In the past, I used to send out Valentine photo cards (cheeky, skin-baring ones, of course), enclosed with a Dorothy Parker poem that extolled the bitterness of love, and the cynicism that Ms. Parker so masterfully rendered in a few turns of phrase. This year, having already bared my bum, and feeling slightly kinder, I’m posting a different kind of poem. One written in earnest, one written in hope, one written in love.
Of Love
By Mary Oliver
I have been in love more times than one,
thank the Lord. Sometimes it was lasting
whether active or not. Sometimes
it was all but ephemeral, maybe only
an afternoon, but not less real for that.
They stay in my mind, these beautiful people,
or anyway people beautiful to me, of which
there are so many. You, and you, and you,
whom I had the fortune to meet, or maybe
missed. Love, love, love, it was the
core of my life, from which, of course, comes
the word for the heart. And, oh, have I mentioned
that some of them were men and some were women
and some – now carry my revelation with you –
were trees. Or places. Or music flying above
the names of their makers. Or clouds, or the sun
which was the first, and the best, the most
loyal for certain, who looked so faithfully into
my eyes, every morning. So I imagine
such love of the world – its fervency, its shining, its
innocence and hunger to give of itself – I imagine
this is how it began.
Back to Blog
