Wake of Echoes

I f you are alone this Valentine’s Day, I am writing this for you.  Whether you ignore the day, share the occasion with friends or spend the holiday alone, you should know that romance does not belong to the paired, the settled, or even those flush with new love.  It is not encumbered with hearts cut from paper, chocolates or rose petals.  It is not trademarked by Hallmark. Can love be bought and sold?  Is it exchangeable for a diamond pendant or a candlelit dinner?  And is a heart that hopes less tender?  Is a heart that has lost less true? I’m not cynical and I’m not trying to be maudlin, just real.  Because when I look at the true masters of romance – the poets – I can’t help noticing that the stuff they write is too deep for Valentine’s Day.  Here are some of my favorite bits of poetry on romance – and none of it would work on a greeting card. Love leaves .  William Butler Yeats wrote of this in a h...

I ’m going to set an unsustainable precedent and write about poetry again this week. Why? Because Valentine’s Day was on Monday, and while it’s not my favorite holiday, it reminds me that love sometimes swells in a heart to the point that it must burst in expression. Sometimes it bursts in a flood of chocolate or jewelry. Sometimes theater tickets, a hand-crafted gift, or a specially-prepared dinner with chocolate lava cake for dessert (ahem). I’m good with all of that – but I’m really horrible at writing sentiments in cards. I mean train-wreck bad. If you’ve ever gotten a card from me, you know this. I’m stiff, bland, clichéd. My grammar is like a fifth grader's and my handwriting is worse. My thoughts seize up, my hand shakes – it’s very similar to the feeling I get when I try to speak Spanish out loud. I’m going to mess up! That’s what I’m thinking. I’m usually right. Give me 90,000 words, I’ll show you love. I can work with 2,000 – just don’t ask me to rhy...