David Herbert RichardsLawrence, better known as D. H, Lawrence, was born on a day like today from 1885 in Eastwood, England. He wrote novels, short stories, poems, plays, essays, travel books, translations, and literary criticism. And it was considered from a offender (one of his novels was called like that) to a pervert in the treatment of love and sex that he gave in his work.
His most famous titles are Lady Chatterley's Lover, Women in love o Sons and lovers. Their poems they are less known. So there goes one selection of 7 of them to remember this new anniversary of his birth.
Intimate
Don't you care my love? He asked me bitterly.
I reached for the mirror and said:
Please direct those questions to whom it may concern!
Please make your requests to the head office!
In all matters of emotional importance,
go directly to the supreme authority!
So I handed him the mirror.
And in my head I would have broken it,
but then he noticed his reflection.
Fascinated, her eyes watched him, bewildered,
while I fled.
Desire is dead
Desire may be dead
and still a man can be
the gathering place of rain and sun,
wonder that overthrows pain
like a tree in winter.
Mystery
I am a huge
Bowl of kisses,
Like the high
And slim bowl
Filled in Egypt
For the excesses of God.
I lifted up to you
My bowl of kisses
And through the break
Temple blue,
I cried towards you
With wild caresses.
And towards my lips
Passion slipped
A bright blush,
And for my silhouette
White and thin flowed
The thundering hymn.
Standing in front of the altar
I offered the chalice,
And I cried up to the sky
For you to bow down
And drink, oh Lord.
Oh drink my body
That maybe i'm
The inside of the bowl,
Like a mystery
Like the still wine
In ecstasy.
Still bright
In ecstasy
Mixed wines
Of you and me,
In a complete
And absolute Mystery.
I would like to meet a woman
I would like to meet a woman
that it was like a red flame in a fireplace
shining after the hectic gusts of the day
So that I could get closer to her
in the golden tranquility of the sunset
and really delight in his side
without the obligation to make an effort to love her out of courtesy,
nor to know her mentally.
Without having to suffer a chill when I speak to him.
The wild in captivity
Without reproducing
It becomes melancholic.
And dies.
Captives of a captive activity.
and even if they ignore it
the best ones cannot reproduce
killed sex in man; the simplicity of
Desire is distorted, deviated and twisted.
squeezing them adversely
in youth they hate, copulate and cry.
In a cage it cannot take place.
Then you have to destroy it.
to retest.
The mosquito knows
The mosquito tastes very good,
as small as it is,
that its essence is rapture.
Because after all
he only takes his feast,
don't deposit my blood in the bank.
Democracia
I'm a democrat when I love the free sun that I find in
The men,
and aristocrat when I detest possessives,
of petty entrails.
In every man I love the sun
when I see it between his eyebrows,
clear, without fear, even small.
But when I see those grayish successful men
so stinking and cadaverous, absolutely no sun,
like rude slaves of prosperity,
swinging mechanically,
So I am more than radical, and I want to handle a guillotine.
And when I see workers
pale and sordid like insects, tingling
And living like lice for a little money
and never looking up,
then I would like like Tiberius,
that the crowd had only one head
to be able to do it.
I feel that when men lose the sun
they must no longer exist.