What Is Love?

man is a butterfly
or so he says
in a cobalt cell of death
all words are meaningless
without love
and no flower can bring
us to our senses,
he talks of flesh, of hair,
of toes, of ankles,
of thighs, of breasts,
but I see pain behind
his eyelids
red with alcohol—
don’t give me that
foolish moon,
my face is wrinkled
like paper, worn down
by the lies,
some day they will bury
me,
I read, I worship
the invisible,
he speaks of love
but does he know the word?
I watch the pigeons
in tears, hoping endlessly
for her to come back,
my love, my life
my music—
what symphony, what madness
they have made of words,
words words words
like some infection
paralyzing the mind
of innocence,
scream, poet, scream
loudly above the town,
they have twisted love around,
they have given it
another shell,
bad poets, good poets,
sad poets—
I’ve seen them all
scratching out their
names in stone
but I, I weep in
silence at the truth—
love has been lost,
disfigured by the temptings
of the flesh,
I stretch out my arms
to a hungry child
weeping on my shoulder,
surely we must be
greater, surely we must
know that love is
not a bed of pleasure,
nor a rose, but rising
beyond all forms, all
appearances and lies,
that no poet can ever
touch or sense or smell
or hear or see its
presence,
love is beyond words
beyond the fancies
and the glamour
she is a woman as much
as a man
soaking through the
ink of the endless
pages of writing,
love is a child
before he learns
to speak,
it cries through
the hearts yearning
to feel, to feel
the flame of
the protected secret,
the secret of the
invisible beauty,
not rose, not moon,
not flowers, not the rain,
she kisses the silver water
of Christ, purified
through suffering
and the decay of death
no hunger, no disease
can stop the flow,
love is the innocence
well guarded and never
known
I saw an eagle once
flying in the heights
of her glory
love is beyond our
grasp, no matter how we
try to capture her
with our greedy hands
no prisons, no cages,
no songs, but love
pure love is all
was always all
never have I seen
a man so naked
when he became love—
tear down your clothes,
your walls, your sonnets,
your words, strip away
the ornaments and let
love breathe once again!

I weep, I hope, I touch, I pray, I love...


June 15, 1987
--Alexander Shaumyan