7 months dating poems
Ailbhe Darcy What other words could there be for what I felt, at 13 or so, when I laid eyes on a certain “gold, dark boy”, but Chimborazo, Cotopaxi?
Sure, these words may at times have been arbitrarily attached to other, more mountainy objects, but here, in this poem, they find their true home.
Here’s one from the 13th century, by Beatriz, Countess of Dia, which I translated for a book I did called How I’d like him oh how I would like him my cavalier even if for a single night naked in my arms his head resting on my lap I love him, more than Floris loved Blanchflor I did not tell him this Everyone, everyone should know To him I gave my heart my soul my reason my eyes my life My tender beautiful cavalier when will I have you for myself?
For one night only naked in your arms If you could only take my husband’s place and swear to me you’ll answer when I call, and heed my desire. In hours like these, one rises to address The ages, history, and all creation.
I met my future husband at 19, and I wrote this poem in a notebook for him.
It catches perfectly the trance of new love, perhaps love as yet undeclared, the dawning realisation implied in “half-words”, the reticence and delicious hesitation of one who right now, right here is discovering herself, or himself, new-fledged in love.
The shift in scale that permits identification with the Earth turning towards rebirth in spring is brought perfectly home in the poem’s masterstroke, the repetition of “Despite the snow” and, even more, the suspension of time in that amplifiying “falling”. Nine Bright Shiners Medbh Mc Guckian When one was sweet and twenty something , clutching at the straw of one’s virginity, it was Yeats’s lessons in lovesex that hit home, from “Brown penny, one cannot begin it too soon,” to the doting grandmother in focused on a Catholic family in the nuclear ’60s subverting puritanical denials and frustrations with a gesture of tenderness.
The girl in it does not escape, whereas in John Francis Waller’s Victorian ballad, , the maid Eileen woos her grandmother into drowsiness with her own affectionate singing (all wrong according to the old woman), lulls her and leaps out in a bid for freedom to rove in the moonlight with her true love.
That the poet is anonymous, adds further to the mystery of the piece written about 1530.
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.