Deft and profound nuances explored through heated passionate words, coupled with the human form. The eloquent beauty of body language motivated by desire. I call upon Eros’ power: Transform what is not to what is.
Eros is a concept in ancient Greek philosophy referring to sensual or passionate love, from which the term erotic is derived. Eros has also been used in philosophy and psychology in a much wider sense, almost as an equivalent to “life energy”. In Greek mythology, Eros is the Greek god of love and sex. His Roman counterpart was Cupid.
Valentines sent, not sent, received, not received. No longer Lupercalia, warding off evil spirits. The Valentine who signed one love letter “from your Valentine” or Saint of Terni, secretly marrying couples sparing husbands from war?
All forgotten in the cards, flowers, chocolates and dinner dates. Dinner over, chocolates eaten, flowers fading, cards read and already recycled. Just another Thursday, and hopefully their love needs no holiday to still be real.
The haiku I would write for you were illustrated with my sketches, watercolors or Japanese prints I found in magazines or postcards from that used bookstore that we would browse, buy poetry, and read aloud.
I thought of you as my muse. Eastern and yet so Western. Younger but also older than me in some ways. The poem you left on the bed with an erotic print which I misinterpreted.
Your side of the bed was still warm, then cold all morning, afternoon, night, like the Moon
Looking at the old photo of you taking a photo of me hasn’t faded though we separated five hundred Moons ago. Thinking of you with each daylily bloom. Flowering, falling, returning anew and yet old.
In time, even statues fall in love. Standing and gazing long beside each other, you share air, sounds, space and time. You soften. Fingers merge with hair and, gallery closed, hard edges become soft flesh.
Our first date was forty-four years ago.
At a park after dinner, you said
“The geese are all laughing at us.”
We were young. Unsure. Cautious. We laughed.
Our soft conspiracy continues into tonight’s starlight.
I read that Zelda Sayre went on her first date with F. Scott Fitzgerald on her birthday, July 24, 1918, and years later, in a letter to Scott, she wrote: “The night you gave me my birthday party … you were a young Lieutenant and I was a fragrant phantom, wasn’t I? And it was a radiant night, a night of soft conspiracy and the trees agreed that it was all going to be for the best.”