Some poems

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/jan/18/relationships-love

Observer Article from Sunday.

Hi gang, I've had a look through my poetry library for some tidbits. Not really advocating for inclusion, just to give examples of some love/lust poems that have stuck in my mind over the years. I guess you probably don't like poetry as much as I do/did but I can promise you this: it will be less effort for you to read than it has been for me to type! :)

See you Wednesday


Régime de Vere - John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester

I rise at eleven, I dine about two,
I get drunk before seven, and the next thing I do,
I send for my whore, when for fear of the clap,
I spend in her hand, and I spew in her lap;
Then we quarrel and scold, till I fall fast asleep,
When the bitch growing bold, to my pocket does creep.

Then slyly she leaves me, and to avenge the affront,
At once she bereaves me of money and cunt.
If by chance when I wake, hot-headed and drunk,
What a coil do I make for the loss of my punk!
I storm and I roar, and I fall in a rage.
And missing my whore, I bugger my page.
Then crop-sick all morning I rail at my men.
And in bed I lie yawning till eleven again.

[simply marvellous in my opinion. A must]

I, being born a woman and distressed - Edna St Vincent Millay

I, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body's weight upon my breast;
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn with pity, - let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again.

[I find this rather arch, good manifesto for women sleeping around and not giving a shit]

Imperial - Don Paterson

Is it normal to get this wet? Baby I'm frightened -
I covered her mouth with my own;
she lay in my arms till the storm-window brightened
and stood at our heads like a stone

After months of jaw jaw, determined that neither
win ground, or the handed the edge,
we gave ourselves up, one to the other
like prisoners over a bridge

and no trade was ever so fair or so tender;
so where was the flaw in the plan,
the night we lay down on the flag of surrender
and woke on the flag of Japan

[The final image is a bit wrong, isn't it? Horribly macho, but that's what he does]

Gift - Neil Rollinson

I stand in the dark garden and watch
as the neighbour's daughter, unclothed
and just sixteen, combs her long red hair.
I stand there open-mouthed at this
sudden gift, every inch of her a miracle
of naked beauty, she smiles and combs,
and looks right at me, unabashed, except
she can't see me at all, and is only looking
at her own reflection in the glass.
I'm snared, a creature mesmerized
by the cobra's gaze. I daren't move
or even look away in case she sees me
standing here, watching. She turns,
to see herself side-on: the shape of her breasts,
her belly, the curve of her arse, then turns
to me again, her arms wide open, grips
the curtains and pulls them shut. A chill
runs through me, like Actaeon must have felt
in the woods. I hear the dogs bark in the suburbs,
the way they bark when something dies,
or is lost, like youth, or love, or innocence.


[pretty purvey really. Could be illustrated with some Balthus - Polish dude who painted jailbaite]

Poem - Jim Carrol

Yesterday you past
into your lips. . . your hips
and your breasts
a poor unconsumated memory

we spend sick days
was tragic sometimes
sometimes was silly

but sometimes it was on a sweet log
on a long walk after dinner
in your windy warm energy jeans

fingers touching.

[I picked this from his book because it was clearly about love - kinda sweet maybe]

Lament 8 - Jan Kochanowski

The void that fills my house is so immense
Now that my girl is gone. It baffles sense:
We are all here, yet no one else is, I feel;
The flight of one small soul has tipped the scale.
You talked for all of us, you sang for all,
You played in every nook and cubbyhole.
You never would have made your mother brood
Nor father think too much for his own good;
The house was carefree. Everybody laughed.
You held us in your arms: our hearts would lift.
Now emptiness reigns here; the house is still;
Nobody ever laughs nor ever will.
Now your old haunts have turned to haunts of pain,
And every heart is hankering again.

[If this seems a bit odd, it's a 16th century Polish dude's lament over his dead kid daughter - different kind of love, I guess]

You're - Sylvia Plath

Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fool's Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.

Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed like Atlas, our travelled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.

[about an unborn kid presumably. Quite mellow for her]

Jamesian - Thom Gunn

Their relationship consisted
In discussing if it existed.

[dude is gay, which doesn't come across here. I thought this was fairly amusing]

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A Small Hotel - Selima Hill

My nipples tick
like little bombs of blood.

Someone is walking
in the yard outside.

I don't know why
Our Lord was crucified.

A really good fuck
makes me feel like custard

[I *love* this poem. Another must in my humble opinion]