ON LOVING LUIV ANN TO LOVE'S LONELY END, Part II

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Glenn Logan
Member

since 2001-10-10

Posts 111
Virginia

0 posted 2001-12-06 04:51 PM

He dreams (he thinks). He thinks,
                 therefore he dreams.
                 And what does he find in his dream?
                 Lovely Luv Ann Whatsername.
                 He has forgotten her name.
                 "Oh let me call you Sweet Heart,
                 because I've forgotten your name . . . !"

                 He has never known her name.
                 He has had time only for the essentials.
                 It was love at first sight.  Or second. Perhaps third.
                 Well, maybe he didn't
                 notice her the first few dozen times, but anyway it
                 was love:
                 "Hey, hey, ho, and a jolly,
                 jolly girl!"  But difficult to remember:
                 a delicate thing,
                 hardly enough substance in mind
                 to bring it all back: scarcely a
                 pallet full of pinks, bluish whites,
                 dark hair, and feelings of
                 a gentle promise of love, but expressed only fleetingly,
                 and then only once or twice . . .

                 The first conversation
                 on a snowy walk to school, her boots
                 keeping pace with my own, her arms wrapped
                 generously around her books: I too shy
                 to ask to carry them, meaning, of course,
                 "May I carry you?"
                 "May I marry you?"
                 "May I live and die for you?"
                 But we exchange moving glances,
                 and I see her face smiling up at me. It
                 is flushed, cherry-blossom pink, wrapped
                 in dark hair and pale blue winter hood.
                 She is my dream,
                 and I am hers. Everything is fine,
                 for we dream not alone, but together.

                 In the spring, the blossoms came and fell.
                 We saw each other again and again, and she
                 slipped me a note: "I love love you!"
                 and I replied much the same.

                 But the collective madness to which
                 we are all prey called me away,
                 and I collected a military boy's bitter pay,
                 far, far away.  And I never returned;
                 no, not once.

                 I didn't even know her name,
                 the last name that she used. It had been unimportant.
                 We never had occasion to commit inessentials.

                 Then what did I learn?
                 That you need her name to find her.
                 If you love her, you need to find her.
                 That is all that is important,
                 ever was, or ever will be. Amen.

                 But that was long ago, in another country,
                 and besides, the lass is lost.
                 We must go on. We did go on.
                 We do go on.

                 Besides him, his girl, Hency, killer-to-be
                 (but who it knew, then?),
                 still blonde, not bald as in all the news photos
                 taken later, at the trial,
                 and she was then, when he knew her, not so
                 bad-looking, attractive even,
                 squatting next to him on the broad seat
                 of an old American car.
                 She holds his ear, among other things,
                 but he manages to drive that way through night
                 and on into day.

                 We dream, therefore we think. We think,
                 therefore we dream.
                 Red is the color of our lust.
                 Who will be the killer, and who will be killed?

                 We know now what happened with bald-headed Hency.
                 But is that really the question,
                 for do we not all die?  Of course.

                 Man is doomed. But the word is not out, to all.
                 Some know. Some seem almost always to have known.
                 But for most, "Not I" is their cry.
                 But "I" it is.
                 "I" must die.

                 Yet we must know too that we must know how
                 to forget, to forget what we know,
                 and push it away from our minds, as though
                 not knowing would help the survival
                 of something of which
                 we know nothing.

                 We add love to life, so that our lives go on,
                 like big,
                 jolly balloons
                 on the breaking wind of the puny gods
                 we can imagine.

                 The scene is developing:
                 to sleep with one another and push it to its
                 terrorfrying conclusion:
                 not suicide
                 as the Sacred Answer  to the conundrum of
                 life, but something beguilingly similar:
                 Mass ritual murder of both friend and foe:

                 "Bomb We Must,
                 for a Greater U.S.A.!"
                 Mass confusion. Mass contusion.
                 We take our lumps,
                 and linger on.
                 We see the danger, see the dead,
                 yet plunge on straight ahead.

                 But as all things lead
                 to their logical confusion,
                 so I fell in love
                 with the unloving Luv Ann Hency:
                 on the screened-in porch above the delicatessen,
                 where the pretty and
                 the not-so-pretty
                 gathered to pass the time
                 when there was nothing better to do,
                 a tornado of private passion broke all the screens,
                 and sent them flying,
                 and we met with all the grace
                 of hooked and netted fish.

                 Later came the killings by Hency,
                 my new "Luv Ann"
                 no more,
                 and another love was lost,
                 or barred away for forever
                 and a day, for life and a day.

                 But even if it were rotten,
                 every love lost is lamentable.

                 Copyright 2001 Glenn Logan
                 NOTE: More of my poems can be found at:

                 http://www.geocities.com/glennlogan/index.html
                 http://www.poetrypages/pages/glennlogan
                 http://mywebpage.netscape.com/gloganpoet/gloganpoet.

EagleScorpion
Senior Member

since 2000-03-08

Posts 1644
Here, Now, Forever

1 posted 2001-12-06 05:12 PM

Glenn you are clearly a very brilliant intellectual. You story speaks in volumes

Love is God. Love is war. Love is what your life is for.

Balladeer

Administrator

Member Empyrean

since 1999-06-05

Posts 25505
Ft. Lauderdale, Fl USA

2 posted 2001-12-06 05:40 PM

Quite a variety of roads you traveled down on this one....almost had Miss American Pie singing in my head. I enjoyed very much the way you branched off into other thoughts and then tied it all up to the original theme of the poem(s). This is a poem that can be read many times in order to grasp its full worth....an excellent job, sir.

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