13 Feb Poets’ Corner: Rosemerry for Valentine’s Day
On Valentine’s Day, it all seems so straightforward, so simple: he gives you a little box or a big bouquet, chocolates too maybe; you give him, what?, basketball tickets. Long glance looks over a romantic dinner. But through her words, her pearls, regular contributor (thank heaven), Word Woman Rosemerry Trommer, understands love is not simple. Love is a many nuanced thing. Below, three ways of looking at that fragile reality.
And one for those who like a little steam in their coffee…
And the Winner Is
Sometimes I would rather not know love.
I would rather not know that the pearl
is born of an irritation. I tell myself
I do not want iridescence. I do not need
one more beautiful thing to collect
on a string. I make love so small. But love
arrives anyway, less pearl and more current,
more tide, more sea. Immeasurable, though I try
to measure. Unknowable, though I want
to know. It is full of dark and cold and deep
deep places where I will likely never go.
It is only the surface that knows the light.
Is it so wrong to be afraid? Sometimes
I would rather not know love. Damn this day of tears.
But that is when the invitation is most clear.
There is a wrestling inside, love versus pride,
a match I must be willing to enter, even though
I know the only way to win is to lose.
Living by Breaking
The heart breaks and breaks and lives by breaking.
Stanley Kunitz, “Testing Tree”
Like any other muscle,
the heart, when injured,
will clench, and will stay that way
for a long, long time, most likely
long past the time of usefulness.
But when it relaxes again,
perhaps because it has been touched
in just the right way, or perhaps
just because it is exhausted
with its own clenching, well then
it is like when the sun hits the forest
in late morning and releases the scent
of pine and greening leaves.
And it is like when you walk past a spring
and a dozen blue butterflies all brush
you with their wings, a feeling so impossibly
soft and tender that you cannot help
but let the heart stay open, though you know
it will be wounded again. It is not
in the end the heart itself that matters.
It is the practice of releasing again, again.
Putting On My Coat I Realize that You and I Are Like
a button
and a buttonhole—
only effective when we realize
how much we need
each other.
And Who Knows Where They Might End Up
And if my lips
just happen to find
your cheek, well,
let’s perhaps say
they were aiming
for somewhere else
but decided that sweetness
comes in many shades,
and if my hands
happen to brush
your shoulder,
your neck, well,
chances are
they didn’t exactly
get lost, more like
they needed a starting
point, some place
called here
from which they
might travel to other
places called here,
and here, and here.
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