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The great thing about this Thomas Wyatt sonnet, on the other hand, is the way the surge of desire seems to push against the form that "bounds" it, even as it obeys the requirements — 14 lines, octave and sestet, proper Petrarchan rhyme scheme. It is a great love poem because of its rhythmic energy, its syntactical drive, the way the bitter truths of denial and exclusion are transformed — transformed by creative stamina into a work that is lifted above bitterness by the artist's joy in finding the right trope for his predicament. In a way, the final line retells the whole story: a wildness has been tamed in the writing, but it is the wildness that has given the poem its staying power.

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind, But as for me, alas, I may no more; The vain travail hath wearied me so sore, I am of them that furthest come behind. Yet may I by no means my wearied mind Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore Fainting I follow; I leave off therefore, Since in a net I seek to hold the wind. Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt, As well as I, may spend his time in vain. And graven with diamonds in letters plain, There is written her fair neck round about, " Noli me tangere , for Caesar's I am, And wild for to hold though I seem tame.

Choosing a favourite love poem is a bit tricky — like choosing a favourite toe or finger, if you had hundreds of toes and fingers. And what's a love poem? I'll go with "Animals", and it doesn't need me to explain it. I'd just add that even though the poem's a celebration, framing it in the past tense means it's also a great elegy, as great love poems often are. Have you forgotten what we were like then when we were still first rate and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth.

I wouldn't want to be faster or greener than now if you were with me O you were the best of all my days.


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Anyone who has lain hundreds or thousands of miles from home, listening to strangers' rain falling on a stranger's roof, will respond to the vehement longing in this old, mysterious fragment. It is difficult to believe your lover is alive under the same sky, and the more clearly you can see their room, their bed, the more you feel the piercing pain of separation. The writer sounds cold, alone and perhaps in danger; the reunion is not certain. All the complexity of love is in these lines: the lover is not only home but the journey home, both the voyage and the harbour.

Western wind, when wilt thou blow, The small rain down can rain. Christ, if my love were in my arms, And I in my bed again.

50 Must-Read Poetry Collections of 12222

Love poems may be addressed to someone in particular but the "you" invariably remains unidentified or is represented only by a body part or item of dress — a sleeping head, a naked foot, an air-blue gown. Thom Gunn 's "Touch" is an extreme example of this. This feeling of anonymity is important: it links the two lovers to the rest of us: they're part of a "realm where we walk with everyone". But the poem is also intimate and domestic: here are two people plus cat in their own bed — naked, cocooned, "ourselves alone".

Gunn was gay but his lover's gender isn't specified, since the theme is the inclusiveness of touch: the way it breaks down the "resilient chilly hardness" we all adopt to function in the outside world. The syllabic form enacts this dissolution or slippage, as the words seep gently from line to line, without the hardness of end stops. The word "love" isn't used; the words "dark" and "darkness" recur three times. But the poem exudes warmth, familiarity and how it feels to lie naked with a fellow creature, whoever he or she may be.

You are already asleep. I lower myself in next to you, my skin slightly numb with the restraint of habits, the patina of self, the black frost of outsideness, so that even unclothed it is a resilient chilly hardness, a superficially malleable, dead rubbery texture. You are a mound of bedclothes, where the cat in sleep braces its paws against your calf through the blankets, and kneads each paw in turn.

Meanwhile and slowly I feel a is it my own warmth surfacing or the ferment of your whole body that in darkness beneath the cover is stealing bit by bit to break down that chill. You turn and hold me tightly, do you know who I am or am I your mother or the nearest human being to hold on to in a dreamed pogrom.

What I, now loosened, sink into is an old big place, it is there already, for you are already there, and the cat got there before you, yet it is hard to locate. What is more, the place is not found but seeps from our touch in continuous creation, dark enclosing cocoon round ourselves alone, dark wide realm where we walk with everyone.

Not a particularly obscure or original choice, I know. The poem has become a favourite at weddings, though in some ways it's a strange choice. It's not just the snorting and weaning, the schoolboy-pleasing raunch of "suck'd on country pleasures" or the fact that the whole poem is a sort of bedroom scene. There's also that raffish wink at the end of the first stanza.

But in the last two stanzas, Donne changes tone. When I first came across this poem, my preference was for the poetry of unrequited yearning; the please-go-out-with-me school. Perhaps not so out of place at a wedding after all. I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the seven sleepers' den? If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee. And now good-morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room an every where.

Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone, Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown, Let us possess one world; each hath one, and is one. My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest; Where can we find two better hemispheres, Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;. A serenade, an interestingly broken sonnet, a bravura musical performance, perfect marriage of sound and sensuality; a passionate seduction and one of the loveliest lyrics in the language. The core erotic image is incorporation: being "open to", "slipping into", then "lost in" each other.

The craft mirrors the incorporation message: everything comes down to the one word "me".


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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 gift of Love

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. Your upper arms drive me berserk.

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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.

Irish Love Poems translated from Gaelic

I like the way you not and hold a teacup. 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. 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.

Modern Irish Love poems

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. I'd like to put my hand beneath your chin, And see you grin. I'd like to taste your Charlotte Russe, I'd like to feel my lips upon your skin I'd like to make you reproduce.

I'd like you in my confidence. I'd like to be your second look.

So, Here Are 50 Must-Read 12222 Poetry Collections:

I'd like to let you try the French Defence And mate you with my rook. It is hard to stop quoting from this book. On every page there is a passage I want to share. While some collections consist of a series of closely related poems, with a common subject or theme or form, or a narrative arc that connects all the poems, others offer a wide variety of settings and subjects, where each poem comes as a surprise, where the reader finds themselves in unexpected places and new situations. The latter is what Randle offers us through winding directions, the darkest of places, the freshness of life.

Den Bleyker, award-winning poet and editor, Emerge Literary Journal. How, then, do our verse writers adapt and evolve in this tumultuous time when, it might be argued, they are needed most? Thus, when we read through Running at Night , we are reminded that while we all feel each and every of these illustrious emotions, it is still a gift to know how to pull forth the words to describe them.

This is why writers such as Ned Randle are so integral in this day and age — and we ought honor that gift. As reviewers, we are somewhat trained to believe we need to have something profound to say about a book, and look for all sorts of New Yorker-esque ways to abstractly tie up the piece as if we, ourselves, are the writers upon whom the spotlight is shining. But, one realizes, over time, that the point of a review, while possibly to provide slight bridges between the questioning audience and the place where the hands can reach the book, it is more important to step out of the way and let the author speak for themselves — in a manner that teases and tempts, lures and allures, with their own words.

What better way to end, then, than with the last words of the book, that while they come forth from the poet, belong to us all? The form, its unpunctuated open-endedness, is reminiscent of that endless feeling in childhood of being immortal.