Monday, October 4, 2010

Doesn’t Every Poet Write a Poem about Unrequited Love - October 2, 2010

The flowers

I wanted to bring to you,

Wild and wet,

From the pale dunes

And still smelling

Of the summer night,

And still holding a moment or two

Of the night’s cricket’s

Humble prayer,

Would have been

So handsome

In you hands-

So happy-I dare to say it-

In your hands­

Yet your smile

Would have been nowhere

And maybe you would have tossed them

Onto the ground,

Or maybe, for tenderness,

You would have taken them

Into your house

And given them water

And put them in a dark corner

Out of reach.

In matters of love

Of this kind

There are things we long to do

But must not do.

I would not want to see

Your smile diminished.

And the flowers, anyway,

Are happy just where they are,

On the pale dunes,

Above the cricket’s humble nest,

Under the blue sky

That loves us all

I am thinking of the days when I have risen and either forgotten about the sky above, or having seen it, not noticed the grandeur of that above because I was concentrating on what was before me, or in me. I am not saying I was “wrong” for not seeing bird in tree or flower in field or cloud in sky, I’m just saying:

There is beauty ever ready to be loved

It is all around us

And we are like the mad poets, writing about love unreturned when if we but look, the love will return.

For it is in us, connected to the beauty without.

So may I today look up, see the sky, and speak not of unrequited love, but of love fulfilled.

Where has love not returned to you?

No comments:

Post a Comment