A collection of wonderful, heartfelt poems dealing with love and loss, friendship and enmity, and a host of other shades of the human soul. I hope you take something away from them (and I don't mean plagiarism!)
Wednesday, 16 January 2013
Not that she had no equal, not that she was
His before flesh was his or the world was; Not that she had the especial excellence To make her cat-indolence and shrew-mouth Index to its humanity. Her looks Were what a good friend would not comment on. If he made flattery too particular, Admiring her cookery or lipstick, Her eyes reflected painfully. Yet not that He pitied her: he did not pity her.
“Any woman born”, he said, “having What any woman born cannot but have, Has as much of the world as is worth more Than wit or lucky looks can make worth more; And I, having what I have as a man Got without choice, and what I have chosen, City and neighbour and work, am poor enough To be more than bettered by a worst woman. Whilst I am this muck of a man in this Muck of existence, I shall not seek more Than a muck of a woman: wit and lucky looks Were a ring disablign this pig-snout, And a tin clasp on this diamond.”
By this he meant to break out of the dream Where’s admiration’s giddy mannequin Leads every sense to motley; he meant to stand naked Awake in the pitch dark where the animal runs, Where the insects couple as they murder each other, Where the fish outwait the water.
The chance changed him: He has found a woman with such wit and looks He can brag of her in every company.