Teaching a university class on love poems recently became an unexpected opportunity for personal confession. I admitted to my students that I felt I knew very little about love itself. Before diving into specific texts, we explored the genre of love poetry, or as it’s often seen, the ubiquitous and sometimes oppressive association of poetry with romantic verse. Historically, culturally, and commercially, poetry is almost instantly linked to expressions of romantic affection, often leading friends and family to request poems for weddings upon learning one is a poet. This traditional expectation of “romantic poetry” can feel limiting.
What defines a piece of romantic poetry in the current landscape? Is it about fleeting connections, celebrity crushes, coping mechanisms, dating apps, or the complexities of modern relationships? Does it address simpler times, specific identities, national identity, or even the challenging realities of failed marriages and raw intimacy? The traditional image of flowery, idealized romantic verse often feels disconnected from contemporary life.
Abstract illustration of two stylized figures, representing connection or relationship, accompanying an article on romantic poetry
There have been many instances where I’ve felt distanced from the mainstream conception of Capital-P Poetry, and its perceived commitment to a particular brand of idealized, often sentimental, romantic expression is certainly one of them. As a younger person, I was known for avoiding overly sentimental content, skipping romantic comedies, and literally feeling unwell on Valentine’s Day. While partly dismissed as a youthful rebellion, I sensed a deeper barrier preventing me from connecting with notions of effortless bliss. Perhaps this idealized love, the kind often depicted in classic romantic poetry or popular culture, simply wasn’t meant for everyone, wasn’t accessible, or felt like a privilege for those not preoccupied with more pressing concerns. Concerns such as daily experiences of marginalization, the public questioning of one’s inherent worth, systemic issues, or even the dynamics of power and vulnerability within intimate relationships. When safety and security are compromised, the ability to simply “fall in love” in the traditional sense might feel out of reach. Perhaps the space for romantic poetry requires a privilege to overlook everything else.
For some, connection isn’t found in conventional romance, but in shared principles and actions. The feeling of being truly understood or connected might arise from shared commitment to justice, intellectual engagement, forgiveness, political action, intersectional awareness, or collective resistance. “You had me,” in a profound sense, might come not from a declaration of idealized love, but from alignment on values like indictment, abolition, forgiveness, political amendment, teach-ins, intersectionality, overthrow, or boycott.
Returning to Amiri Baraka’s potent “Black Art,” a line stands out, often quietly amidst its more confrontational verses: “Let there be no love poems written/ until love can exist freely and/ cleanly.” This powerful statement challenges the very possibility of authentic romantic poetry in a world fraught with inequality and lack of genuine connection. It suggests that where we are now – in societies marked by conflict, misunderstanding, and pain – is not a place where love, and therefore romantic poetry, can truly thrive in its purest form. The author, and many others, find themselves questioning what love truly means in this context; it can often be mistaken for loyalty, obsession, pain, or even something disturbingly close to hate.
There’s a common perception that poets possess a heightened sensitivity to the human condition. While it’s true that many poets deeply feel emotions – love for family, pets, language, art, and simple pleasures – the capacity for what is often depicted as Capital L Love, the boundless, ethereal force fueling traditional romantic poetry, feels increasingly uncertain. Is this kind of love still freely available, or has it been obscured, suppressed, or commodified? The evidence around us – disregard for the environment, violence against strangers, a collective reluctance to self-reflect or change – suggests a pervasive insensitivity, perhaps even a greater sensitivity to destruction than to love.
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In this light, the world can feel inhospitable to romantic poetry. There is a longing for it to be otherwise, a wish that one’s own heart could sustain such verse. But for some, the heart first needs convincing simply to face the day. The desire to write a romantic poem one day exists, but it feels conditional, requiring both instruction and the personal assurance of deserving such a space for expression.