Shall I Compare Thee?

by Denis Taillefer

When invited to guest blog on the topic of luuv, my first thought was, 'Hey, thanks,' followed by, 'On what? I don't know what to say!' Love is such an obscure word, isn't it? Throughout history philosophers have debated the subject and prophets spoken of its wondrous hold. From Plato to Gibran, The Beatles to the B52s. My earliest recollection of exquisite words that praised love, was Shakespeare's 18^th sonnet:

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.

When in eternal lines to time thou owest;
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Aaah. When writing this lovely sonnet, Shakespeare was no doubt in the early stages of a relationship, smitten and overcome with passion and sexual desire. We've all been there, haven't we?

Proof that the great thinkers and poets of the past have failed in defining love is in the current usage of the word:

I love my new car!

or: Let us make love, my darling. And how much for a preferred customer, my lovely?

or: I'd absolutely love a smoke right about now.

But on this, the month of luuv, we are no doubt speaking of Shakespeare's love, the kind he shows in his poem for a young girl, or perhaps a boy. So why am I so cynical on the subject? Is it my own inability to define the word? Maybe.

Or is my problem the romantic idea that for each of us there is someone who is ours, our true love, and that one day we may be united if the stars are aligned just so? Given a myriad of circumstances and opportunities, each of us could surely have been smitten by a whole cast of candidates, n'est-ce pas? And does this notion cheapen love? I don't think so, but it does remind me that the capacity for 'loving' more than one person is certainly within us. (pipe in Lennon's Imagine, here…)

And less you accuse me of being an idealist, or a polygamist, or an egghead for using the word less, and egghead, I say to you don't forget irreverent, and luuv curmudgeon, as this is my version of Shakespeare's sonnet, say, twenty years into his affair, on a not so blissful day:

Shall I compare thee to a moonlit sky?
Thou art more brightly and immeasurable.
And speaking of immeasurable,
Thou maketh a better door than a window,
For thine astral delight is eclipsing the television.

I must say I do recognize the passion and exuberance associated with love. But it's so fleeting, and maybe my problem is that I'm a little jealous, and would like to bathe in it more often. Perhaps the entries that I'll read here, on this, the month of luuv, will help rekindle those feelings. And if you should bump into Cupid, tell him not to be such a stranger, will you?