Love by any other poem . . .

I suppose I should be thankful that organizing my poems is a problem. I try to file my poems on my computer by themes. I create aliases of files to place in multiple places as I sort them into possible books and some just in hopes I will later remember which category I decided it best fits. I have family poems, found poems, poems organized by forms, and then the love poems. Or not. This is what the folder is labeled, I told my poetry workshop group, mocking my inability to write a proper love poem (which we will not equate to my inability to find love, of course). Instead, my poems are about lust, about infidelity, about heartbreak, about breaking free. They insisted these ARE love poems.

As I find myself reliving these poems once too often I wonder where we get the idea of love being like this. For a moment, recently, I felt love that was not smothering, hurtful, confusing, deceitful, or purely physical. Perhaps I read too many love poems and forgot what love is, thus am looking for the wrong things. Just as I am determined to write a blues poem, this year, I will learn how to write a love poem and maybe learn how to love better in the process.


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