Love after 50 doesn’t make the pop charts.
It’s too absurd.
Absurd as ice cubes settling in a glass
when one pours hot coffee over them,
shedding their sharp edges.
Absurd as the day-time ghost
of one’s breath on a cold morning.
Absurd as the smell of soil after a rain—
why should mere dirt outdo all other odors?
Absurd as grinding steel on
a wobbly bench grinder with a corroding belt,
that hair of sparks,
the pleasant way they prickle against the skin.
*
25 August 2012: Changed title from “Love After 40,” “50” seeming more resonant.
So many intense sensations in this short piece: the sense of ice cubes melting against hot coffee on the lips, the sense of cold air in the lungs, the sense of the earth’s smell in the nostrils and that sense I’d forgotten, until your words stirred the memory, of grinder sparks prickling the skin.
Oh good, I’m glad that wasn’t just me! I don’t write love poems very often because it seems as if everything’s already been said, but that can’t possibly be true, can it?
Of course not, Dave, a fact I hope you’ll continue to explore! Loved this.
Thanks, Beth. I’m glad.
Short, sharp and on the money, Dave. From another who’s managed the absurdities!
Congratualtions, Dick — you just left the 20,000th comment at Via Negativa! Thanks, and thanks for your kind words about the poem.
Love it. Marriage after 40 is just as absurd, and just as wonderful.
I don’t know about love and marriage, but living in Amish country I can say that I’ve seen plenty of horse-and-carriage combinations, and they never fail to amuse.
I like this an awful lot. Ice cubes shedding their edges, the smell of soil after a rain. A few of my favorite things, actually.
Thanks, Rachel. Yes, I do love making iced coffee that way — one of life’s great simple pleasures. And I suppose one of the main reasons I have a few houseplants is so I can get that smell even in the winter, whenever I water them.
“…that hair of sparks.” This was the high point for me. Love it too!
Oh good — thanks!
Kia ora Dave,
Until just a few a weeks ago back home in summery Wisconsin I had never poured hot coffee on ice cubes. And after a month I was content to return here to the hills and smell the robust aroma of the musty earth after a winter rain. Not sure what it means but something to do with love. Hope you are well.
Cheers,
Robb
Hi Robb. Sounds as if Wisconsin was a corrupting influence on you, then. :)
Interestingly, the Wikipedia says the word petrichor — “the scent of rain on dry earth” — was coined by two scientists from down under.
Fascinating, eh?
Totally fascinating. There was a thunderstorm while we were in Italy and the smell afterwards was absolutely glorious. It also contained a high percentage of pine resin.
Oh, that must’ve been great! Too bad you couldn’t bottle it.
Yes! Hot coffee over ice cubes! Yes! Smell of soil after rain! Yes! Prickling sparks! Yes! Love after 50, 60, 70 and beyond! Yes!
So glad this resonated with you, Natalie. Thanks for stopping by.
Wonderful. I love the earthy images – dry soil now redolent, worn cubes like glaciers succumbing to dark sea. Even the grinder sparks made me think of a satellite degraded from apogee, reentering the atmosphere.
Petrichor should be marketed as perfume for those of us in “more resonant” years. Or is only 50 resonant, and subsequent numbers hollow? Perhaps time to follow Simon Doonan’s example and age in French, thus tempting l’amour.
Well, I think that’s Natalie’s secret! (Thanks.)