Love is Blind

image borrowed from bing

Love Is Blind

There is nothing trifling about Valentine’s Day,
born blindfolded in the blood of martyrs
as Roman emperors quashed romantic
relationships, passing laws ordering young men,
in the fullness of their sexuality, to remain single,
to tremble only for battle as legionnaires,

but Saint Valentine understood that love
was never endemic as he made matrimonial
chimes ring softly, secretly, yet was unable
to quell the sweet burbling from reaching the
royal ears of Claudius II, who had Valentine
arrested and imprisoned;

legend has it that on the eve of his execution,
the fledgling saint sent a hand-written card
to the blind daughter of his jailer, signing it
as her Valentine, and though stillborn, this
affection healed her blindness.

It was of course Geoffrey Chaucer in 1382
who spoon-fed the aristocracy romantic rhubarb,
and this courtly influx of love-snippets led
steadfastly to the canonization of fat cherubs
who ambushed couples with their love-darts,
roses, and chocolate confections, propelling
love to a zenith of popularity within America
in 1847 as embossed paper lace cards became
mass produced.

As for me, even though I know love can bitch-slap
you senseless, can even lead to madness, still
I find myself joyfully tithing to the mewing gods
of hallmark, while recalling my Shakespeare:

Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s Day,
all in the morning betime,
and I am a maid at your window
to be your valentine.--Ophelia.

Glenn Buttkus

February 2012

Listed as #1 over at Monday Melting-Week 6

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