why do women write love poems – a prompt from Shameka from Rain Wilson

women write poems infused with love, and occasionally, they write about love.  hafiz says that the subject tonight is love.  a.r. rahman put me in a melancholy mood tonight at the hollywood bowl.  in one weekend, i managed to have a run-in with all 3 of the women i have loved this past year.  at one point, i glanced overhead at the skies busy with ambient light and searchlights, to see the big dipper.  i felt truly alone in the crowd, the music pulling each string of my confusion, everyone else facing front and center, watching a screen of intergalactic, sweeping, historic, tragic epical movies.  i was half glad that we didn’t have to dance, it would have ruined my mood not to feel stubborn, clinging to my principles of past-watching, nostalgia.  re-memorizing my past.

i watched the stars, still and solemn, while rahman’s fusion fugues touched the major chords of marches, battle, and climax, and then touched down upon the minor chords of flute, and lute, of loss and heartache.  women clutch their bosoms when men write love poems because it is such an exceptional happening — a man willing to be vulnerable and write about love.  women cry rose petal tears that litter the floor with broken hearts when men sing about love, because it is such a sensitive thing — a man willing to cry out his existence, a bard with a mandolin, a sultry rock star crawling upon the stage in leather pants.  women become despondent and lonely when men have to leave to find out who they really are — a man willing to leave a woman is doing so for honor and to seek his true purpose.   a man’s journey is destiny.  a woman’s journey is her rebellious choice.

i suppose between all these oft-repeated sentiments, recombined in various verses, sentences, structures, and forms — is my sentimentality.  that i am a woman who is challenged to cry, who sings consistently into the dark karaoke backroom, who wonders if she has the courage or the recklessness to leave her lovers, family, and even two spirits behind.  i am a woman who does these crazy, wild, and spontaneous acts of independence-making without becoming a hero, just eking out a life as a woman who writes without believing my writing can ever be good enough.  i am a woman who writes.  and every poem i’ve dropped, or plot i’ve spun is always, achingly, and uncertainly — a love poem? —  such that even the consistent accusation in my heart when i sit down to write a really good love poem is due to the fact that i am a romantic.  i am such a romantic that i simply cannot imagine anything so banal as a really good love poem.  i am a woman who writes.  in-between jobs, i write endlessly about money and suffering, about children and fortune, about destiny and religion, about other women.  If you listen carefully to everything i have explained about women and writing, then you would know:  i am writing.  For love i have written, for believe this — someday i will become a better woman.  i will write myself into love and love myself every time i write.

i am nothing if not a woman who writes.

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