Love

(in response to Roosevelt Hospital Blues, a poem by Rachel Hadas)

L is for liar

O is for over

V is for Venomous

E is for erroneous and ego

L is for lively

O is for organic

V is for vivacious

E is for electric and eccentric

Living

Original

Virtual

Existence

Left

Orifice

Vowed

Eternal

Lint Oppressed Vital Expatriate

Love by any other name, would it still smell sweet like the rose?

Which love, who's love, how to love, the cost of love, the price of love, unconditional love.

I wept when I was introduced to the concept of unconditional love, to me that is the only love, a love that doesn't end, that isn't bought or sold or bargained for, but what a rare love.

Love is what poets and song writers proclaim to be the fount of life, the irresistible force that ensures the continuation of our species. If, however, we accept that we are merely mammals obeying the rules of nature, then; "what has love got to do with it ?" But, of course, we are higher beings, with mixed emotions, of which love is more than important, it is vital to our sense of wellbeing.

Love is sometimes confused with lust, another strong but transient feeling, whereas love is enduring. It's deeper and usually directed at one specific other. When reciprocated love is joyous and gives rise to relationships, partnerships, companionships and to mutual support.

When love is bestowed but not returned, spurned, unwelcome sensations are unleashed as unrequited love.

Love is a loosely used word...

I love the sun on my skin. A cup of coffee with you on the veranda, when the sun is out but not quite there, and the birds are sleepy, and we share thoughts in whispers.

I love a walk. I don't care where I take my steps, or what the weather is doing while I do it. I love the rain, the sea, the country, grass and rocks, mud and leaves. I love all of it. I love the thoughts walking brings and the clarity of my inner observations.

I've loved the school runs and the chatter of our kids, trapped in that confined space on wheels, where words can be secret and laughter can be cherished.

I love cooking. I love thinking up ingredients, imagine them like colours... Red and white make pink; blue and red make purple; a dash of yellow for orange. I imagine their flavour combining in big pots. I look after our family with portions of vegetables, grains, fruit and spoonfuls of olive oil.

I love a good book. And even the bad ones. I line them up on multiplying bookshelves. Every book a story, each one a moment in my life. I cherish their words, the imagery they capture and the lessons they bring.

And I love you, my love...

I love that you love me and that you make me feel lovable. While relationships and families crumble and disintegrate around us, we stand facing each other, arms around our shoulders. Mine on yours, yours on mine. I look into you and I am safe and loved, purposeful and thankful.

I love you, my love.

Love. Loveless. Love. Small hand slipped into yours. Waking up. Next to you. Anger welling up in me. Rising, subsiding. Who are you? Friend, lover, mother, tormentor? Mirror for my anxieties, my hatreds and loathing. I start with love and quickly find hate. Sour curdling of soft cuddles. If I love you, I hate you. Hate the love I feel, the fear of losing that love. No more than a short time of enjoyment before the metal ring of hate constricts around my mind, my heart, biting into the flesh of me. Trickles, rivers, of blood flowing, gushing, diluted by the rain, streaming into the gutter, streaks of raw red on pale concrete, knobular. Tension. Ease. Muscular contractions. If I hold on tight enough in theory I will relax deeper when I let go. But if there is no letting go, just tighter and tighter the metal noose squeezes the life out of me. Love. Where can I find love? What happened to the love I once felt? Crushed. Stoned. To death? Or just lying unconscious under the rubble. Waiting for me to come lift the weighty tombs, to take a look. Lighter now. Love of life. Skipping along the pavement. The hop and skip of joy, the billow of light hem in the breeze. Leaves fluttering down to rest. Pavement a quilt of colours, tiptoeing through the frenzy. Cherry blossoms lining my strength (street?). Soft petals. A kiss, a caress, floating onto my hair, my shoulders, my arm. Discarded kisses, crushed under foot. Intact blossoms resting gently, unsettling the concrete. A tale of two ends. Life near the sheltered edge offering protection. Love that lasts and love that fleets. Endurance. Ephemeracy. Love and loss and love. How does it end? Does it matter? Just a cherry blossom floating on the breeze, a stream of pink-white delicacy festooning the gutter-pathway.