I believe she may be the only person to ever tell a minister about the necessity of lust.
When I told her so, she laughed at me in that "Aren't you a cute little remnant of the Victorian era" way, told me that ministers are people too, and wished me a "lot of lust." Crack me up.
I am, in this way, completely spoiled by my crazy progressive church, where there is very little expectation that ministers' lives will be any more "holy" than anyone else's. No one watches my house to see who comes and goes. I don't think most of them know exactly where I live. They don't freak out if they run into me at a bar (which is good, since being in bars is part of what they hired me for). Walking down the street with a guy does not cause a near-apocalypse. The fact that I sing with a rock band is vaguely interesting, but not the least bit scandalous. It's nice. And rare. I've been enough affected by other congregations where that is not the case that I started a bit to hear this woman even use the word "lust," let alone in a positive sense. Guess there's more repression in there than I thought.
Now that I have been educated on the subjects of love and lust, today I begin what I suspect may become a series of installments with no particular regularity, which I am going to call Love Poems for the Jaded. Or perhaps, ______ Poems, for We Who Can't Bring Ourselves to Say the L-Word.
"In Paris with You" by James Fenton
Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful
And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.
I'm one of your talking wounded.
I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.
But I'm in Paris with you.
Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess that I've been through.
I admit I'm on the rebound
And I don't care where are we bound.
I'm in Paris with you.
Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre,
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysees
And remain here in this sleazy
Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.
Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There's that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I'm in Paris with you.
Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of paris.
I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I'm in Paris with...all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I'm in Paris with you.
P.S. - I'm pulling many of these poems from Garrison Keillor's collection, Good Poems for Hard Times, a book which keeps reintroducing me to my love for words.