I wish I could claim to have written this myself...

I happened upon a collection of Janet Holmes's poems while perusing a book store probably 7 or 8 years ago. I had never heard of her, but instantly fell in love with her writing. I consider The Love of the Flesh to be one of the most beautiful love poems I have ever read. Since I was having trouble coming up with my own words this evening, I thought I would borrow some to share. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. May your spirit be light as you indulge in the pleasures of the flesh!


The Love of the Flesh
by Janet Holmes


Reality is not limited to the tactile:
still, we touch our own faces, as if by the slide
of fingers over cheekbones, eyelids, lips,


we can check that we are not dreaming.  This is
the life of the body, the life of gesture,


tangible, a palm against the skin.
When I put my hand to your face it becomes a caress,
but here, against my own, it is disbelief
or wonder.


The questions are hard, as when medieval scholars
divvied up the body in debate
as to where the soul hung its ephemeral hat-


and those who plumped for the heart laboring its fenced-in field
shouted down those others who felt God's messages
precisely in the pit of the stomach,


while the ancients reasoned the brain, the unromantic brain,
and virtually every organ had its champion...


Their filigree of argument confounds me
just as, then,
the suddenness of love left me dazed:


for days they had to call me twice
to get a single answer - I was deaf
and breathless and stunned.  It was not
as if the world were new and beautiful.


It was, instead, as if I had unlearned
how to use my hands
and feet.  Where does the life of the body


leave off, the life of the spirit start?  When
does the mouthful of air move beyond breathing
towards magic?  We made


a spectacle of ourselves, dancing about
like clowns in huge shoes, goofy with happiness,
inarticulate in all but the lexicon
of sexual flesh;


and the soul, from its short-leased home
among the muscles, sent its respects,
or so we were told...


Even in Paradise, the light-filled spirits
long for their resurrection,
and Dante is surprised that they miss their bodies:


"Not only for themselves," he speculates,
"but for their mothers and fathers, and for the others
dear to them on earth,"


souls wistful for flesh, nostalgic
for their faraway, simple selves who walked about


and who, lifting and seeing their hands,
thought suddenly one day These touch, caress, stroke;
who found in the body a bridge beyond it


and coined the word beloved.  And thus we performed
for ourselves the seamless changing over
of element to element,


body to air, solid to spirit, magic trick
or miracle, without knowing the particular
spell or prayer or luck that made it quicken.