has mastered the dark arts
of obfuscation
ambiguity and evasion
I am mistress
of the things that hide
in the shadows of the day
(this is the dark side
the restless tides of my soul)
we don’t like
these wicked emotions
(my heart and I)
we don’t have
a working knowledge
(or the life experience)
to shuffle the deck
and name the cards
as they are laid out before us
we have dipped our toes
into the rivers
and the oceans of love
we have drifted
been drenched
abandoned and rescued
(only to be left
drowning again)
in the shallow waters of loss
and the silence of the flames
we have ridden the waves
tasted the honeyed promises
had brief moments of joy
but my heart and I
are still searching
(for something
that may not be real?)
yet still we strive
to find our own path
unwilling to blindly follow
the well-trodden roads
(to our own destruction)
searching for the love
for the light that is right
Langston Hughes
once wrote:
(‘She,
in the dark,
found light
brighter
than many
ever see.
she,
within herself,
found loveliness,
through the soul’s
own mastery.
and now
the world receives
from her dower:
the message
of the strength
of inner power.’)
so what is this thing
called love?
is it really a thing
that we all aspire
to have and to hold?
how do we navigate
its many shades
its unseen depths
its many faces
its many masks
its many songs
its whispered lies
its many lows
its self-inflicted tragedies
its fragile nature
(and transient journey
through the heart?)
do we love
because we are loved…
or are we loved
because we are love?
(circular reasoning
I know…)
if we are love…
how can we then be loved?
if we are not loved…
how can we then in turn love?
(this is the emotional version
of the chicken and the egg)
does the egg beget the chicken…
or the chicken beget the egg?
does the ocean carry the waves…
or do the waves carry the ocean?
do the trees lose their leaves…
or do the leaves leave the trees?
does the dawn awaken the day…
or does the day summon the dawn?
does the night paint the darkness…
or the darkness paint the night?
Winnie the Pooh
has wise words
for anyone contemplating love
(‘Some people
care too much
I think it’s called love’)
we humans
are skilled in self-deception
in deflection and misdirection
we can repaint the night
in many layers of darkness
(and still claim to see the stars
shining bright…)
we can empty the oceans
leaving nothing but sand
(and still claim to hear the waves
kissing the land…)
we can fall into love
vowing never to stray
(and still claim our indiscretions
are a small price to pay)
(for surely if you love me
you would want me to stay?)
Ernest Hemmingway
once wrote:
‘The most painful thing
is losing yourself
in the process
of loving someone too much
and forgetting that you
are special too.’
so this is my conundrum
perhaps a dark defiance
but think about it…
we ‘fall’ in love…
and this is the ultimate
commitment
and let’s presume
that the one we love
‘falls’ in love with us too
(so now both of us have ‘fallen’)
now ‘falling’ is defined as…
declining
deteriorating
coming down
from a higher level
disintegrating
dropping
in the autumn the leaves ‘fall’
to their ultimate demise
leaving their trees
empty and weeping
(even angels ‘fall’ from grace)
we ‘fall’ upon our swords
when we have failed
(and again metaphorically)
we ‘fall’ upon our face
when we fail utterly
and completely
we ‘fall’ for tricksters
and conmen
and ‘fall’ behind in our bills
and then we ‘fall’
upon hard times
so where?
where?
in all of this ‘falling’
does ‘falling’ in love
seem like a thing
(we should all want to do?)
love…
this thing we aspire to
that we long for
search for
the ultimate peak
of emotional experience…
(but no-one tells us about the pain…)
William Shakespeare
once wrote:
‘Expectation is the root
of all heartache’
this much adored
much maligned
much misunderstood
amorphous thing
that if we ever get to hold it
in our hands
(…we must know that it is never
really ours?)
this thing
the loss of which
(so unexpected?)
will bring us to our knees
will leave us empty and broken
and sworn to never love again
yet the dark injuries of love
however dire
are not a cure for this affliction
for this affection
this predilection
(nor a cure for our self-destruction)
In 1742
(I am old but not this old…)
tennis players
started being rewarded with ‘love’
for not scoring any points
for failing to score
they were rewarded
with metaphorical love…
playing for nothing
(but the love of the game)
yes, that’s correct…
we do not score
we call it love
we failed
we call it love
we lost
we call it love
we gained nothing
(but the experience and the pain)
and we still…
call it love
there is a strange lesson here
the winner takes the game
(the loser has love next to their name)
the strange paradox
of this creature called love…
the irony, the agony
the incomprehensible dichotomy
(the devil sits in the shadows
breaking hearts
spilling dreams
like blood upon stones)
sometimes
a portal to desolation
sometimes
a beautiful longing
or a soft remembrance
passed from flower to flower
(even shadows have moments
of blossoming)
© Ann Bagnall
