The Truth About Love Poem by gershon hepner

THE TRUTH ABOUT LOVE


Auden tells us cryptic notes
aren’t good at clarifying clearly
the reason why a fellow dotes
upon someone he loves most dearly.
He says some say love is a little
boy, while some say it’s a bird,
inspired thoughts perhaps for Mittel-
Europa, but, like love, absurd,
and mentions suicides that tell
of love, and railway guides where it
is scribbled, but he doesn’t sell
the subject as the greatest hit,
perhaps because he was too young
when writing on the subject. You
must be an old man to have wrung
the meaning of the pas de deux
that it involves, and why sometimes
there comes between the two a third,
in clement or unclement climes,
not only when the love is cold,
but even when it’s very hot.
You only learn this when you’re old,
and people tell me that I’m not,
but I know better and I am
an expert in the subject now,
and with my sharp poetic cam
can see far more with my know-how
than Auden could in ’38,
when he was only 31.
If you’re that young you have to wait
to understand why love is fun.

Inspired by an article by Melanie Kirkpatrick in the WSJ on August 10, “A Time of Trobles” which is a review of Josephine Hart’s “The Truth About Love”. The review was followed by two verses from WH Auden’s “O Tell Me the Truth About Love, ” which he wrote in 1938, when he was 31:

Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

8/10/09