*Not my words
I haven’t written a poem about desire in a while. Mostly because the way I think of romantic relationships has changed in the past few years.
I am not a huge fan of panpanani poems of longing. I mean, what is the point of all this longing, that is never ever fulfilled? Stories of unrequited love have dominated pop culture for so long, that we almost forget that love doesn’t have to be difficult. If it is, then it’s really rather pointless.
Love, to me, should ideally exist between mental equals. It should hold some sort of balance, like an infinity symbol (minus the negative connotations associated with its ouroboros avatar), or a yin/yang. It should be an exchange of ideas, of inspiration, of contentment, of stimulating conversations.
Passion and Peace. Coexisting.
That is how I envision love.
Although, in my opinion, any healthy relationship should follow this model. Otherwise, what is the point?
My poem, “Wildlings,” is in The Nervous Breakdown (which is also one of the publications from my Top 30 list!). You can read it here.
This was supposed to be a mea culpa. Of sorts.
Now, it’s just words.
My poem, “Cannibal 2,” is in Subliminal Interiors. You can read it here.
This is the “after” version of my “before”.
I told myself I won’t write a ghazal.
And then, I thought of you.
And then, I had to write.
My poem, “Ghazal of Desire,” is in Dr. Hurley’s Snake-Oil Cure. You can read it here.
P.S. This is my first poem that flirts with poetic structure.
I am not a believer of love-at-first-sight BS. Lust, perhaps.
How can you love someone you just met?
But stranger things have happened, I am told. Cynics have been converted into believers, and then reconverted into cynics.
Or maybe, I am just sick of writing sad stories.
My short short, “Dance Off” (in One Forty Ficton), was written in a moment of weakness. My first ever attempt at happy endings. Read it here.
*Poison Cup by M. Ward.
You meet a stranger for coffee. It’s not a date.
Coffee leads to dinner.
Dinner leads to Saturday night plans.
Saturday night leads to Sunday morning.
And a few more meetings.
And then, you say your goodbyes. You fly off to another country. A month later, he will be gone too.
There are six months to kill.
There are no promises made. No commitments. Zilch expectations.
But you guys keep in touch. Talk often (He doesn’t want you for a pen pal). Skype for hours and stare at each other’s faces.
Then he says something and messes up. Makes you angry (and breaks your heart). You slip up just to prove a point (and end up hurting him).
Then you guys become strangers. Formal and superficial.
You miss him. But you seal your lips (and try and seal your heart too).
There are four more months to kill.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
Two of my (love) poems, “In Transit” and “Respectable,” are in the February issue of Red River Review (To read, click on February 2012 issue, and check out #73 and #78).
Filed under anecdote, poetry
DISCLAIMER: If you are expecting gooey declarations of undying love, mush, butterflies in your stomach or happy endings, this is not it.
Love is cheap. As disposable as toilet paper. Even underwear has a longer shelf life.
Everyone wants to be in love. Liars, all. What they are really after is the idea of being in love. It’s a game, really. The Love Game.
My flash fiction, “The Love Game,” was published by Daily Love today (you can read it here). I don’t know why. There is nothing love(ly) about it.