Friday, July 17, 2015

Friday Love Poems: Patrick McGhee!

I am delighted to relaunch Friday love poems with a friend and former student, Patrick McGhee. Don't forget, you can always submit to me!
 http://theserotoninfactory.blogspot.com/2015/07/call-for-submissions-friday-love-poems.html


Open Letter From Eros to Dr. Helen Fisher
I thanked you.
I thanked you, because I thought you had set me free from
The broken hearts that are still un-mended
The abusive relationships that are never ended
The unrequited lovers that have always pretended to be nothing more than friends.

I was so tired, so I gave you the power and said,
“Show them love exists.”
But you resist, hiding behind computer screens
Trying to glean which chemical shoots up which neuron.
Doctor, you have misdiagnosed every single patient as an addict
To the endorphins you say are morphing their brains
To copulate to populate the world.
And I ask you.  How did this happen?

They used to love.
They used to be addicted to nothing but the beating of their lover’s heart
Pumping love from one chest to rest of the other’s body,
Because they were human beings, and I was around long enough to know
That that’s what they were designed to do.
Poets would fall in love ten thousand times before noon
Lovers remarked that the sun’s light at night made love to the moon.
And I ask you.  How did this happen?

Making them addicted to your anthropological theories
Infatuated with your biological technology
In love with the drive to your office.
All this for what?
But the madness of the gods is not something
You can shove in a drawer and move onto more
Important tasks

So I ask you.  How did this happen?
How can you sing the praises of science
When it is your self-reliance that has taken the mystery of love out of our history books;
Muffled the flutter of hearts who see without eyes their lover’s face
Or taste without lips the salt the slips into the dimples of their hips.
But you don’t see any of this.  Do you, doctor?

Love is not enough, though, is it?
You want to prove that I don’t exist as well,
Well, before you finish the job
I use my dying power to curse you:

You will never experience love again. 
                                                                Find a substitute. 
                                                                                        I dare you.
You can read all the Inuit poetry you wish,
But you will still miss that surge passion while you witness
Every single person finding love
While your conclusions will only find that human beings are complicated—
More complicated for you to measure with the physical volume of their hearts

And until you accept this treasure as truth to ideal
You will never begin to understand love


Or calculate what lovers can feel.

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