A couple of months ago I joined a writer’s group at church. This is a local church we’ll be transferring our membership to so it seemed time to start joining some of their stuff. The writer’s group meets once a month with a suggested writing topic. This month there were two: Love and how have you changed your mind.
Couldn’t think of how I’ve changed my mind so I went with the topic I know even less about, love. Here’s the poem I read for group. Strangely enough, they said I could come back next month.
Love
You ask me to write of love.
What can I tell you that you don’t know?
Would something abstract do?
Shall I speak of the Greek – Agape, Eros, Philia, or pragma?
Perhaps I could sing you a love song – crooner, country, romantic, or perhaps a they done me wrong song.
What could I tell you?
What don’t you know?
The yearning of a single heart looking for that one.
The joy of the couple at the altar.
That look,
those words,
the touch …
Can I tell you of the heart ache when love is gone?
Of the emptiness when the mourners go home …
nights when no one calls
when grief becomes the world?
Perhaps I could tell you the great mysteries.
How love works,
or perhaps a list of all the great books of love.
The song is wrong you know.
There isn’t a book of love.
Not one, but thousands.
Books, poems, songs, sculpture, paintings, pictures …
What do I know of such things?
All I know is that in my life,
I’ve had family that loves me,
I’ve had beloved pets,
and twenty years ago, I found that one
who made my life complete.
I’ve decided that love is about creating, giving, working at, and holding onto when all else fails.
We can speak of it, but it is best felt and gently held where all can see.
I cannot write of love.
