Love poem

I think I'm being obssessed with this urge to write poems. It's because my being is filled with this overpowering sense of ennui and langour. (I know i've been using the word too often, but it has a unique feel and is one I seldom experience). It has completely weighed down my body and all my senses. Nothing tasted of anything yesterday, the sweet tasted bland, and the spice indifferent. I was mildly irritated at this reaction to the festival food i had longed for for 5 years. It didn't have the bitter sickly aftertaste that often occurs when I'm feeling feverish, but just tasted null. Like everything didn't matter. Eating was a chore, talking was a chore, small talk especially exhausting and annoying. I had a 2 hour afternoon nap after a long time. I'm moody and sullen and feel guilty about doing so. The heaviness made me value the dizzy lightness of a smoke cloud lifting my brain light as an appam a few inches above my skull, as headachy, I gathered my legs into myself and read till I soothed my annoyance with myself and others.

So here is a love poem. I definitely want to work on this some more. I want to compact it and fill it with jolting emotion like an epiphanic punch, like the compacted organic waste that I feel I am.

Your eyes are the key to my expression.

They reduce my mass of pulsating organs

to a diaphanous shell, speckled by mediocrity.

I stiffen in response and think of melting

a puddle seeping and merging with your core

If that is the only way.

The idea of you has coursed through my blood

since Dreamtime

I wonder if poets are ever satisfied with their work. I wonder if they go back to their poems a year, or even a few months later and cannot bring themselves to look at them, ashamed of their triteness and pathetic pretentions. Some people say love enhances creativity. I suppose it can. A fellow writing enthusiast however muses that since she fell in love she hasn't been able to write with the same force she used to, and can only write of pain and longing when she has had a fight with her partner.

That sort of ties in with this little theory of mine of how I am a better dancer than ever before. My theory is that when one is single (that is not in love with a person), one has so much love in oneself that one needs an outlet to pour it into. That's when any art form gets the requisite attention it deserves and the performance of that art becomes transcendental, not only for the performer but also for the audience. Emotions have a powerful transformative as well as transmissive quality. The audience applies the performer's emotions to his own experiences and becomes one the art, briefly. Performance and voyeurism however both require the destruction of the walls we build to block the overpowering sensations we fear to experience in our daily lives.

I've been in love with love since I heard about it, read about it, imagined it. Sometimes I'm scared the real thing won't live up to it and sometimes my own actions regarding the people I thought I was in love with have surprised me. Love is all in the mind.

Will I write once i fall in love and marry and all? I wonder if I'll have the time to :s That SUCKS! This is probably why so much talent (if not genuis) dries up and withers like the freshness of spring in fall, lost as debris under the flood of banality that is everyday tasks. Sometimes when I think of all the days of endless routine, waking up, brushing, taking out clothes, working, returning, folding clothes, organising meals, organising washing and shopping and bills and servants, and occasions and small talk, I could just scream. On those days it's enough to imagine a mental asylum as a welcome relief (though a pill-taking routine there would seriously piss me off if I simply wanted to get away from it all). Don't get me wrong - I'm quite a routine freak that way - I just can't imagine a whole life of the SAME thing!

************************************************************************************

I'm amazed at the seemingly endless ways of describing orgasms! :D Each writer seems to have his/her own style!