Love Poem; Note on Depression

I have found that more traditional love poems are frowned upon by most editors, that anti-love poems are preferred nowadays. When I say "traditional," I do not mean maudlin or derivative, rather something from the heart that respects line breaks and rhythm. I think rhythm very important in a love poem, for obvious reasons, and I don't mean that as a Freudian aside.

It seems that when I'm not depressed, I blog about literature or post poetry, and when depressed, I write about myself. Likely whatever readership I have alternates between those who come here to read about mood disorders and those who come for poetry. When I am not depressed, my concerns involve others and the world. When depressed, I am absolutely cut off from the world and exiled to the bell jar of which Sylvia Plath wrote so eloquently, when this blog becomes a method for survival.

In general, however, depression is an aberrant state for me, so the necessity for posting about it, I hope, will not return for many years after this last tortuous year, except in brief dips. But with this unpredictable disease, one never knows. I'm still feeling fragile. Kathleen is my steadying force.

Should I turn manic, however, I usually end up in jail, so I would have to blog about that after the fact. ;-)

I disobey my own rule in posting this love poem the same day I wrote it. I asked Kathleen if I should, and she said, "Go ahead. Make the other women jealous." In as it's addressed to her, she is the last one to be relied upon as a critic. But not to follow her advice is a risk I'm unwilling to take at this point in my recovery.

Have a wonderful day,

CE.



Aubade II

We wake to the alarm, I turn
and palm your breasts, softer than tulip petals,
and feel your nipples straighten in response
before your breathing heaves you back to sleep
like cargo meant for heaven. I stay awake, gently
compress your breasts each time you must inhale.

Your moon fits in the hollow of my groin,
your thighs repeat my thighs, my knees
fit in the hollows of your knees.
I would envelop you like a shell around a seed
and let my body break to further yours:
Scatter me beneath the walnut tree.

I watch the sunlight shafting through the firs,
I hear our old dog rearrange himself
on his brown blanket and green pillow.
He will not rise until you rise,
I will not leave your body until you wake.
We are both prisoners of our adoration;
we cannot move until you speak.




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