Love Poem to Penelope
by Julian X  /  poetry  /  27 Aug 2007
Love, what a glorious thing
to have sacked Troy for
to have died for, O my Juliet
Shakespeare knew this, warned of this
this desperation, this desert, is this love?
yes, comes the whisper, yes
do not forsake your deserts, dear lovers
climates change, deserts are irrigated every day
when the soul becomes a desert, it struggles to survive
cherish your deserts
it's when something makes a desert of you that you know it counts
that which you love hurts you the most, for its thorns are most pronounced
love amplifies, magnifies, grows things into monstrous proportions
we drink poison for love we do not drink poison for hate
but what, my beautiful lover, do you want from life?
a smorgasbord of happiness, the boredom of bliss?
not in this life
life is struggle and stories are conflicts
we do not build utopia except on the bones of the dead
we do not build literature except on the shattering of such bones
how many died to build the Sistine Chapel? The pyramids?
and does it even matter
we do not avoid the woods because spiders lurk
we do not avoid building because our hands and backs and shoulders ache
we are caught in a glorious thing and it is bigger than ourselves
such glorious things call for sacrifices, they test the soul
sometimes we flee and fail and hide
but for those who have seen a glorious thing, this cannot satisfy
it's what you regret that kills, not what you suffer
even omelets
when the armies approach, it's the flinching not the cutting that kills
it's the running not the fighting you regret
it's the not building that haunts you on your deathbed,
not the pain of the mason
hearts get ragged like hands
it's when Lord Jim fails to leap that his life is meaningless
O, there are consolation prizes
the little structures where a cathedral might have stood
they don't win unless you quit
there are the comforts of something less dangerous, less intense
the world rewards those who run from suffering
but the soul rewards those who do not flinch
it's not the money a job provides but the lack of the dream that kills the soul
it's not the marriage of convenience but the lack of a true love that haunts
it's the absence of the love of one's life, not the pain it would have taken
it's the surrender to life, not the pain of building dreams
and these things do not heal
they don't stop hurting until death
O, but death, staring at death makes us realize, makes us stop our stupidity
it's life we fear, not death, it's life
and it's the pain of not living that death brings
the skull on the mantle, this reminds us not only of our physical death
it speaks to us in hushed, bony whispers
of what we didn't do
of the living death that fear brings
this, my dear, is hell
pain, when righteous, is nothing compared to the glory
the pain of birthing art, of birthing love, of birthing the fantastic
nothing compared to the real pain
of life without
this love is bigger than both of us
you might as well fight the waves that pound stronger than any sex
that tear you over like the wind
this love is bigger than both of us
the gods know how I have tried to fight the waves
to make of myself an island, autonomous and strong
that is helplessness, that is weakness
and I cannot praise a cloistered virtue
this is no love poem of possession
of a young lover starved for eros blind
this is the love of the ancients, the well of happiness
and we are old and crave the new
the new that makes us forget like Lethe
and leaves us as shades
it is not death we fear but life
some time ago we began to build our cathedral
wherein we placed our love
and I, having seen such cathedrals topple so many times
I could not believe it would hold
it all ends in tears, I'd say
because all of them had
because to build such a thing, to invest yourself so unquestionably
and see it topple
O, how you labored at that cathedral
and how I undermined it
but it wouldn't fall no matter how I fought
and when you left, still it stood
its design glorious, its contours beautiful, but unfinished
and I thought I had been right
and I hated you for abandoning it rather than myself for undermining
but it wouldn't fall
and we had our compromises, our little shacks
and the comforts of those little roofs were sore reminders
some days, we could just enjoy those comforts
but through the window, that cathedral loomed
so beautiful, so unfinished
its promise so magnificent
and we were ever in its shadows
O how we felt the pain of building
so much that shacks seemed good alternatives
and still it looms
how many times you told me that it was your fantasy
how much it was our home even when
we surrounded ourselves by wooden boards
and how much I thought I preferred those boards
and how much you feared I would build on another cathedral
and how stupid, how very stupid we were
this love is bigger than both of us
and now you have a shack
and I'm sick of them
of these peasant disguises
I'm sick of being a nomad when I know where my home is
and when that home is so beautiful, so wonderful
so much bigger than both of us
and I know I'm sick of not living there
and that it means more than me or you
and that, whatever blisters on our hands, it feels better than any shack
and my pain comes not from its incompleteness
but those signs of undermining
half-hearted undermining for which it remains so stable, so right
and I'm waiting here for you
we both know we're too old to build such cathedrals new
that we look for impersonators of each other to do so with
and I know that madness lies not in waiting in this beloved giant
not in returning to something so powerful
but in fighting the waves
and living in shacks
when most have nothing so perfect or wonderful as this
this love is bigger than both of us
how I could write a love poem of youthful virility
how young and in love I feel around you
how I look at you and all my scars disappear
how you're the love of my life
how you're the most beautiful woman I know
and how this place, my life, are lonely and full of drafts without you
how your eyes make me see such wonder
how your arms make me feel such peace
how your body excites me to frenzy
and your breasts to dreams
how your hips long to be touched
and your sweat to be smelled
how your smile has more beauty than anything I know
and your lips remind me of bliss
how your scent on my covers lulls me to softest sleep
and your absence horrifies like a gap in the heart
how your sympathy dwarfs my pains
and the love in your eyes makes me whole
O how these things roll in my heart
how your pleasure thrills me
and how much I'd do to keep the real hurt from your eyes
how your simple and enthusiastic "I really like this"
makes hell tolerable
and how much, how much
I love you
and always loved you more than I knew what to do with
and feared losing your love so much that I did
and how much a fool I played
and how I sat there waiting for the Big Thing
yearning for acceptance or wealth or love
when what I yearned for was right beside me
making up things to want
when you were there all along
and so I sit, no more able to fight this than the ocean
than I can ignore the awesomeness of our love
no more able to pass this by than ignore the pyramids
this love is bigger than both of us
the hollow life without you never took
the hating you and wanting to hurt you never took
no matter how hard I tried
the gods have put this in me
and we still talk through it all
and you still came to see me
and you did so again
and we still can't go three days without talking
and know what to do with ourselves without each other
most loves can't survive what we've been through
and there's this damn cathedral we've never forgotten
never stopped admiring
and all the pain of our trials means nothing compared to this
this love is bigger than both of us
this is no love poem of young blindness, of fickle fate
this is no love poem of immature love, of new attraction
no, this is no love poem that ignores the suffering of past trials
this is one of the fact that our love is stronger than all of that
this is one of mature love, of trusting love fermented as all strong love
though you feel so new
though each face or motion of yours is unique and never seen before
no, this is a love poem of simple acknowledgement
see, there's this cathedral in the corner
this damn giant cathedral we've tried to ignore in the corner
no, I cannot praise a cloistered virtue
a love untested is not love
a success without struggle reaps but false happiness
this is no love poem of perfection, of transient illusions
no love poem of seduction
though our sex could be really hot
no love poem of fickle attraction or ignored pain
this is a love poem of love stronger than that
of love tried like Odysseus
overwhelming our attempts to kill it and stronger for them
of the fact that none of that matters lying next to you, looking in your eyes
of the fact that your smile dwarfs it all
even this
this is the poetry of love
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