LOVE SHOULDN’T HURT UNLESS IN CHILDBIRTH
Love does not hurt
Only destine and sanction within child birth
Whom has it worst, it’s the wo-man, womb man
Of course…
Procreation brings forth children birth!
“He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love.” (Song of Solomon 2:4)
3/17/26
Written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2026©
I am softer now
but make no mistake
love grew teeth
the day
you arrived
Within her frame, a world is formed,
A heartbeat echoes, soft and warm.
Yet hope is stitched with threads of pain,
A sacred journey, not in vain.
She walks with feet too weary, sore,
Each step a trial, yet she bears more.
Restless nights with fleeting dreams,
Her body stretched at fragile seams.
A sudden craving grips her soul,
For sour fruits, or bitter bowl.
Strange hungers rise without a call,
She longs, she yearns, she wants it all.
Her back bends low, her breath runs thin,
The tide of labor swells within.
She grips the night, she bites the day,
As life prepares to carve its way.
And when the pain breaks like the sea,
Hope crowns her womb with victory.
Her cries give birth to sweetest song,
A mother’s strength, eternal, strong.
In the dark, a figure sits beside me,
Like a pure white diamond, shines in the dusky night.
She says, "You are fated to be mine."
I look at her with turmoil in my sight.
"Oh my Bun-bun do not fear," she tilts towards me,
A hand on my hair strand, "Please Bun-bun, come, meet me soon.
I am losing my consciousness; you are my only hope.
Oh Bun-bun, help me to relive again, My Moon."
And I say, "Mom, don't worry,
I am here, just a minute, I will be out.
Though I need you first, but no, you need rest,
I'll be with Dad until you come back, like a bean sprout.
Please don't leave," and then I cry out loud.
And that's how I entered this world.
But still, I am the rift soul of my mom.
Suddenly a baby to out push,
Its not warned mother in a wild bush;
By training a keeper of record,
The least she would attention accord:
Her baby's first cries in good cassette
Her own wet tears in a TV set...
Now, things are bound to be different,
The cause for it all - too transparent;
A leafy theatre not labor room's,
Shrubs and weeds when brought camera zooms
A company for safe delivery
Should the cold shoulder give Iivery
A still birth her husband's archery
Her husband Bad Slave to lechery.
Emotionless, the doctor applied tools.
The foetus extracted,
they wheeled her away.
Although she could not move,
and could not relieve herself,
they did not check upon her
until the next day.
The Aerobus arrived
to take her to the
nursery planet,
where she would tend her offspring;
The matriarch checking
daily, weekly,
to see that she did so.
She did not rest.
She could not heal.
But there was no help for her,
fertility was more valuable every day;
and she had resigned her rights
when she had chosen
to join the gene pool.
Better than a row of test tubes,
were these living,
breathing incubators.
Once a gift to all humanity -
part of a lost cultural phenomenon
called ‘the family’;
Reproduction was now a rarity.
Originally published as "Childbirth on a Civilised Planet"
Clarke, R. (Ed) The Mentor 85, January 1995, fanzine published by Ron Clarke, Sydney, Australia, [Archival copy available online at http://efanzines.com/Mentor/TM85COMP.pdf].
(for Lucy)
I
The day you came,
the fence broke
and shattered debris
on vehicles outside the garage.
When the story was told,
the drumming ceased
and the exhilarating jubilation
no sooner,
had become gruesome.
Then,
I could figure
the rue cascading down
the veins of neighbours
present to share
in the dreams and hopes of your coming.
And then, imagining the pleasant tidings
your birth should bring,
I took a closer view of the matter, and
examining the fault
could see through the broken lines
the rising sun, and a brighten sky
the flight of falcons, the clear clouds,
the greenery in the woods.
And at once
hypothesize a semblance
of what your tomorrow would be…
II
Roll out the drums
let the women chant songs
let the children clap
let the dances begin…
The fattened goat has grown full
for the slaughter
the Butcher’s blade
is ready
let the ceremony commence...
The newcomer
our torch bearer
has come…
hurray!
hurray!
hurray!,
the sound of
merriment
engulfs the
air,
sooner is
the day of
approach,
with all in
unison
accepting
the cause,
portraying
the gift of
perseverance,
as the pace
of time
evokes.
The night
soon fades,
erupting the
morning feel,
then the cry
of joy sets
in,
showing the
mystery of
child
bearing.
For she
discovers
pleasure in
the
upliftment
of hope,
her joy
comes
through the
overwhelming
brightness
of the day,
independently
she shakes
of despair
allowing
peace x-ray
her
thoughts.
Alas!she
sighs,
finding a
resting
place
to lay her
treasure,
of
cause,with a
smile the
offspring
tells of his
ordeal,
reflecting
the passion
behind his
forebearing.
Once again
she is
energized,
at the sight
of her child,
she beams
radiantly,
indeed her
prerogative
power gives
rise to her
pre-installed
hope.
(This is a fictional poem)
I lost the most precious thing on Earth.
My beloved wife died during childbirth.
I pushed her to have a baby even though the doctor told us not to.
Now that she's gone, I can't stand this unbearable pain I'm going through.
She was diabetic and I should've known better.
My life became complete on the day that I met her.
But now she's dead and I know that I'm the one to blame.
When they buried her, I knew that life would never be the same.
The baby also perished on that horrible day.
I wish somebody would shoot me and take the pain away.
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