…of this creature called love

My heart is pounding as I sit before this empty page
for this is a moment of intense emotions
(and random thoughts) I am struggling to name them
(anonymity is temporary for in time all things will be named)
to get them into an orderly line
so that I can separate them from each other
you see, my heart, my poor heart (long beleaguered)
has mastered the dark arts of obfuscation, ambiguity and evasion
I am mistress of the things that hide in the shadows of the day
(this is the dark side, the restless tides of my soul)
we don’t like these wicked emotions (my heart and I)
we don’t have a working knowledge (or the life experience)
to shuffle the deck and name the cards 
as they are laid out before us
we have dipped our toes into the rivers, and the oceans of love
we have drifted, been drenched, abandoned and rescued
(only to be left drowning again) in the shallow waters of loss
and the silence of the flames, we have ridden the waves
tasted the honeyed promises, had brief moments of joy
but my heart and I are still searching
(for something that may not be real?)
yet still we strive to find our own path
unwilling to blindly follow the well-trodden roads
(to our own destruction)
searching for the love, for the light that is right
Langston Hughes once wrote
(‘She, in the dark,found light brighter than many ever see.
she, within herself, found loveliness
through the soul’s own mastery
and now the world receives from her dower:
the message of the strength of inner power.’)
so what is this thing called love? 
is it really a thing that we all aspire to have and to hold?
how do we navigate its many shades, its unseen depths
its many faces, its many masks, its many songs
its whispered lies, its many lows, its self-inflicted tragedies
its fragile nature (and transient journey through the heart?)
do we love because we are loved…
or are we loved because we are love? 
(circular reasoning I know…)
if we are love…how can we then be loved?
if we are not loved…how can we then in turn love?
(this is the emotional version of the chicken and the egg)
do eggs beget the chickens…or the chickens beget the eggs?
do oceans carry the waves…or do waves carry the ocean?
do trees lose their leaves…or do leaves leave the trees?
does dawn awaken the day…or does day summon the dawn?
does night paint the darkness…or darkness paint the night?
Winnie the Pooh has wise words for anyone contemplating love 
(‘Some people care too much I think it’s called love’)
we humans are skilled in self-deception
in deflection and misdirection
we can repaint the night in many layers of darkness 
(and still claim to see the stars shining bright…)
we can empty the oceans, leaving nothing but sand 
(and still claim to hear the waves kissing the land…)
we can fall into love, vowing never to stray 
(and still claim our indiscretions are a small price to pay)
(for surely if you love me you would want me to stay?)
Ernest Hemmingway once wrote:
‘The most painful thing is losing yourself
in the process of loving someone too much 
and forgetting that you are special too.’
so this is my conundrum, perhaps a dark defiance
but think about it…
we ‘fall’ in love…and this is the ultimate commitment
and let’s presume that the one we love ‘falls’ in love with us too
(so now both of us have ‘fallen’)
now ‘falling’ is defined as…
declining
deteriorating
coming down
from a higher level
disintegrating
dropping
in the autumn the leaves ‘fall’ to their ultimate demise
leaving their trees empty and weeping
(even angels ‘fall’ from grace)
we ‘fall’ upon our swords when we have failed
(and again metaphorically) we ‘fall’ upon our face 
when we fail utterly and completely
we ‘fall’ for tricksters and conmen 
and ‘fall’ behind in our bills 
and then we ‘fall’ upon hard times
so where? where? in all of this ‘falling’
does ‘falling’ in love seem like a thing 
(we should all want to do?)
love… this thing we aspire to, that we long for, search for
the ultimate peak of emotional experience…
(but no-one tells us about the pain…)
William Shakespeare once wrote:
‘Expectation is the root of all heartache’
this much adored, much maligned, much misunderstood
amorphous thing, that if we ever get to hold it in our hands
(…we must know that it is never really ours?)
this thing, the loss of which (so unexpected?)
will bring us to our knees, will leave us empty and broken 
and sworn to never love again
yet the dark injuries of love, however dire
are not a cure for this affliction
for this affection, this predilection
(nor a cure for our self-destruction)
In 1742 (I am old but not this old…) 
tennis players started being rewarded with ‘love’
for not scoring any points, for failing to score
they were rewarded with metaphorical love…
playing for nothing (but the love of the game)
yes, that’s correct… we do not score, we call it love
we failed, we call it love, we lost, we call it love
we gained nothing (but the experience and the pain)
and we still…call it love
there is a strange lesson here
the winner takes the game
(the loser has love next to their name)
the strange paradox of this creature called love…
the irony, the agony, the incomprehensible dichotomy
(the devil sits in the shadows
breaking hearts, spilling dreams
like blood upon stones)
sometimes a portal to desolation
sometimes a beautiful longing
or a soft remembrance passed from flower to flower
(even shadows have moments of blossoming)
© Ann Bagnall