Amores, poems - D. H. Lawrence - E-Book

Amores, poems E-Book

D H Lawrence

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Amores, poems - is a great collection of poems by D.H. Lawrence, one of best writers of all-time. Amores is earliest works of poetry, was a precursor to his delving in free verse in later collections. The poems in this collection are characterized by haunting and dark themes, sensuousness and his controversial dealing with sexual topics.

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AMORES

POEMS

D. H. Lawrence

Glagoslav Epublications

“AMORES. POEMS” 

D. H. Lawrence

© 2020, Glagoslav Epublications

ISBN:  978-1-78422-065-5 (Ebook)

This ebook is in copyright. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Contents

About the Author

TEASE

THE WILD COMMON

STUDY

DISCORD IN CHILDHOOD

VIRGIN YOUTH

MONOLOGUE OF A MOTHER

IN A BOAT

WEEK-NIGHT SERVICE

IRONY

DREAMS OLD AND NASCENT

DREAMS OLD AND NASCENT

A WINTER'S TALE

EPILOGUE

A BABY RUNNING BAREFOOT

DISCIPLINE

SCENT OF IRISES

THE PROPHET

LAST WORDS TO MIRIAM

MYSTERY

PATIENCE

BALLAD OF ANOTHER OPHELIA

RESTLESSNESS

A BABY ASLEEP AFTER PAIN

ANXIETY

THE PUNISHER

THE END

THE BRIDE

THE VIRGIN MOTHER

AT THE WINDOW

DRUNK

SORROW

DOLOR OF AUTUMN

THE INHERITANCE

SILENCE

LISTENING

BROODING GRIEF

LOTUS HURT BY THE COLD

MALADE

LIAISON

TROTH WITH THE DEAD

DISSOLUTE

SUBMERGENCE

THE ENKINDLED SPRING

REPROACH

THE HANDS OF THE BETROTHED

EXCURSION

PERFIDY

A SPIRITUAL WOMAN

MATING

A LOVE SONG

BROTHER AND SISTER

AFTER MANY DAYS

BLUE

SNAP-DRAGON

A PASSING BELL

IN TROUBLE AND SHAME

ELEGY

GREY EVENING

FIRELIGHT AND NIGHTFALL

THE MYSTIC BLUE

About the Author

David Herbert Lawrence (1885 – 1930) was an English writer and poet. His collected works represent, among other things, an extended reflection upon the dehumanising effects of modernity and industrialisation. Lawrence's writing explores issues such as sexuality, emotional health, vitality, spontaneity, and instinct.

Lawrence's opinions earned him many enemies and he endured official persecution, censorship, and misrepresentation of his creative work throughout the second half of his life, much of which he spent in a voluntary exile he called his "savage pilgrimage".

At the time of his death, his public reputation was that of a pornographer who had wasted his considerable talents. E. M. Forster, in an obituary notice, challenged this widely held view, describing him as "the greatest imaginative novelist of our generation." Later, the literary critic F. R. Leavis championed both his artistic integrity and his moral seriousness.

TEASE

I WILL give you all my keys,

You shall be my châtelaine,

You shall enter as you please,

As you please shall go again.

When I hear you jingling through

All the chambers of my soul,

How I sit and laugh at you

In your vain housekeeping rôle.

Jealous of the smallest cover,

Angry at the simplest door;

Well, you anxious, inquisitive lover,

Are you pleased with what's in store?

You have fingered all my treasures,

Have you not, most curiously,

Handled all my tools and measures

And masculine machinery?

Over every single beauty

You have had your little rapture;

You have slain, as was your duty,

Every sin-mouse you could capture.

Still you are not satisfied,

Still you tremble faint reproach;

Challenge me I keep aside

Secrets that you may not broach.

Maybe yes, and maybe no,

Maybe there are secret places,

Altars barbarous below,

Elsewhere halls of high disgraces.

Maybe yes, and maybe no,

You may have it as you please,

Since I choose to keep you so,

Suppliant on your curious knees.

THE WILD COMMON

THE quick sparks on the gorse bushes are leaping,

Little jets of sunlight-texture imitating flame;

Above them, exultant, the pee-wits are sweeping:

They are lords of the desolate wastes of sadness

their screamings proclaim.

Rabbits, handfuls of brown earth, lie

Low-rounded on the mournful grass they have bitten

down to the quick.

Are they asleep?—Are they alive?—Now see,

when I

Move my arms the hill bursts and heaves under their

spurting kick.

The common flaunts bravely; but below, from the

rushes

Crowds of glittering king-cups surge to challenge the

blossoming bushes;

There the lazy streamlet pushes

Its curious course mildly; here it wakes again, leaps,

laughs, and gushes.

Into a deep pond, an old sheep-dip,

Dark, overgrown with willows, cool, with the brook

ebbing through so slow,

Naked on the steep, soft lip

Of the bank I stand watching my own white shadow

quivering to and fro.

What if the gorse flowers shrivelled and kissing were

lost?

Without the pulsing waters, where were the marigolds

and the songs of the brook?

If my veins and my breasts with love embossed

Withered, my insolent soul would be gone like flowers

that the hot wind took.

So my soul like a passionate woman turns,

Filled with remorseful terror to the man she scorned,

and her love

For myself in my own eyes' laughter burns,

Runs ecstatic over the pliant folds rippling down to

my belly from the breast-lights above.

Over my sunlit skin the warm, clinging air,

Rich with the songs of seven larks singing at once,

goes kissing me glad.

And the soul of the wind and my blood compare

Their wandering happiness, and the wind, wasted in

liberty, drifts on and is sad.

Oh but the water loves me and folds me,

Plays with me, sways me, lifts me and sinks me as

though it were living blood,

Blood of a heaving woman who holds me,

Owning my supple body a rare glad thing, supremely

good.

STUDY

SOMEWHERE the long mellow note of the blackbird

Quickens the unclasping hands of hazel,

Somewhere the wind-flowers fling their heads back,

Stirred by an impetuous wind. Some ways'll

All be sweet with white and blue violet.

(Hush now, hush. Where am I?—Biuret—)

On the green wood's edge a shy girl hovers

From out of the hazel-screen on to the grass,

Where wheeling and screaming the petulant plovers

Wave frighted. Who comes? A labourer, alas!

Oh the sunset swims in her eyes' swift pool.

(Work, work, you fool—!)

Somewhere the lamp hanging low from the ceiling

Lights the soft hair of a girl as she reads,

And the red firelight steadily wheeling

Weaves the hard hands of my friend in sleep.

And the white dog snuffs the warmth, appealing

For the man to heed lest the girl shall weep.

(Tears and dreams for them; for me

Bitter science—the exams. are near.

I wish I bore it more patiently.

I wish you did not wait, my dear,

For me to come: since work I must:

Though it's all the same when we are dead.—

I wish I was only a bust,

All head.)

DISCORD IN CHILDHOOD

OUTSIDE the house an ash-tree hung its terrible

whips,

And at night when the wind arose, the lash of the tree

Shrieked and slashed the wind, as a ship's

Weird rigging in a storm shrieks hideously.

Within the house two voices arose in anger, a slender

lash

Whistling delirious rage, and the dreadful sound

Of a thick lash booming and bruising, until it

drowned

The other voice in a silence of blood, 'neath the noise

of the ash.

VIRGIN YOUTH

Now and again

All my body springs alive,

And the life that is polarised in my eyes,

That quivers between my eyes and mouth,

Flies like a wild thing across my body,

Leaving my eyes half-empty, and clamorous,

Filling my still breasts with a flush and a flame,

Gathering the soft ripples below my breasts

Into urgent, passionate waves,

And my soft, slumbering belly

Quivering awake with one impulse of desire,