real love

Posted on February 19, 2009



“I would not sing you to sleepreal-love

But I would press my lips to your ear

And hope the terror in my heart stirs you.”

(Poem: “Lullaby” by Reetika Vazirani)


This poem is disturbing. Most of us don’t like to be disturbed. So we avoid things that stir us.

This poem haunts me because I’m tired of “life on the surface”.

Pat answers to ease my pain.

Smiles and hugs and “it’s OKs”.

Cute sayings on church bill boards.

“Have a ‘nice’ day” bumper stickers.

Elevator music.

Don’t count the cost, just ‘stay the course’.

Don’t feel, have faith.

Don’t think, just believe.

And heaven forbid, “don’t ask questions”.

“How are you?” “Just fine, and you?”

Life must be more . . . it better be.

But how do I find the “more”?

The “more” must lie deeper.

But who’s going to begin to peal back the layers . . . and seek the “more”;

going deeper, sometimes into the darkness, the fire, the pain,

sometimes into the valley of the shadow of death, facing the shadows, head on.

Who’s going to “stir” you?

Are you sleeping?

I have been . . .

Should real love sing me to sleep . . .

or should it stir me, wake me, shake me, disturb me . . .

make me uncomfortable?

Is truth disturbing???

Is love disruptive????

My experience is that it is an unraveling,

an earthquake leaving nothing of this world unturned.


“Wake up, the world’s on fire!” (Lawrence Ferlinghetti, poet)

(written April 19, 2006)

“Comfort is one thing, and truth another; they lead away from each other. If you seek comfort, you may find it in an explanation, a drug or a belief; but it will be temporary, and sooner or later you will have to begin over again. And is there such a thing as comfort? It may be that you will first have to see this fact: that a mind which seeks comfort, security, will always be in sorrow. A satisfactory explanation, or a comforting belief, can put you soothingly to sleep; but is that what you want? Will that wipe away your sorrow? Is sorrow to be got rid of by inducing sleep?” – Krishnamurti, Commentaries On Living, Series III, Chapter 13

Poetry may make us . . . a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.”T. S. Eliot, Nobel Prize acceptance speech, 1948

See also, the post God of Comfort:

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