With the addition of the poem “Undiscussed” a few weeks ago, the series is complete. I haven’t written any more since then. They are weird little beasts, love poems. Thorny creatures. They’re a way of saying what we’ve all felt a thousand times over, again and again and again. Sometimes even in a new way. That seems to be the role of many arts. We can’t say these things often enough. We say them again. Novelty isn’t truly new: it’s the same thing yet again, with one surprising change.
Each of these poems I wrote with a specific person in mind over the course of my life. Some know them, and have read them. Some have been repurposed and performed. Some were written with clarity and detachment, and some came out white hot. I hate most of them. I hate them because they make me feel vulnerable. I hate them because there are lines in them which really aren’t good. I hate them because I feel an obligation as a poet not to write love poems.
I don’t write love poems. I hate love poems, trite and tried. My love poems are a reaction to love poems. Maybe. Maybe they’re just love poems. And maybe I don’t really hate them.