Love and the Poet

Love, as in falling-in-love,
no longer exists for me.
Not fondness, not affection.
Not any of it.

I simply don’t believe in it.

And I see no value in considering it deeply.
I find no meaning in it
of any kind, no usefulness or purpose.

Not curiosity,
Not nostalgia.

No interest in it
as a plot element,
or a conflict,
or a trope,
or a character arc,
or the subject of a poem.

Have I loved?
Yes, and now I renounce it.
For good.

No-love makes it hard to be a writer or a poet. What is left to write about?

Sex?

Death?

Injustice?

I suppose there are still some themes.

You’d never know it by skimming the shelves of bookstores. It’s all love, love, and more love.

It even makes it hard to be a reader.

No Jane Austin.
Shakespeare. Meh.

I’m trying not to be pessimistic.

It’s not as if I can do anything about it—about the fact that no-love
makes half (or more) of all literature incomprehensible and foreign. False.

I guess my job now is to find out what I still do believe in.

Find those poets who understand me, who understand that falling-in-love is just a chemical trip.

There are other kinds of love.
I will write about them.

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