Allied Matters | Emmanuel Dairo on Love

102 lines. Not for faint-hearts

 For A.O 

(P in V VIII)

 (I do not wish to quicken your heartbeat,

Only to slay self-traces of deceit).

Tonight, my fingers are famished for words,
Like desperate soldiers, but famished for swords.

The wooer, like the war-man, always strives
In acts that slay some hearts or waste some lives.
Tis well known parallel motives suggest
The words on marble, and bullets in breast;
One seeks to conquer, one desires to please,
A servant to his land's or his love's ease.
The tell-tale signs of war are what bedeck:
A ring in hand, or a laurel on neck,
Oft, fortune dooms him to a tomb, apart,
In some faraway land, faraway heart,
Where falling flowers, and fond remembrance's sigh
Are left to lament what they cannot buy…

Perhaps, I may myself a soldier call
Though, seldom I display a soldier's gall;
Sometimes, to your heart-strings, I am a thrall
Who willingly would like to please in all.
Too nice by nature and too strict by arts,
Too swift to conclude and too prone to smarts;
Romantic and reserved in fits and starts,
'Careless' of his own, and of other, hearts;
Love knew all this when our two fates he twined,
Love knew all this; and yes, Love was not blind…

Romance germinates, fueled, by certain things
-- Th'appealing allure of repeated flings,
Excitement that awaits a dreary life,
Desire to trap a man or buy a wife…
Yet, from the lust of body or of mind
Can spring mutual cords that two lives can bind.
But certain bonds are tough, for noble ends:
To withstand strains from family and friends,
But, can the wheel hold when the car careens,
Unless it be designed by noble means?

Hence, I've resolved to prize the tenets of
The Law of God above the Law of Love.
Love's a union of two concentric rings
Body and soul carried by divine wings
-- Passion's inner ring that the flesh compels;
Compassion's outer, that the soul impels.
Trust is the radius, the centre is God
He would secure the link when trials maraud:
Radiating cheeriness on gloomy nights,
On scorching days, shading from blisters' blights

Tonight, my fingers are famished for words,
Like desperate soldiers, but famished for swords;
During those fogs long silence can beget,
One may fret much but one should not forget
Frosty desire is oft a symptom of
Absence of passion, not absence of love
(But silence's a two-edged sword, like bees,
Useful in parts and harmful by degrees;
Just like curtains in theatres on Broadway
Can serve to prolong or to close a play).
Passion's cycle's a whole spectrum of speed
With intensity that may bore or bleed;
The circumference of its moods is vast;
It simmers quietly then it bubbles fast.
And like Joseph was minded to prevent
Disaster during years the stalks were bent,
Patience and memories, one should stockpile
To endure passion at its lowest tide:
Calm fortitude to plug the seeming void,
And sweet remembrance as a mood steroid.
For, as long as compassion does not die,
True passion's lake may shrink but cannot dry;
Affection, planted on a shore-side hill,
Battered by elements, lives, standing still,
But when one stops to feel, passion is fled,
And when one stops to care, then love is dead.

My love is not of that ill-fated duet
Of Romeo and his lady Capulet 
(A love whose benchmark was violent desire,
And whose hallmark was a funeral pyre). 
Tis of cool passion, reasonable heat 
Tempered by grounded head and rooted feet 
A love whose sole moving motive is this: 
To find a companion and live in peace; 
And one whose ruling method still remains
To move from friendship's lawns to fervent lanes. 
A love that will be steadfast in crisis 
And one that seeks to share the joys in bliss; 
A love that's anchored on those good old rules 
That are taught even now in Sunday schools. 
A love that'll from illicit vice abstain 
And keep the self secure from sexual stain. 
Tis one that can into stormy seas plod 
Because there's trust that besides him walks God. 
Secure beyond what comfort can retrieve 
And happy beyond what the flesh can give. 

Tonight, my fingers are famished for words, 
Like desperate soldiers, but famished for swords;
Read, current inhabitant of my heart, 
Read, Lovely One, and then, ponder your part. 
One thing is certain -- He who reigns above 
Knows that whate'er betide, I will still love; 
For, I will love you more if you assent, 
And I will love again if you relent

Perhaps, one meeting full of morning dew

Our eyes shall tell us if our hearts are true.

Nigerian writer and literary critic, Emmanuel Dairo is also editor at Green Griots Literary Consultancy.