Traditionally speaking,

14.02.2010 um 10:56

Although I don't much hold this day (Feb 14) in high esteem - I mean let's face it, how can anyone really get off on such a commercialized luvy-duvy-fest? But I do have a little tradition. And by that I mean something I've been doing every V-day, because regardless of whether I personally think Valentine's day is not much more than Capitalism, personified by [fill in the blank], raping little boy Cupid for his lunch-money, what V-day stands for is truly important: love.

Love, the socially legitimate extension of the biological imperative: lust (which explains why we always struggle to distinguish the two.

Love, a bad teacher (because, strict, unforgiving and relentless) but a better school of life than life (and TV) itself.

Love, the Muse of all literature, culture, civilisation etc.

Yes, love, in all shapes and sizes, is also my Muse when (if at all) I write. Of course I don't mean stories or novels, because those have to be carefully planned, researched and actually require a lot of hard work. I'm talking about poetry. The overflow of spontaneous feelings. Well, not quite Wordsworth. After all, if you're dripping with luvy-duvy-juice, how exactly are you supposed to write good poetry? No, love is the spark of a fire inside that you feel (and/or are fooled into thinking) can never go out. Love is the motor, the perpetuum mobile of inspiration.

That was a lengthy invocation of the Muse, I know. So without further ado, I give you:

Sonnet V: Puppets of providence were we tonight.

A nightingale calls us on this morning
Of mournings, sitting on the hemlock tree
As its song falls upon the twilight dawning,
Poised on the truth with grace and harmony.
A night in gale throws us into its storm
Out from under our passionate throes;
Its eye ever vigilant, golden, calm,
Keeps squandering squints at our bedroom squalls.
Puppets of providence were we tonight,
This bed was our temple, our only church,
Sunset sonneteers to a songstress' plight,
In these sheets infirm'red we healed our hurts:
Thus we lie, to create and to destroy:
Lies do not add up, and one truth ends all.