Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Love on the Farm
What large, dark hands are those at the window Grasping in the golden light Which weaves its way through the evening wind At my heart's delight?
Ah, only the leaves! But in the west I see a redness suddenly come Into the evening's anxious breast-- 'Tis the wound of love goes home!
The woodbine creeps abroad Calling low to her lover: The sunlit flirt who all the day Has poised above her lips in play And stolen kisses, shallow and gay Of pollen, now has gone away-- She woos the moth with her sweet, low word; And when above her his moth-wings hover Then her bright breast she will uncover And yield her honey-drop to her lover.
Into the yellow, evening glow Saunters a man from the farm below; Leans, and looks in at the low-built shed Where the swallow has hung her marriage bed. The bird lies warm against the wall. She glances quick her startled eyes Towards him, then she turns away Her small head, making warm display Of red upon the throat. Her terrors sway Her out of the nest's warm, busy ball, Whose plaintive cry is heard as she flies In one blue stoop from out the sties Into the twilight's empty hall.
Oh, water-hen, beside the rushes Ride your quaintly scarlet blushes, Still your quick tall, lie still as dead, Till the distance folds over his ominous tread!
The rabbit presses back her ears, Turns back her liquid, anguished eyes And crouches low; then with wild spring Spurts from the terror of his oncoming; To be choked back, the wire ring Her frantic effort throttling: Piteous brown ball of quivering fears! Ah, soon in his large, hard hands she dies, And swings all loose from the swing of his walk! Yet calm and kindly are his eyes And ready to open in brown surprise Should I not answer to his talk Or should he my tears surmise.
I hear his hand on the latch, and rise from my chair Watching the door open; he flashes bare His strong teeth in a smile, and flashes his eyes In a smile like triumph upon me; then careless-wise He flings the rabbit soft on the table board And comes towards me: ah! the uplifted sword Of his hand against my bosom! and oh, the broad Blade of his glance that asks me to applaud His coming! With his hand he turns my face to him And caresses me with his fingers that still smell grim Of the rabbit's fur! God, I am caught in a snare! I know not what fine wire is round my throat; I only know I let him finger there My pulse of life, and let him nose like a stoat Who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood.
And down his mouth comes to my mouth! and down His bright dark eyes come over me, like a hood Upon my mind! his lips meet mine, and a flood Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown Against him, die, and find death good.
Thanks for popping in! That is allegedly one of the most erotic poems where nothing "graphic" is written... :)
What's your favorite D.H. writing?
All Good Things,
It's called 'Bavarian Gentians':
Not every man has gentians in his house
in soft September, at slow, sad Michaelmas.
Bavarian gentians, big and dark, only dark
darkening the daytime, torch-like, with the smoking blueness of Pluto's
ribbed and torch-like, with their blaze of darkness spread blue
down flattening into points, flattened under the sweep of white day
torch-flower of the blue-smoking darkness, Pluto's dark-blue daze,
black lamps from the halls of Dis, burning dark blue,
giving off darkness, blue darkness, as Demeter's pale lamps give off
lead me then, lead the way.
Reach me a gentian, give me a torch!
let me guide myself with the blue, forked torch of this flower
down the darker and darker stairs, where blue is darkened on blueness
even where Persephone goes, just now, from the frosted September
to the sightless realm where darkness is awake upon the dark
and Persephone herself is but a voice
or a darkness invisible enfolded in the deeper dark
of the arms Plutonic, and pierced with the passion of dense gloom,
among the splendor of torches of darkness, shedding darkness on
the lost bride and her groom.
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