Published Feb. 13|Updated Feb. 13
Valentine’s Day is:
Gas station roses and grocery store cards / Ads for alarming underwear made by Rihanna / Taylor and Travis making out ad infinitum / “Maybe we can do Cheesecake Factory after the dog’s dental cleaning” / Pressure for singles / Pressure for doubles / Pressure for multiples / The pink chore of amore rising from the dust of gray winter / Corny, cheesy, embarrassing / Here.
There’s a poem in there if you squint. Valentine’s Day has arrived with its laundry list of romantic obligations on hump day. Each year I wonder: Is this corporate lovefest what the poets intended? Did Brontë want-ay chocolate-dipped strawberries and “Bluey” valentines, all this chaotic stimuli flattening us into the same Publix candy heart? Furthermore, when Maya Angelou said, “In the flush of love’s light we dare be brave,” did she mean on a Wednesday? I am just saying, Lord Byron, it would be more convenient to walk in beauty like the night on a Saturday.
“Tijuana Flats has a two for $14 holiday special,” I thought, an internal monologue so crushingly dull that 10 Cupids dropped dead. I hurried to my bookshelf to reconnect with the wild and free spirit of the romantic season. Destination: Emily Dickinson collection. Section: “Love.”
Love is anterior to life,
Posterior to death,
Initial of creation, and
The exponent of breath
Beautiful! Profound! That strategic final comma that makes you inhale! She was one of the great Romantics, reclusive and beset by her demons all while unpacking the mystery of love. In her poems, love takes the shape of a holy ghost that connects its victims long past the inevitable door of death. In other words, Emily would never celebrate Valentine’s Day with a heart-shaped pizza from Papa John’s.
Or would she?
Heart, we will forget him!
You and I, to-night!
You may forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.
In this selection, it seems as if Emily is freaking out in the mirror, getting all pointy-fingered, willing herself to forget someone who does her no favors. She will eat the whole pizza by herself. Relatable, dramatic with copious exclamation points, a ready-made Taylor Swift lyric. Set it to piano, I dare you.
But that’s not all. Have you ever read Emily’s poetry directed toward her sister-in-law, Sue? The scholars are preeeeetty sure the women were deeply in love, though Emily sometimes changed the pronouns in her work; after her death, her brother swapped out the name Sue, for, you know, “Kyle.”
I chose this single star
From out the wide night’s numbers —
Sue — forevermore!
Uh oh. I see it now. The stars, the wide nights, the cries of forever. The poets were and continue to be corny. The poets are the kernel, the cob and the whole stalk. And within that abiding corniness, the poets are free.
The poets would definitely send an Edible Arrangement. The poets would compose a midnight text with flowering adjectives and photos they might regret. The poets would dress a small dog in a sweater that says, “Pugs and Kisses.” The poets would take their lover to an Outback Steakhouse and split a fried onion that blooms like their hearts.
Maybe, too, the poets would kiss that lover in front of all the cameras, even if 35 percent of Americans think the poets have become dangerously overexposed. The poets would ask, “What do you have to lose by dancing up on your man at the Super Bowl? Proverbially, I mean. You have only to lose hours of life worrying about the theoretical comments section.”
Spend your days with Hayes
Subscribe to our free Stephinitely newsletter
Columnist Stephanie Hayes will share thoughts, feelings and funny business with you every Monday.
Loading...
You’re all signedup!
Want more of our free, weekly newslettersinyourinbox? Let’sgetstarted.
Explore all your optionsThe poets would buy JC Penney silver pendant jewelry and heart-shaped waffle makers, attend bubbly Galentine’s Day brunches, don glitter eyeshadow and call their mothers, if their mothers were not the traumatizing sort. The poets would split the whole bottle of Merlot, even though Thursday morning draws nigh. The poets would post online tributes in cringey confidence, raining secondhand embarrassment down upon the masses, swirling in the humiliation!
The poets would know the gift and the curse / to live forever being the worst.
Related: Read more columns from Stephanie Hayes
Get Stephanie’s newsletter
For weekly bonus content and a look inside columns by Stephanie Hayes, sign up for the free Stephinitely newsletter.
