My friends say that I’m a hopeless romantic. But I like to think that I’m also a realist. The problem now is, every time I try to write about love I end up writing about sex or abuse or heartbreak or kissing… This is not my first attempt at completing a love poem. I have tried countless times; in fact, just yesterday I wrote twelve lines before giving up. Note however, before you read any further, that I had help from Charlotte Bronte’s The Professor. I’m not sure I can write a love poem wholly with my own words😭😭. Enjoy though. Maybe..
Name unromantic and unpoetic
Yet a name that whenever uttered
Has in my ears a sound,
In my heart an echo
Such as no other assemblage of letters
However sweet or classical can produce.
I repeat the word as I sit alone every night
It stirs my world of the past
Like a summons to resurrection
The graves unclosed,
Fear is provoked,
Terror is unleashed,
The dead are raised;
Thoughts, feelings, memories that slept
Are seen by me ascending from the clods.
This is love, friend.
Don’t call it a flat one or a dull one;
It was neither flat nor dull to me
When I first beheld it.
I was young, I had good health,
My sense of enjoyment processed an edge
Whetter to the finest, untouched, keen exquisite.
Love and I had never met;
No indulgence of hers had enervated
Or sated one faculty of my nature
Love I clasped in my hands for the first time,
And the influence of her smile and embrace
Revived my life like the sun and the west wind.
When I first beheld it,
I felt like a morning traveler
Who doubts not that from the hill he is ascending
He shall behold a glorious sunrise.
So as I sit alone and repeat the word every night,
I retire to bed
And sleep a traveler’s sleep.
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