• A Diary of Love Poems

    Date: 2011.03.26 | Category: Assignments, Imagining Love, The Art of Writing | Tags: ,

    I was at a friend’s poetry reading last night.  What is the question we writers always ask each other, but don’t like to be asked?  Are you writing? A friend asked, how is your book of love poems comin’ along?  Silence.  I haven’t been writing.  No lover, no love.  Wait.  That’s a lousy excuse.  It’s been a long winter.  Not an excuse–actually, it’s a reason I should have been writing.  But I don’t own guilt or shame.  I write when I write.  Today, I wrote.  I wrote silly little love poems.  I wrote to write.  I hoped being vulnerable would allow creativity to flow and something interesting, even one line or one word, would appear.  Perhaps, it did.

    When you are ready, pick a topic AND WRITE (until your sister calls and she tells you it’s 7 pm and you suddenly realize you haven’t eaten all day and you are hungry).

     

    Note:  illusive or ilusury?

     

    Beauty of the Beast

     

    I should have a diary of love poems, a page/

    a poem for each love/each lover each year

    each month each week each night

    I have broken bread with beauty and

    with the beast.  I always loved the loving. Always

    loved the movement of the moment, the song-

    breathing high notes and then the low notes, and

    again the high notes; the music mindful of the giving

    of the taking.  Heart to head, hand to thigh no

    thoughts of time.  No time to expect or to regret.

    Only me/ not you.  I am trying not to satisfy

    or criticize or control.  Just doin’ what

    makes me happy.  No poem written after/

    or before captures the love/the loving

    there is no diary.

     

    Narrative for an online dating site:


    She likes bowling.  She doesn’t like biking.

    She likes birds.  She doesn’t like worms.

    She likes boating.  She doesn’t like swimming.

    She likes chocolate.  She doesn’t like coconut.

    She likes rhythm and blues.  She doesn’t like opera.

    She likes motorcycles. She doesn’t like riding them.

    She likes funky.  She doesn’t like not funky.

    She likes dogs.  She doesn’t like cats.

    She likes shoes.  She doesn’t like socks.

    She likes sunshine.  She doesn’t like rain.

    She likes walking.  She doesn’t like hiking.

    She likes Santa Clause. She doesn’t like the Easter Bunny.

    She likes coffee, black.  She doesn’t like sugar and cream.

    She likes movies.  She doesn’t like television.

    She likes red.  She doesn’t like yellow.

    She likes libraries. She doesn’t like museums.

    She likes memoir.  She doesn’t like autobiography.

    She likes talking.  She doesn’t like listening.

    She likes mustard.  She doesn’t like ketchup.

    She likes meat.  She doesn’t like vegetables.

    She likes hotels.  She doesn’t like camping.

    She likes wine.  She doesn’t like whiskey.

    She doesn’t like biking, hiking, camping, or golf-men who like younger women, or casual relationships.  She likes a cigarette now and again.

     

    Love is

     

    like the loaves and the fishes, one damn miracle after another

    it is the emperor with no clothes, nothing to hide; it is the frog

    not the prince.  Love is the family not the dysfunction,

    the children and the grandchildren.  Love is the future. Love

    is the spoken and the unspoken­—vulnerability and trust.

    Love is awareness and action, not reaction.  Love is to be afraid

    but still take a risk.  Love is the bird and the worm.

     

     

     

    Imaginary 60-Year-Old Lover

    —thanks to A. M.

     

    You are:

     

    responsible

    accountable

    mature

     

    generous

    kind

    thoughtful

     

    social

     

    socially aware

     

    skilled

     

    active

    playful

    spontaneous

     

    You laugh and smile and are

     

    trustworthy

     

    humble

     

    forgiving

    and you can’t live without me

     

     

     

    I’ve got to love this silly love poem

     

    because maybe it will love me back.

    I will give it all I’ve got, but maybe

    that won’t be enough. Nikki Giovanni

    is the goddess of love poems, I want

    to be a goddess of love.  Silly poem

    speak to me; I’m listening.  Rise above

    cliché and personal debauchery, deliver

    substance and sustenance, sing to me.

    Silly little love poem hear my wanton

    cry and hit me with your best shot1

    an arrow to the gut of lonely, the heart

    of sorrow.  Silly poem we’re stagnant,

    we’re in doo-doo deep and dirty.

     

    1.”Hit Me with Your Best Shot” is a song written by Canadian singer/songwriter Eddie Schwartz and recorded by American singer Pat Benatar in 1979—Wikipedia

     

     

     

    I said “there is nothing left but love”

    —after 9/11

     

    but love is scarce while hate is abundant

     

    no, hate is arrogant, love is unassuming

     

    where are the lovers?

    in coffee houses writing poetry about love and war

     

    why is there war?

    to create fear

     

    what are we afraid of?

    hunger

     

    why are the children hungry?

    wars are raging

     

    where is the love?

    fighting and fleeing war

     

    what is love?

    passion, compassion—revolution

     

    how many poets, how many poems, how much war, how many revolutions

    before love wins, hunger disappears, and poems are sweet-tempered?

     

     

    I Said I Would Stay Home Today


    and write love poems instead of chasing

    the illusury lover or running from her;

    instead of escaping the desire for love

    by shopping or eating or playing the slots.

    I thought I would stay home today and

    imagine love to be something not to give

    or to get, but to imagine it is heart like

    tree, like sky, like earth, like bird; but,

    there is interference.  There is blizzard,

    there is thunder and storm, earthquake

    and tsunami.

     

    There is illness, destruction and death.

     

     

    Above poems by Sherry Quan Lee, first draft only draft, rrrruff draftSaturday, March 26, 2011