I went to see Frank Bidart read last week. When he read this poem, I could feel my chest tightening like it does when I read Faulkner or when I know that I have just had a small encounter with a work that knows my own condition better than I ever could.
It is called "Valentine" and here is a portion of it:
How those now dead used the word love bewildered
and disgusted the boy who resolved he
would not reassure the world he felt
love until he understood love
Resolve that too soon crumbled when he found
within his chest
something intolerable for which the word
because no other word was right
must be love
must be love
Love craved and despised and necessary
the Great American Songbook said explained our fate
my bereft grandmother bereft
father bereft mother their wild regret
How those now dead used love to explain
wild regret
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