  Poetry
This week: David Herbert Lawrence Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady
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A Love Song
by David Herbert Lawrence
Reject me not if I should say to you
I do forget the sounding of your voice,
I do forget your eyes that searching through
The mists perceive our marriage, and rejoice.
Yet, when the apple-blossom opens wide
Under the pallid moonlight's fingering,
I see your blanched face at my breast, and hide
My eyes from diligent work, malingering.
Ah, then, upon my bedroom I do draw
The blind to hide the garden, where the moon
Enjoys the open blossoms as they straw
Their beauty for his taking, boon for boon.
And I do lift my aching arms to you,
And I do lift my anguished, avid breast,
And I do weep for very pain of you,
And fling myself at the doors of sleep, for rest.
And I do toss through the troubled night for you,
Dreaming your yielded mouth is given to mine,
Feeling your strong breast carry me on into
The peace where sleep is stronger even than wine.
On September 11, 1885 Arthur Lawrence and his wife Lydia welcomed son David Herbert Lawrence into their family. Lawrence was the fourth child born to the couple. Lawrence’s father Arthur was a coal miner and his mother a former school teacher. The family lived in Eastwood, Nottinghamshire where his father worked the mines. Lawrence's father was not an educated man and his mother was well educated, this often fueled the couples arguments. Lawrence grew up in poverty and listening to his parents fighting which left Lawrence hating his father. It was his emotional bond with his mother that got Lawrence into the arts.
Lawrence was educated at t Nottingham High School on a scholarship, which he had won. He then became a clerk for several years while studying at Nottingham University. Upon graduation he tried a career as a teacher at Davidson Road School in Croydon in South London. This only lasted four short years. In 1910, Lawrence is helped his fragile mother end her life by giving her an overdose of sleeping medicine. Which would later be revealed in a scene in his novel Sons And Lovers. Lawrence first submitted poems were sent in by Jessie Chambers and were published in the English Review. The publication of his first novel “The White Peacock” at the age of 25 established him as a writer.
Lawrence fell in love with another mans wife, Frieda von Richthofen. The couple ran away together and eventually married. They spent their lives travelling. “The Rainbow” was published in 1915 and was quickly banned for its cursing and sexual content. The banning of his book made it harder on Lawrence to publish future publications. The couple's troubles continued with the start of World War I, Frieda was cousin to the "Red Baron" von Richthofen and they were accused of being spies. Lawrence and his wife eventually traveled to New Mexico. New Mexico gave Lawrence peace to write and gave him great ideas for new settings in future writings. After leaving New Mexico Lawrence and his wife returned to Europe to travel. “ Lady Chatterley's Lover” was published in 1928, and was banned for a time in both UK and the US because it was seen as pornographic.
D.H. Lawrence died in Vence, France on March 2, 1930. Lawrence’s last book “Apocalpse” was published postmortem in 1931. His wife moved to the Kiowa Ranch and built a small memorial chapel for Lawrence. His ashes lie there.
A Winter's Tale
by David Herbert Lawrence
Yesterday the fields were only grey with scattered snow,
And now the longest grass-leaves hardly emerge;
Yet her deep footsteps mark the snow, and go
On towards the pines at the hills' white verge.
I cannot see her, since the mist's white scarf
Obscures the dark wood and the dull orange sky;
But she's waiting, I know, impatient and cold, half
Sobs struggling into her frosty sigh.
Why does she come so promptly, when she must know
That she's only the nearer to the inevitable farewell;
The hill is steep, on the snow my steps are slow—
Why does she come, when she knows what I have to tell?
Grey Evening
by David Herbert Lawrence
When you went, how was it you carried with you
My missal book of fine, flamboyant hours?
My book of turrets and of red-thorn bowers,
And skies of gold, and ladies in bright tissue?
Now underneath a blue-grey twilight, heaped
Beyond the withering snow of the shorn fields
Stands rubble of stunted houses; all is reaped
And garnered that the golden daylight yields.
Dim lamps like yellow poppies glimmer among
The shadowy stubble of the under-dusk,
As farther off the scythe of night is swung,
And little stars come rolling from their husk.
And all the earth is gone into a dust
Of greyness mingled with a fume of gold,
Covered with aged lichens, past with must,
And all the sky has withered and gone cold.
And so I sit and scan the book of grey,
Feeling the shadows like a blind man reading,
All fearful lest I find the last words bleeding
With wounds of sunset and the dying day.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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Poetry: October 15, 2014 Issue [#6607]
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