Monthly Archives: August 2011

What is Love – Part 2

Hungry for your love
Hungry for your love

Getting to this point logically is harder than it sounds. The love-as- cultural-delusion argument has long seemed unassailable. What actually accounts for the emotion, according to this scenario, is that people long ago made the mistake of taking fanciful literary tropes seriously. Ovid’s Ars Amatoria is often cited as a major source of misreadings, its instructions followed, its ironies ignored. Other prime suspects include the 12th century troubadours in Provence who more or less invented the Art of Courtly Love, an elaborate, etiolated ritual for idle noblewomen and aspiring swains that would have been broken to bits by any hint of physical consummation.
Ever since then, the injunction to love and to be loved has hummed nonstop through popular culture; it is a dominant theme in music, films, novels, magazines and nearly everything shown on TV. Love is a formidable and thoroughly proved commercial engine; people will buy and do almost anything that promises them a chance at the bliss of romance.

what is love
what is love?

But does all this mean that love is merely a phony emotion that we picked up because our culture celebrates it? Psychologist Lawrence Casler, author of Is Marriage Necessary?, forcefully thinks so, at least at first: “I don’t believe love is part of human nature, not for a minute. There are social pressures at work.” Then falls a shadow over this certainty. “Even if it is a part of human nature, like crime or violence, it’s not necessarily desirable.”

I love you - I need you - I want you
I love you –  I need you – I want you

Well, love either is or is not intrinsic to our species; having it both ways leads nowhere. And the contention that romance is an entirely acquired trait — overly imaginative troubadours’ revenge on muddled literalists — has always rested on some teetery premises.

For one thing, there is the chicken/egg dilemma. Which came first, sex or love? If the reproductive imperative was as dominant as Darwinians maintain, sex probably led the way. But why was love hatched in the process, since it was presumably unnecessary to get things started in the first place? Furthermore, what has sustained romance — that odd collection of tics and impulses — over the centuries? Most mass hallucinations, such as the 17th century tulip mania in Holland, flame out fairly rapidly when people realize the absurdity of what they have been doing and, as the common saying goes, come to their senses. When people in love come to their senses, they tend to orbit with added energy around each other and look more helplessly loopy and self-besotted. If romance were purely a figment, unsupported by any rational or sensible evidence, then surely most folks would be immune to it by now. Look around. It hasn’t happened. Love is still in the air.

And it may be far more widespread than even romantics imagined. Those who argue that love is a cultural fantasy have tended to do so from a Eurocentric and class-driven point of view. Romance, they say, arose thanks to amenities peculiar to the West: leisure time, a modicum of creature comforts, a certain level of refinement in the arts and letters. When these trappings are absent, so is romance. Peasants mated; aristocrats fell in love.


An Irish Love story

Love story
Love story

Let’s call him Ian. That’s not his real name—but in Northern Ireland these days you have to be careful about revealing names. There have been more than twenty-four hundred sectarian murders since the recent flare-up of ancient troubles between Catholics and Protestants. So there’s no sense taking risks.

And Ian has had misery enough for his twenty-four years of life.

He came from good Protestant stock, the sort that goes to church twice every Sunday as regular as clockwork. His father, a welder in the Belfast shipyards, steady as they come. Mother kept a clean and tidy house, baked the best bread in the neighborhood and ruled the family with the sharp edge of her tongue. Two elder brothers, both unemployed laborers.

Ian did well at school and was now earning good money as a craftsman in a production plant. Quiet, serious, fond of walking through the countryside during the green evenings and golden weekends of summer, he liked few things better than a book by the roaring fire during the long loneliness of winter. Never had much to do with girlfriends—though men tend to marry late in Ireland.

Two years ago, on his twenty-second birthday, he was walking home from work when a
terrorist hurled a bomb from a speeding car … and left Ian babbling in the nightmare of sudden blindness.

Love story

He was rushed to a hospital, operated on immediately for internal injuries and broken bones. But both eyes were destroyed.

The other wounds healed in their own time, though their scars would disfigure his flesh the rest of his days. But the scars on his mind, though invisible, were even more obvious.

He hardly spoke a word, hardly ate or drank, hardly slept. He simply lay in bed, brooding and sightless. Nearly four months.

There was one nurse who seemed to be able to draw some small spark of human response from him. Let’s call her Bridget—a fine Irish name. Good Catholic stock, the sort that goes to Mass first thing every Sunday morning.

Her father, a carpenter, mostly worked away from home over in England. A decent
man—loved his family, spent weekends with them whenever he could afford the fare.
And they loved him as only an absent father can be loved.

Mother kept a clean but untidy house, cooked the best stew in the neighborhood and ruled the family with a quick hand and a soft heart.

Six brothers, four sisters—with the youngest of them all, Mary, eleven, her father’s darling.

Bridget did well at school, had trained as a nurse at a famous London hospital, and now, at the age of twenty-one, was a staff nurse in Belfast’s biggest hospital.

Lively, though fundamentally serious, a singer with a sweet and gentle voice and a way of her own with folk songs. Never had much to do with boyfriends—though it wasn’t from any lack of young men who’d set their caps at her.

But now her heart was moved by Ian, for there was something of the little-boy-lost about him that brought tears to her eyes. True, he couldn’t see the tears, yet she was afraid that her voice would betray her emotions.

But in a way she was right about her voice, because it was the lilt and the laughter of it that dragged him back from the depths of depression and self-pity, the warmth and gentleness and strength of her words, the blessed assurance with which she spoke to him of the love of Jesus Christ.

And so, as the long dark of his days turned to weeks and months, he would listen for her footsteps and turn his sightless face toward her coming like a flower bending for the sun.

At the end of his four months in the hospital he was pronounced incurably blind, but what he now knew as their love gave him the courage to accept his affliction. Because, despite everything against them—religion, politics, the opposition of their families—they were in love and wandering in that young and singing landscape.

He was discharged and began the weary months of rehabilitation: how to wash and shave and dress without help, how to move around the house without cracking his shins on every chair, how to walk through the streets with a white stick, how to read Braille, how to survive the crushing pity he could sense in the very air he breathed. Their love gave him the hope to go on living and trying.

Not that they were able to spend much of their lives together: an occasional evening, perhaps an afternoon when her duties allowed. But they lived for those brief encounters and knew the beginnings of deep peace and joys.

Their families were appalled. Thinking of getting married? The very law of God forbade it, surely.

“What fellowship hath the children of light with the children of darkness?” thundered his father. “You’ll not be marrying her whilst I’m drawing breath!”

“The Roman Catholic Church,” stated her priest, “discourages mixed marriages, so you can be putting the idea from you!”

So, by all manner of pressures—constant arguments, threats, promises and even
downright lies—they were driven apart. And, eventually, they quarreled, said hurtful things in their black misery, and one evening, with the rain drizzling and their hearts cold, she walked away from him on the weeping street.

He withdrew into his perpetual night. Days and weeks of bitterness. “You’ll not be
regretting it in the long run,” he was told. “You’d have been inviting trouble by yoking with an unbeliever!”

Hungry for your love
An Irish Love Story

She withdrew into her work, too sick at heart to remember. Weeks and months of
numbed agony. “You’ll live to praise the Almighty,” she was told. “You’d have been
asking for hell on earth marrying a Protestant!”

The months drained into a year. And the bombings continued, to the grief of Ireland.

Then one evening, as Ian sat alone in the house, there came a frantic hammering at the door. “Ian, come you quick!”

By the voice, hysterical, choked, with tears, he recognized young Mary, Bridget’s sister. “A bombing! She’s trapped and half-dead, so she is! Screaming after you. Come you, Ian! In the name of God, please come!”

Without even shutting the door behind him, he took her hand. And she led and stumbled and cried with him through the merciless streets. The bomb had devastated a little restaurant where Bridget had been eating supper with three other nurses. The others had managed to scramble out from under the shifting rubble. But she was trapped by the legs. And the fire was spreading, licking towards her.

They could hear her screaming, but couldn’t yet reach the pit where she lay.
Firemen, soldiers, lights and special equipment were on the way.

Ian moved into the chaos. “You can’t go in there!” shouted the official in charge.

“She’s my girl,” said Ian.

“Don’t be a raving lunatic!” shouted the officer. “You’ll not be seeing your hand in front of your face in the darkness!”

“What difference does darkness make to a blind man?” asked Ian.

And he turned toward the sound of her voice, and moved through that black inferno with all the skills and instincts of the blind, all the urgency of love. “I’m coming, Bridget! I’m coming!”

And he found her and cradled her head in his yearning arms, and kissed her.

“Ian,” she whispered, “Ian …” and lapsed into unconsciousness like a tired child.

And with her blood soaking into his clothes, the fire reaching them, he held her until their rescuers chopped a way through. What he didn’t see, being blind, was that the side of her lovely face had been seared by fire.

In time, a long time, she recovered. Despite cosmetic surgery, though, her face would always be scarred. “But,” she said, “the only man I love will never have the seeing of it, so what difference does it make to me?” And they took up their love from where they had never really left it.

True, both families fought it every step of the way. One dramatic confrontation almost led to a fistfight: shouted abuse, insults, desperate threats. But, in the middle of it, Bridget took Ian’s hand. And together they walked out of that place of hatred. Yes, they would marry. All the conventional wisdom warns of failure. But do you know a more excellent way than love? And what other healing is there?

– George Target

I love Me – Lovely Poem

Love poem: I love me
Love poem: I love me

Lonelier love inspired poems because they are medical pills for their worries and aloneness. I used to be a lonelier and I understand how it felt like. Therefore, I really love a special love poem from Kenn Nesbitt. I do believe that it is not just a love poem; it is a poem for her, a poem for him, a poem for lonelier or just simple a poem for a person who loves her/himself. I want to introduce to you the love poem namely I love Me, hope you enjoy!

do you love me

I love Me
I took myself out on a date
and said I’m looking grand,
and when I got my courage up
I asked to hold my hand.

I took me to a restaurant
and then a movie show.
I put my arm around me
in the most secluded row.

I whispered sweetly in my ear
of happiness and bliss,
and then I almost slapped me
when I tried to steal a kiss.

Then afterwards I walked me home
and since I’m so polite
I thanked me for a perfect date
and wished myself goodnight.

There’s just one little problem
and it kind of hurts my pride.
Myself would not invite me in
so now I’m locked outside!


Posted by on August 5, 2011 in Love Poems