Modern Love

[RiverNotch]

Modern Love


Death is only a step
away from love.
What an obtuse course to take,
to do anything for love,
that pale and fickle emotion
tethered to bottomless reference
or that mad stream of thoughts
roaring in miserable montage
through rifts in the stricken mind
or something more objective---
nature's course, a fact of life---
even something sacred.

An ambivalent gaze,
a rare yet irresistible smile,
and adornments of the sort
that breathe as you breathe, 
that curl up as you curl up:
in the night, on the screen, there is glamor
where you are dressed to sleep,
where your eyes are half-shut
and your whispered words run
like tender touches, buttons pressed.
In the night, there is more truth
to our imagined anecdotes
and half-drunk intimations
on thoughtless, pointless things
than to the walls and shelves and desk
the sun illuminates
as it rises,
as it warms the cold air.

Death is only a step
away from the screen,
and a life lived
is still a life,
a love felt
still a love.

[dukealien]

Very fine. The concluding stanza, in particular, is deeply satisfying.

I find myself thinking of your screen as the veil (of ignorance, as in ethics) as well as other possible images.

As to love as sacred... perhaps we ascribe love to God because, on the premise that He has emotions at all, they must be as incomprehensible and inscrutable to us as (human) love is.

[RiverNotch]

Thanks. I think more that love is ascribed to God because, as he is pure will, so is love -- and faith, and hope -- given identities completely other than if they were mere aspects of ourselves, which makes them last much longer than how we'd rather not recognize is true.

As for the screen, well, I look at it rather literally, because....ah, well, I'm supposed to be dead. Sorry for going all Hamlet's dad on your ass. xD

[busker]

Modern Love


Death is only a step
away from love.
What an obtuse course to take,
to do anything for love,
that pale and fickle emotion
tethered to bottomless reference
or that mad stream of thoughts
roaring in miserable montage
through rifts in the stricken mind
or something more objective---
nature's course, a fact of life---
even something sacred.

An ambivalent gaze,
a rare yet irresistible smile,
and adornments of the sort
that breathe as you breathe, 
that curl up as you curl up:
in the night, on the screen, there is glamor
where you are dressed to sleep,
where your eyes are half-shut
and your whispered words run
like tender touches, buttons pressed.
In the night, there is more truth
to our imagined anecdotes
and half-drunk intimations
on thoughtless, pointless things
than to the walls and shelves and desk
the sun illuminates
as it rises,
as it warms the cold air.

Death is only a step
away from the screen,
and a life lived
is still a life,
a love felt
still a love.

Realise this is Misc, but still:
The poem sets up an argument in the first two lines that it doesn’t quite address in the remainder
I liked some of the imagery in the first strophe - the part about a stream roaring through rifts in the mind, but the second strophe was banal in “rare yet irresistible”, “in the night there is more truth”, and indeed, in the repetition of “in the night”, which appears to be trying hard at a profundity which is not there.
I think there’s another, almost canonical poem, that shares your title. I was half expecting it to be a critique of thst one! I read it a long time ago, don’t remember it now.

[RiverNotch]

Ah, feedback is always welcome!

George Meredith is a canonical author, but I haven't really read him -- I should, though! As for David Bowie, I'm not sure if he counts as a canonical author, though this song of his is one that reads exceptionally well.

I agree in reaching for profundity that isn't there, though I wouldn't quite characterize it as trying, at least speaking as the author. At least, with this piece of work, I was considering banality, hence the argument of the first strophe that is really as old as the lyric.