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Both poems share a deceptive simplicity of diction and seductive cadence, the evocation of the natural world as the proper theatre of love, and an air of the mysterious — but the Graves lyric, I think, reaches even farther and deeper into the psychic hinterland of besotted love than does the earlier poem. A perfect poem. Being myself a protective grandmother now, I mind learning this chant as a child of eight and being seduced by the patterns and interweaving tunes of the sounds,the work concealing the lovemaking, the rhymes and inversions twisting the Irish out of the English.

Enda Wyley Some of the finest, most moving love poems in the world have grown out of desolation and isolation. And yet, the right love poem is strangely reassuring. Someone else has felt like us and has actually survived to write about it.

Suddenly we know we are not alone. Suddenly we can make the love poem our own. Here is a favourite, a simple four line love lyric which I have always admired. It aches with loneliness and longing and is short but unforgettable.

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That the poet is anonymous, adds further to the mystery of the piece written about Western wind, when will thou blow, The small rain down can rain? If my love were in my arms, And I in my bed again! Peter Sirr When it comes to love poems I like to go back to the source of it all: the troubadours of southern France who kicked off the entire tradition of the lyric love poem as we know it, poets like Bernart de Ventadorn or Arnaut Daniel who inspired Dante so much he considered writing in Occitan.

Some of the best of the poetry was written by women. My tender beautiful cavalier when will I have you for myself? For one night only naked in your arms. It was written to his on-off lover Lily Brik. In it was revealed Lily was NKVD agent and had been informing the authorities about his disillusionment with the regime of that nice Mr Stalin.

Philip Gross on the hinterland of his poems, ‘The Players’, ‘Ways to Play’ and ‘On Poetic Form’

The poem was left as a note when Mayakovsky shot himself in It appeals because, big eejit that I used to be, I once had a tendency to fall for the likes of Lily. You must have gone to bed. The Milky Way streams silver through the night. And, as they say, the incident is closed. Now you and I are quits. Why bother then To balance mutual sorrows, pains, and hurts.

Behold what quiet settles on the world. Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars.

Love poems: ‘For one night only naked in your arms’ - 14 poets pick their favourites

In hours like these, one rises to address The ages, history, and all creation. Paddy said his mother loved the poem and his father hated it. Better again. My mother smiled.

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My father raged. He liked his women young, he said And not half-dead. Summer When summer came My father left the house He tied a ribbon in his hair And wore a Kaftan dress. He toured the world And met a guru in Tibet. Autumn Through autumn days My father felt the leaves Burning in the corners of his mind.

My mother, who was younger by a year, Looked young and fair, The sailors from the port of Martinique Had kissed her cheek. He searched the house And hidden in a trunk beneath the bed My father found his second-hand guitar. He found her see-through skirt With matching vest. He made the bed, He wore his Kaftan dress A ribbon in his hair.

Winter At sixty-four My mother died At sixty-five My father. Thomas McCarthy Love possesses poets like no other feeling. That X could be an Ex. The skill with which Groarke layers those feelings is astonishing.

Anyone who has lost in love will get this poem instantly. Ghost Poem by Vona Groarke Crowded at my window tonight, your ghosts will have nothing to speak of but love though the long grass leading to my door is parted neither by you leaving. The same ghosts keep in with my blood, the way a small name says itself, over and over, so one minute is cavernous. You are a sky over narrow water. I want to tell you all their bone-white, straight-line prophecies. Vona Groarke, X Gallery Press. Tom Paulin To Lizbie Browne may seem an odd choice of a love poem.

It haunted me and later I came to see it as primal, obsessive, even fetishistic. It succeeds in being both tender and self-mocking. In sun, in rain,? Where went you then, O Lizbie Browne? I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek, That now are wild and do not remember That sometime they put themself in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range, Busily seeking with a continual change. But all is turned thorough my gentleness Into a strange fashion of forsaking; And I have leave to go of her goodness, And she also, to use newfangleness.

But since that I so kindly am served I would fain know what she hath deserved. All the more astonishing then to have him remembering one woman above all the others who throws off her clothes and takes sweet control of a sexual encounter.

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Dear son, I was mezzo del cammin and the true path was as lost to me as ever when you cut in front and lit it as you ran. See how the true gift never leaves the giver: returned and redelivered, it rolled on until the smile poured through us like a river. How fine, I thought, this waking amongst men! I kissed your mouth and pledged myself forever. Nov 16, Entertainment , Poets Corner. Poetry is an arrangement of language, artistic word pictures that attempt to inspire imagination, evoke emotion and provoke humour.

A poet is an illustrator of words that creates beauty and intensity. It is time poets had a platform in the Hinterland Times , and here it is. To submit your work for possible publication, please email editor hinterlandtimes. The word limit per poem due to space is words.


When I stride into my century like a warrior triumphant in battle. I shall gather those who walked beside me and sing songs of hope. When I am in the presence of my children and grandchildren.

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I shall tell tales of ancestors, love, and stories that inspire. By Gay Liddington.