LXXXIII

Si co • l malalt, qui lonch temps ha que jau

e vol hun jorn    esforçar-se llevar,

e sa virtut   no li pot molt aydar,

ans, llevat dret,    soptament, plegat, cau,

ne pren a mi,   que • m esforç contr • Amor

e vull sequir   toto ço quie mon seny vol

complir no • u pusch,    perquè la força • m tol

un mal estrem   atraçat per Amor.

—Ausiàs March, (1397? - 1459)

As someone on his back for months of illness

would leave the bed one morning; tries and tries

with little help from bone or muscle; striving

upward, he doubles over, cannot rise;

just so with me: I struggle against loving;

wish to believe what thought assures me of,

only cannót, cannót—no strength remaining

after the long infirmity of love.

(translated by john nims)

~

love is the topic, children

let us begin

it begins with eve

and an apple, and a boy-man

named adam

then

six thousand years of misery

in which one's heart

pits and pats

followed by sighs and moans

and sometimes little gasps and eeks

such is love

nay, 'tis nothing of the kind

love is sweet words 

meted out, sometimes in meter

sometimes in whimpers

and candy hearts

which demand, or suggest: be mine

yes, that is love

not to be confused 

with what adam felt

arise

it can be, and often is, confused, the two

not 

that they are mutually exclusive

in fact

'tis best when they come hand in hand

that is love

then, what is this

this in particular

'tis another kind of love

'tis a game of sort

when sweet words are followed by barbs

it can be a fun game

when played by consenting adults

sadly, one party is often playing the game

while the other 

would far prefer playing badminton

or, perhaps, croquet

in that case, both suffer

unequally

the one suffers conscience

the other injustice

'tis love, children, not the kind we seek

love 

is often confused with something

we

call infatuation

one is deep, the other is not

but is pleasurable to an extreme degree

caution

'tis often short lived

or, long-lived, but unsatisfying

ending

generally

when one party wakes one morn

to realize

'twas infatuation, not love

then there are more sighs and moans

but no more gasps and eeks

and the world is torn asunder

and tears are shed

which is confirmation that 'twas not love at all

for love is lasting, and grows

yes, caution

to discern between the two is much like

choosing between apples

appearances can deceive

no, not like apples, for the first bite 

may very well be sweet

'tis more like

a retirement account, you pay and pay and pay

only to learn 

when it is too late

that you've done very well

or, sadly, you've done very poorly

in conclusion, children, love is a rainbow

each sees it uniquely

from their own perspective

stand close enough and it appears identical

but it isn't

understand that

be generous, avoid assumptions

apologize often

love is not

as either ali macgraw or ryan o'neal said

never having to say you're sorry

in fact

'tis wise to begin each sentence with an

i'm sorry

as in 

i'm sorry to ask, but . . . 

or 

i'm sorry, i only meant to . . . 

or 

i'm sorry, i shouldn't have . . .

or 

i'm sorry, did you say something . . . 

or

i'm sorry, it's not your fault

or

i'm sorry i was ever born

ignore, children, that last remark

it is reserved 

for the direst of lovers

the bell has rung

embrace love, children

but heed this—abandon caution at your peril

though it is best

when you do