The poem is tongue-in-cheek, opening with the lines:. The poem was adapted by the Arctic Monkeys in and featured on their album AM, showing that the poem still resonates today as much as it did when it was first written. However, perhaps lesser known, Pinter was also a poet. His plays and much of his poetry are often menacing in tone, however, one poem deviates from the usual mood.
Entitled It is Here, this short piece is dedicated to his wife Lady Antonia Fraser, and describes the first time these met. The poem details a strange sound that causes the couple to pause and ponder, before revealing it was the first breath they took when they saw each other:. I turn away, into the shaking room. It was the breath we took when we first met.
It is here. However, the poem continues with Shakespeare expressing his eternal love for the man. Shakespeare states that his infidelities stem from his desire to retain his youth, but that his errors have made his love for the man all more evident to him:. He has returned to the younger man, although he is aware that his love may not be unrequited.
Yet, the exact nature of his love for Mr W. The opening lines reveal this train of thought:. The following lines are perhaps some of the most important in the poem, telling the reader to take time for themselves:.
Give bread. Although he later married Georgie Hyde Lees, this poem, When you are Old, was written in about his uncertain relationship with Maud. The poem is believed to be based on a sonnet by Pierre de Ronsard. In her dream, the lover was a poem, which she wants to show to everyone. However, she finds that being open about her relationship is not simple, perhaps relating to the alienation and discrimination she felt about being a lesbian. Love Love Love , Otteri Selvakumar Love, Love, Love , john tiong chunghoo Love, Love, Love, In Love Love Being In Love..
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Love Making Love , Leila Kay Love To Love , Heather Wojciechowski Love, Love, Love-Thank God. The sonnet feels rhymed but it's not: Tennyson is always innovative and the only rhyme repeated five times is "me".
But each chunk of thought ends with the lover's insistence look at me , and by the end the beloved, too is incorporated in that me. It is a brilliant love poem but totally — and justifiedly — also in love with its own music. Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: The fire-fly wakens; waken thou with me.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, And slips into the bosom of the lake: So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip Into my bosom and be lost in me. It's suffered a few errors of transcription over the centuries: the first half of her verse is rarely, if ever, reproduced it's expert, if fairly unremarkable , leaving the second to stand as a sort of semi-accidental sonnet. I first read it in Geoffrey Grigson's Faber Book of Love Poems , where line 12 was inadvertently omitted, and I've cheerfully replicated the error several times since.
What always stops me in my tracks is the tenderness of the address, and the feeling that I'm eavesdropping and should probably stop: this is the opposite of "public poetry".
Dyer couches her great grief in the language of almost playful domestic annoyance: "Couldn't you have just waited up a little longer for me? The first three words alone manage to say everything about the absurd and paradoxical gift of our human love: timeless in its spirit, but so often wrecked by time, leaving us alone with a feeling unable to take its natural object. A rough deal all round, then — but in their perfect articulation, poems like this offer as much assuagement as there is to find, and keep the fire of love burning way beyond the lovers' own deaths, its raw intimacy as present as ever.
When Larkin said "What will survive of us is love", he meant nothing so uncomplicated and unequivocal; but even he put the accent on us. My dearest dust, could not thy hasty day Afford thy drowsy patience leave to stay One hour longer: so that we might either Sit up, or gone to bed together? But since thy finished labour hath possessed Thy weary limbs with early rest, Enjoy it sweetly; and thy widow bride Shall soon repose her by thy slumbering side; Whose business, now, is only to prepare My nightly dress, and call to prayer: Mine eyes wax heavy and the day grows old, The dew falls thick, my blood grows cold.
Draw, draw the closed curtains: and make room: My dear, my dearest dust; I come, I come. A transfixed inventory. Erotic hypnosis. The weight, as it were, of an eyelash. When he was Cameron Mackintosh Professor at Oxford, Patrick Marber asked me how tutors resist the charms of their pupils. But sometimes youth exacts its tribute and beauty renders all that red ink irrelevant.
The things about you I appreciate May seem indelicate: I'd like to find you in the shower And chase the soap for half an hour. I'd like to have you in my power And see your eyes dilate. I'd like to have your back to scour And other parts to lubricate. Sometimes I feel it is my fate To chase you screaming up a tower Or make you cower By asking you to differentiate Nietzsche from Schopenhauer.
I'd like to offer you a flower. I like the hair upon your shoulders, Falling like water over boulders. I like the shoulders too: they are essential. Your collar-bones have great potential I'd like your particulars in folders Marked Confidential. I like your cheeks, I like your nose, I like the way your lips disclose The neat arrangement of your teeth Half above and half beneath In rows.
I like your eyes, I like their fringes. The way they focus on me gives me twinges.
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Your upper arms drive me berserk. I like the way your elbows work. On hinges …. I like your wrists, I like your glands, I like the fingers on your hands. I'd like to teach them how to count, And certain things we might exchange, Something familiar for something strange. I'd like to give you just the right amount And get some change.
I like it when you tilt your cheek up. I like the way you not and hold a teacup.
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I like your legs when you unwind them. Even in trousers I don't mind them. I like each softly-moulded kneecap. I like the little crease behind them. I'd always know, without a recap, Where to find them. I like the sculpture of your ears. I like the way your profile disappears Whenever you decide to turn and face me.
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I'd like to cross two hemispheres And have you chase me. I'd like to smuggle you across frontiers Or sail with you at night into Tangiers. I'd like you to embrace me. I'd like to see you ironing your skirt And cancelling other dates. I'd like to button up your shirt. I like the way your chest inflates. I'd like to soothe you when you're hurt Or frightened senseless by invertebrates. I'd like you even if you were malign And had a yen for sudden homicide.
I'd let you put insecticide Into my wine. You are the end of self-abuse. You are the eternal feminine. I'd like to find a good excuse To call on you and find you in.
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