A Triptych of Love Poems

Here's an embarrassing confession: in a country where people often sneer at the meaningless commercialism of the fourteenth of February, I love Valentine's Day. When I was in elementary school, we would always exchange little cards with everyone in our class and the teachers would decorate their classrooms. My mother delights and excels in small presents, so every Valentine's Day that I can remember, I have been given a card, a new pair of seasonally-themed socks, a box of chocolates, and sometimes a new pair of earrings or necklace.

This left me with the early impression that Valentine's Day was more about friendship and family than romantic love. The romantic aspect came to my attention in middle and high school, where participation was more geared towards couples and crushes: a few girls would carry balloons and teddy bears given to them by boyfriends, and student groups might sell flowers in the cafeteria as a fundraiser. But I kept my early impression: that romantic love is but one kind, and friendship and family and community were experiences of loving and being loved worth celebrating.

This outlook shapes the way I approach love poems: I usually find myself most drawn to the poems that speak to different types and experiences of love. Here are a few recent poems I read which aren't cookie-cutter romantic but still spoke to me as beautiful love poems.

"vintage portrait of old couple among foliage" by <def> is licensed underCC BY-NC 2.0

Seventh Sense

So you got married.

I'm happy for you.

But it's not only people--

wolves and she-wolves

join their fates,

in order

to avoid loneliness

and provide

lifelong support

to one another.

To marry like everyone does,

and produce a child,

doesn't require

great intelligence.

The question in all of this,

is how will the face that

now looks at you in the mirror

be judged tomorrow?

It is not surprising that,

from time immemorial,

people have often confused

their hot and stormy,

passing emotions'

with love,

since both can cause

the lightening to flash.

But not everyone

is capable of understanding

that in our human,

all-too-oblivious world,

love is the highest peak.

The ability to climb up

has been given to only a few happy people.

And possibly unfortunately,

of the ten thousand,

only two

manage to be successful,

on the sharp edge

of this amazing

imprisoning, stormy,

happy holiday.

This eternal holiday

of unceasing delight.

 

To get physically

but not spiritually close,

is the ultimate sadness.

That's why

there are so many

lonely people in the world--

the wingless tedium

of a single-sided coin.

 

For them no

one-off flights,

or holidays out of the blue.

Totally deprived

of a happy fate

they smile to your face

weeping bitterly in secret,

 

And at any crossroads

of life's path

you are always met

with the inexorable question--

Has your spouse become

a sensitive friend to your soul,

a friend of

your innermost desires,

one who feels 

your happiness and torment

with a seventh sense?

If not,

then all your striving

will be like trying to light a fire

on a windy day.

And it means that you end up

too far away from

the goals fate has assigned you,

too, too far...

That's just how inaccessible,

difficult,

and secret,

this multi-faceted,

willfully-choosy,

love is. 

~Muhktar Shakanov, translated in Contemporary Kazakh Literature: Poetry (National Bureau of Translations, 2019), pp. 106-108.

 

"Pacific Northwest" by Nick Kenrick is licensed underCC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Images of Salmon and You

Your absence has left me only fragments of a summer's run

on a night like this, fanning in August heat: a seaweed song.

Sweat glistens on my skin, wears me translucent, sharp as scales.

The sun wallowing its giant roe beats my eyes back red and dry.

Have you seen it above the highway ruling you like planets?

Behind you, evening is Columbian, slips dark arms

around the knot of distance that means nothing

to salmon or slim desiring. Sweet man of rivers,

the blood of fishermen and women will drive you back again,

appointed places set in motion like seasons. We are like salmon

    swimming against the mutation of current to find

our heartbroken way home again, weight of red eggs and need.

~Gloria Bird, in When the Light of the World Was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through ed. by Joy Harjo (New York, 2020), p. 221.

"Hybrid Tea Rose 'Winchester'" by Drew Avery is licensed underCC BY 2.0

The Gardener

Have I lived enough?

Have I loved enough?

Have I considered Right Action enough, have I

    come to any conclusion?

Have I experienced happiness with sufficient gratitude?

Have I endured loneliness with grace?

 

I say this, or perhaps I'm just thinking it.

    Actually, I probably think too much.

 

Then I step out into the garden

where the gardener, who is said to be a simple man

    is tending his children, the roses.

 

~Mary Oliver, A Thousand Mornings (New York, 2012), p. 7.