Someone posted this poem as a comment to a poem I had written on my own blog a few years ago. It was posted as an anonymous comment, so I have always wondered who had shared this with me. I found it very amusing, to say the least.
We've made a great mess of love
Since we made an ideal of it.
The moment I swear to love a woman, a certain woman, all my life
That moment I begin to hate her.
The moment I even say to a woman: I love you! ---
My love dies down considerably.
The moment love is an understood thing between us, we are sure of it,
It's a cold egg, it isn't love any more.
Love is like a flower, it must flower and fade;
If it doesn't fade, it is not a flower,
It's either an artificial rag blossom, or an immortelle, for the cemetery.
The moment the mind interferes with love, or the will fixes on it,
Or the personality assumes it as an attribute, or the ego takes possession of it,
It is not love any more, it's just a mess.
And we've made a great mess of love, mind-perverted, will-perverted, ego-perverted love.
5 comments:
This is one of my all time favourites.
YOU'RE a cold egg.
lol
YOU'RE an artificial rag blossom.
I love this one too. He must have been real mad at some lady when he wrote this.
Cynicism is so refreshing sometimes.
wv: bednest
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