Love: Stealing Away in the Night? Poem – Paper

Rarely, if ever, do I commit any individual blog posts to paper. But, with this poem, I am going to make an exception. Why? Because, in the midst of insecurity, it reminds me of fundamental and grounding truths, ropes I can cling on to when I need to. This poem is not about falling in love, or relationships per se; it is more about the psychology of love and the barriers I (and many others) experience…

Why, oh why, am I so afraid of trusting love?

Why defend myself with shields of words –

And let the honey flow by untasted?

Deepest fears grow horns and talons

In the silence that is wordless darkness:

They breed, become deformed:

Grotesques created by a form of incest –

The mutation of black thought

Mating, endlessly, with its sibling.

The terror – canyon-echoing, Cave-man old,

That love, a being untended, will up

In night’s most wounding hour –

The frail times when Death sickles most –

Steal away on soundless feet,

Or mounting the horse of indifference,

Canter into the brightness of a better day.

But, delusions hold out hands of truth,

O’er the hearth-fires of heart and soul –

And clamour can rattle and shackle

Chains of habit ever tighter,

Scraping the softly-questing palms raw.

I stop. Sit tight upon an earthen floor –

Scuffs of sandalled silence marking dust;

I listen between, and beyond, and beneath,

The cataracts of endless flowing words;

I look at love, in cave’s solitude –

I peer, entranced, into its true-fire;

I hold hands over its vast warmth,

Hear the comfort-crackle of its logs –

And know, wordlessly, if fleetingly, this:

Steeds of insecurity battle silent giants

Pointlessly, to no good end:

Sparking up yet more words from frightened hoofs:

Fight to the verbal death with no clear winner –

Makes raging nonsense and maims truth.

Love, unlike man, is word-less:

Needs not the fencing of syllable, of letter,

Of bright tumbling word-streams covering all:

We catch it best in the quiet note ‘tween each drum-beat:

Hold it close in the imprint of kisses as yet un-burned,

And limbs in latent heated twining.

With intelligence of tongue and sweat and hands’ exploration,

With primeval thrusting of bodies in most ancient dance,

We know the loving of Eros, no caesura in sight:

With intelligence of instinct and heart –

With touching ‘tween minds and souls –

No moan of orgasm needed here! –

We know that love is not a word;

It is a living cord, pulsing and  shimmering,

That wordlessly connects.

Honey slips and slides o’er cupped hands:

I dip lips and taste its sweetness.




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