I am not afraid of love. I recently found it is the answer to my existential problems and fears. You might say this is a long-known fact. Yes, I have grown up with nothing but love but seeing as I have just started to face death as a palpable realisation, I have also just started to face love as the real and palpable solution. These past few months I have had the interesting and scary experience of being woken up at night by the fear of nothingness. And I have tried to lull myself back to sleep with promises of success, accomplishment, riches and fame but nothing seemed to work better than the promise of love. We all fear it so much and some of us always have this image of growing old alone and lonely but we all know that the most important thing in our lives is this, even though it is washed out of our brains and our reality daily by all of society’s “more pressing" matters.
I can’t remember where I read this (probably in Odysseus Elytis’s poetry) but somewhere it was written that being in love and making love was the absolute triumph over death. I do not wish to sound commonplace with this post but I thought this was an amazing thought.
I lock these arms around the broadness of this back. It is a deathly embrace.
Only moments before, life was spilling out of me.
I held your hand and we were trekking up a velvet hill.
When I make love I am Oum Kalthoum.
I am the wood pigeon that sits on the tallest branch despite the snow.
My fires cannot be contained.
I fill the silence with soul.
I am the giant squid that delivers bites in a flashing red of suckers and marble beak
*Swssshhh! Slassshh! *
I am the flowery coral that turns carnivorous at night.
Feathery petals into tentacles,
I reach out in the darkness to entangle and swallow.
I harvest light and weave my dreams in mercury threads.
I hang my pearls,
and run jasmine through strings and wear it round my neck.
My jasmine-chains they play the saz.
The stars they come down from behind the clouds and scrape you.
I kiss you on the wrists.
I knead your veils before shredding them apart.
I pray to Astarte.
I speak to you in my tongue which has long forgotten its lovers and been forgotten by them.
I turn my lips into pilgrims and my eyes into mourners.
I smoulder endlessly
before bursting into flame.