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Richmond Poet Laureate Joanna Lee shares some words ahead of Valentine's Day:
Happy almost-Valentine’s Day! There’s so much heaviness in the world just now, all around us—on the news, in our city, and, for many, in our hearts. Here is a poem that’s a little lighter (maybe even a bit silly) to remind us all that love comes in many forms, and is still a powerful force in this world!
xoxo,
Joanna
How to write a love poem
First, study tango and some sort of Eastern
martial art, like jiu jitsu.
Climb an impressive mountain, maybe Fuji or Everest.
Commit the view at the summit to memory.
Pay attention to foreign languages, how
the syllables bleed one into another.
Pick up at least three and practice conversing
casually at swanky dinner parties.
Study calligraphy, and yoga.
Learn how to box.
Spend free hours at the local animal shelter,
just watching the doors swing open and close.
Take your first attempts at a love poem and fold them
into a thousand origami swans
to swim in your love’s kitchen sink.
While the ink bleeds out, leave the words to speak
for themselves and take up
metaphysics. The beauty of the equations will, eventually,
become too much like Dante’s Paradise;
when that happens, start again
with a physical attribute and work
your way inward, letting muscle fibers give way
to the bones that cage us,
to the heart that keeps the only rhythm
worth knowing by heart.
Remember: no roses. Nothing red.
Your second attempt at a love poem
should include specific constellations
and some oblique reference to the infiniteness
of the ocean. It might smell
like rust. That’s the blood in it.
A real love poem is never sterile,
and usually a mess on Sunday mornings.
It should be barefoot.
It likely will sing badly and want
more from you than you’re comfortable
giving. Give it. Tattoo it
on your palms and place them
on your love’s cheekbones, then hips.
While the ink dries, kiss them.
Again, and in every language.
Like a battle. Like a god.
Like a puppy who’s
just found home.
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