...And To New Ones

To have designs on another Degrades oneself; The old Greek was right, Platonic love is the best. I knew this all along, Preached this doctrine, But couldn'd practice it myself. To love is to give But what does a beggar, Himself needy, wandering the streets, Pan-handling for love, Know of giving himself to another? No, he's too self-absorbed: He ventures in vain And returns as restless as he went. So what are my options? To remain strictly monogamous, Regard every other woman As a mother or sister? To be desireless for ever Without romance, appreciation, power? Or else to evade the issue altogether And play it by the ear? Though I'm not at all sure To lay down rules which I must follow, I think this much I know: I don't want to settle into A boring and dull domesticity; I want the freedom, however illusive, To make friends, to seek afresh. I don't think my romance with women Has yet reached its end. And yet I detest promiscuity or fornication: Sex without soul is sordid. So deception, whether with self, Spouse or girlfriend, is out. Then what's left? Love-which is the other side of Truth- Noble and fine and spiritual Without a particle of jealousy or possessiveness, More or less a dream, difficult to find: Bhakti of friend to friend The distillation of _sringara rasa_ Which made Krishna a brahmacharin Though he had over sixteen thousand wives. For the girls involved It must be an experience To be loved as they have never been Before or after: Post-experience innocence. So, O Mother, teach me how to be Your boyfriend: Let that be my way of winning hearts And saving souls. [From The Serene Flame]