Valentine’s Day: some thoughts and a poem
Today is Valentine’s Day and I’m feeling somewhat raw, for obvious reasons.
And yet I’ve never been really big on Valentine’s Day celebrations. After all, for the last thirty years or so I haven’t been able to eat chocolate without getting a migraine, so chocolate is out even though I love it. I like flowers, but red roses are one of my least favorites, and that’s what they push on Valentine’s Day.
But for many years I would give Gerard a poem on Valentine’s Day, and of course as of this year that’s over. I’m also faced with the dilemma here of how much to write about Gerard, given what a private person I am. He was much more revealing in his own writings, but not completely so. The actual person is always different than the writer as self-presented.
But I’ve decided for this Valentine’s Day to publish one of the many poems I wrote for him. Some were far more serious than this one, which is definitely meant to be on the light side. A lot of them were sonnets, as is this one; I consider the sonnet a special challenge and a lot of fun when it comes out right. Sort of like a puzzle or game.
Poems were the very best present for Gerard. This one is from many years ago – I don’t know exactly when – and I’ll explain at least one of the references. When Gerard decided it was time to do some cleaning, the first thing he’d concentrate on were the kitchen counters. He’d suddenly go into gear and sweep everything off the countertops, putting the things away with a clatter and bang, and then spray the empty counters down with Windex. Why Windex? I don’t know, but that was part of the ritual. Then he’d replace just a few items – setting them up with artistic symmetry – and admire the view.
The floors were a different story. Gerard didn’t seem to like to look down and notice what was going on there until it was absolutely necessary. So that’s one of the things I was teasing him about in this particular Valentine’s Day poem.
TO G, A SONNET FOR VALENTINE’S DAY
The king of gleaming Windexed countertops,
he cooks with flair and tantalizing ease.
So what if he ignores the brooms and mops?
His eyes on higher things, he aims to please.
His closet brims with clothes and savvy style,
his brain with bon mots, literate and keen.
A thousand times a day he makes me smile
(though in the morning, he requires caffeine).
His forte isn’t sleeping. To unwind
is almost hard as going to a gym.
And yet you must believe me—he is kind,
tender, and loving (I’ll not mention slim).
Though Valentine’s Day’s not his cup of tea,
I think he’ll grin and bear it to please me.
Very special, Neo. I love it.
Ah, Neo, such fun, what a loss.
Keeping you in mind.
Lovely. (I use Windex on my counters; I learned it from a clean freak friend.)
I didn’t get flowers today; allergies mean I can’t have them in the house; and candy would destroy my waistline and his as well.
We are all, in our later years, facing the reality of our mortal natures more than we used to. About ten years ago, my husband nearly died from a paraganglioma. Awful thing, and three different specialists, after successful surgery, told him he’s “one lucky bastard.” So I give thanks every day that he is still with me. When the day comes that one of us goes, the best thing will be to remember the many blessings we’ve had. I hope you will soon be able to focus on those blessings from your years of companionship with Gerard more than the raw wound of his passing.
On a day filled with thoughts of love you’ve done a brave and powerful thing. A glimpse of you, your whimsy, and a glimpse of your lost love. This is very special. Thank you.
The poem is lovely, Neo, thank you. And thank you also for sharing a bit of your private time with Gerard. I wish we had all known him personally so we could share our different personal stories with each other but there are none. I have sorely been missing him and even the mention of his name at American Digest.
Well said, Ruth H
Thank you, neo
Very nice, Neo. Sorry all over again though for your loss.
Yes, ditto Ruth, and the others.
And Kate, thank you for sharing. So glad for the outcome. I love & repeat your last sentence.
Dear Neo, I can’t adequately add much in words, but do give you sincerely fervent heart hugs.
neo:
I confess I don’t recall seeing any of your poems before. Bad luck or my bad.
Not just a sonnet but a Shakespearean sonnet, which I find more pleasing. Sonnets don’t write themselves. Tennis with the net.
Well done! And special with the personal context.
huxley:
Thanks!
Another one of my sonnets. This one’s about sonnets.
huxley– You might enjoy a 1999 sonnet by Billy Collins, U.S. Poet Laureate from 2001 to 2003, in which Collins has some fun with the tennis net itself:
“Sonnet”
All we need is fourteen lines, well, thirteen now,
and after this one just a dozen
to launch a little ship on love’s storm-tossed seas,
then only ten more left like rows of beans.
How easily it goes unless you get Elizabethan
and insist the iambic bongos must be played
and rhymes positioned at the ends of lines,
one for every station of the cross.
But hang on here while we make the turn
into the final six where all will be resolved,
where longing and heartache will find an end,
where Laura will tell Petrarch to put down his pen,
take off those crazy medieval tights,
blow out the lights, and come at last to bed.
Collins is 81 but still writing and teaching.
Neo: lovely stuff, both the art and especially the glimpse you give into the life you shared.
Thanks for sharing that, Neo. In reading through it, one can sense the bond shared between you and Gerard. White roses, in place of red, is the way to go. The ones growing alongside our home exude the most glorious scent.
That’s sweet. Gerard was a lucky man, to receive complimentary poems from a woman.
For a man, compliments from women are vanishingly rare. We remember them. I guarantee you, he did.
Lovely, Neo. Thank you for sharing. In California, Trader Joes offers the very best flower arrangements for the very best price. My husband requested I pick out my own the night before. Guaranteed delight. And we ate chocolate as we usually do after dinner. In anticipation of Lent beginning next week, we ate more than we should.
John Velvet, I wonder if your white roses are John Paul II roses–one of my very favorites, for their fragrance and how long they last in a vase.
Speaking of floors, when we needed a new vacuum cleaner, my wife researched the options and picked out the one we bought.
Now I do all the vacuuming, because she says the vacuum is too complicated. I smell a rat.
My nephew got married last year. He and his wife were over for dinner Sunday. After dinner conversation turned to Valentine’s Day. She asked what I did for my late wife on Valentine’s day.
We did not have much money early in my marriage. There were times when a dinner out, a dozen roses, or even a fancy box of chocolates would have busted our budget. (Besides, she was allergic to flowers.) In those years, I would secretly hand make a valentine and leave it for her to find. The build-up to it was I would act as if I had completely forgotten about Valentine’s Day to enhance the surprise.
After a few years it became a tradition. Even when we could afford extra, I would secretly make a card and surprise her with it. It was a sweet custom. My nephew’s wife loved it.
In 2016 my wife came down with cancer. When Valentine’s Day came around on 2017 she was undergoing chemo. We were sure that we were going to beat it.
I made a card for her as usual and left it on her computer where she would find it when she got up and left for work. As expected, she found it.
Thing is she always got me a card on Valentine’s Day, or fixed a special dinner or desert or did something for me. That year she forgot. The chemo was messing up her memory. It really upset her. I told her not to worry about it. I knew she loved me. There would always be next year.
She ended up talking to one of our sons that day. He convinced her to get a card and give it to me belatedly. She did, ordering something made from a few sheets of wood, with silk ribbon. She wrote of her love for me inside. She gave it to me a few days after Valentine’s Day.
I kept it.
As it turned out there was no next time. She died in January of the following year.
I still have it. After she died I showed it to my son and thanked him for suggesting it. I have asked him to put in my coffin when I finally die.
What I learned was there may not be a next time. Don’t take it for granted.
@Sharon W – I have no idea what type of white roses those are growing alongside our house. The bush was already there and growing when I bought the house 30 years ago, and judging by the look of where it had been trimmed back over the years prior, it appeared to already be old (the house was built in 1929). As I mentioned, the scent of those roses is incredible, and they do last long in a vase, so maybe they are John Paul II roses.
FYI – I had to laugh at how my last name was spelled in your comment. “Velvet,” as my sister-in-law says Johnny Velvet would be my porn star name.