The trouble with writing about someone is that it can only be done once tastefully. Every poem after is an attempt to exceed the limits of the page, an attempt to extend the previously granted infiniteness of the precise one time.
The trouble with being the poet self-assigned to creating that tasteful one time is that it takes more than one try. There’s a yearning to show off each attempt, prove that you can poetically articulate your feelings for another person while also ensuring that their existence lasts forever. Make her more than a memory.
The trouble with the poetry drafted by the tasteful, love-sick artists is that it wants to be built.The poem wants to stretch as an extension of its author. The poem is given the weight of a person and told to carry it for eternity. Never let her feet touch the ground. Bear the burdens of her secrets. Be the mirror that shows her nothing, but beauty. But, most importantly, have a life of your own. Take a form that can’t be minimized with time.
The trouble with commanding a poem in this manner is that the author finds it hard to follow the instructions set into place despite the obvious intention of showing this draft also to the featured lover. The poet starts to feel reprimanded by their words, telling the poem to do the things they can’t.
The true trouble with love poems is that they unfold better than the love itself. Poems make commitments I, as a lover, cannot
Raven Little (she/her) is an undergraduate Broadcast Journalism student and a writer of many things: poetry, short stories, news articles, and diary entries. All of which are somehow autobiographical.