Some Kind of Love Poem (and other poems) by M.G. Stephens

PN Review 226, November - December 2015

Some Kind of Love Poem

From this position, love appears, or from
That angle, there it is, though completely
Unexpected, even a surprise, and
Maybe not even welcome, after all,
There are so many other things to do,
Like going to the gym or making lists
Of things to do, love not being one of
Those items listed, and yet love is there,
Unexpectedly or not, love wants you
To know that it is all that you need or
Ever wanted, even when you ask it:
Is that all that love is? And the answer,
Of course, is, yes, that is all that love is,
That is all love will ever be, and more.

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Provençal

What we do with each other as lovers
Is no one’s business but ours alone,
So it is all right to be here again,
So many years and lives later, here we
Are who we once were, young, alive and well,
Without even one care to burden us,
You and me, me and you, remembering
Convenient, forgetting inconvenient
Truths, so that even the lies are lovely,
Or maybe it is that only the lies
Were true beyond the bedroom’s blue curtains
And council estate windows, and yet to
Be here now with you, to be here with each
Other, is a kind of incomparable
Bliss, there is no denying that neither
God nor the devil does harm to lovers.

Love Is What We Need

What someone might call expediency,
We call by other names, words in the night
Whispered across tangled sheets, sweat, and
Sleep, wound around each other like ribbons
Or human shrouds, yet love is what we call
It because love is what we really need,
Or call it lust by any other name,
Salty, unambiguous, full of smells
In the night, vanilla, rose, lavender,
Rosemary, bergamot, eucalyptus,
Camphor, thyme, patchouli oil, the bedroom
Closed to the outside world, no lights, no air,
Only each other, whispering across
The sheets and the night, I love you, you say,
And I answer that I love you too, words,
Words, words, said like a mantra, over and
Over, as if repetition would make
Them true, when the only thing honest and
True were ourselves naked under the sheets,
And that was always true, even if we
Sometimes didn’t believe anything else.

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These poems by M.G. Stephens are taken from PN Review 226, November - December 2015. Further contributions from Stephens, including the rest of the poems in this issue, are available in the archive to paying subscribers, as well as more poetry, features, reviews and reports from across the back catalogue.

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