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Poems on Being Hurt from Love
Contents:


  1. Related Poems | Power Poetry
  2. POETRY AND RESOURCES IN EMAIL FORM
  3. Search form
  4. Hurting Poems

Were you aiming to make some kind of statement? Most of the sex in my book actually takes place in the context of jokes!

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Related Poems | Power Poetry

Sex is funny to me, because I have the sense of humour of a year-old girl. But there are just as many helicopters exploding and weird meat references and TV shows as there is sex in my book.

But look at Catullus! He was writing far dirtier stuff thousands of years ago.

POETRY AND RESOURCES IN EMAIL FORM

How does it feel to have the world, and presumably your family and friends, know your innermost romantic and sexual thoughts? People who write autobiographically will always tell you the same thing, but it happens to be absolutely true so I will parrot it, that the things that upset the real people in your book are never what you think they'll be, and are almost impossible to predict and therefore prevent.

I have a lower amount of shame than other people, but a lot of that is due to having an exceptionally liberal family with a great sense of humour. I work in a bookshop, most of my friends are writers or artists and I know I'm extremely lucky in this regard, because it has allowed me to write whatever I like without any fear of social repercussions. What the reader is getting is always a very carefully constructed kind of intimacy.

In "Bisexuality" you write about your sexuality and the stigma around being bisexual. What were you hoping to achieve with the poem and what do you make of the way it's been received? I wrote that poem at a time when there was a huge public backlash against the stereotyping of bisexuality, which, ultimately is fair enough, but which I found dreadfully earnest. I thought, instead of earnestly arguing on message boards about inclusion, whatever bad things you think about me, fine, let me make them worse.

Bisexuality has a rich and wonderful history of histrionic, flighty and badly behaved women, and I wanted to celebrate those women too, the hedonists and degenerates and socialites. How do you feel about being dubbed an "Instapoet" and being named alongside a roster of other female poets? As far as I can see you're not even on Instagram, although you are on Twitter. I only have a private Instagram account and every time someone writes about me as an Instapoet I get all these requests I then have to turn down.


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What impact has the internet had on poetry? Nothing is every truly democratic, but the internet has made it so much easier for people to share their work, and it has changed what it's possible to both read or write. Everything exists on the internet, which is the whole point of the internet.


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How brilliant is it to be able to read out-of-print Joe Brainard books in the middle of Copenhagen, or check what Rimbaud said on your phone in the middle of a crowded airport? How does it make you feel when your work goes viral? Your poem "Monica" struck a chord online. And how should we interpret it when certain things go viral over others? The experience of that poem going viral allowed me to think more critically about my own writing.

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In general, my poetry aside, I think the public are by and large good critics. I use Tumblr to read a lot of 20th-century poetry and my favourite works are extremely well represented and intelligently discussed. Most of my poems that get shared now are generally the poems I feel are my best. I was staring at a blank Word document on my. The literary landscape has been alight this year with bestselling novels by women. Candice Carty-Williams' witty debut, Queenie, dubbed the novel of the. Grab your longbow, braid your hair, and hop on the train to the Capital, because Suzanne Collins is taking us back to Panem.

The Hunger Games prequel book. Alfred Lord Tennyson Tears, Idle Tears Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

In Memoriam, [To Sleep I give my powers away] To Sleep I give my powers away; My will is bondsman to the dark; I sit within a helmless bark, And with my heart I muse and say: O heart, how fares it with thee now, That thou should fail from thy desire, Who scarcely darest to inquire, "What is it makes me beat so low? Break thou deep vase of chilling tears, That grief hath shaken into frost!

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross All night below the darkened eyes; With morning wakes the will, and cries, "Thou shalt not be the fool of loss. In Memoriam, Epilogue, [O true and tried, so well and long] O true and tried, so well and long, Demand not thou a marriage lay; In that it is thy marriage day Is music more than any song. Nor have I felt so much of bliss Since first he told me that he loved A daughter of our house; nor proved Since that dark day a day like this; Tho' I since then have number'd o'er Some thrice three years: they went and came, Remade the blood and changed the frame, And yet is love not less, but more; No longer caring to embalm In dying songs a dead regret, But like a statue solid-set, And moulded in colossal calm.

Regret is dead, but love is more Than in the summers that are flown, For I myself with these have grown To something greater than before; Which makes appear the songs I made As echoes out of weaker times, As half but idle brawling rhymes, The sport of random sun and shade. But where is she, the bridal flower, That must be made a wife ere noon? She enters, glowing like the moon Of Eden on its bridal bower: On me she bends her blissful eyes And then on thee; they meet thy look And brighten like the star that shook Betwixt the palms of paradise.

Explore poetry from the inside out

O when her life was yet in bud, He too foretold the perfect rose. For thee she grew, for thee she grows For ever, and as fair as good. And thou art worthy; full of power; As gentle; liberal-minded, great, Consistent; wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower. But now set out: the noon is near, And I must give away the bride; She fears not, or with thee beside And me behind her, will not fear. For I that danced her on my knee, That watch'd her on her nurse's arm, That shielded all her life from harm At last must part with her to thee; Now waiting to be made a wife, Her feet, my darling, on the dead Their pensive tablets round her head, And the most living words of life Breathed in her ear.

The ring is on, The 'wilt thou' answer'd, and again The 'wilt thou' ask'd, till out of twain Her sweet 'I will' has made you one. Now sign your names, which shall be read, Mute symbols of a joyful morn, By village eyes as yet unborn; The names are sign'd, and overhead Begins the clash and clang that tells The joy to every wandering breeze; The blind wall rocks, and on the trees The dead leaf trembles to the bells. O happy hour, and happier hours Await them. Many a merry face Salutes them? O happy hour, behold the bride With him to whom her hand I gave. They leave the porch, they pass the grave That has to-day its sunny side.

Hurting Poems

To-day the grave is bright for me, For them the light of life increased, Who stay to share the morning feast, Who rest to-night beside the sea. Let all my genial spirits advance To meet and greet a whiter sun; My drooping memory will not shun The foaming grape of eastern France. It circles round, and fancy plays, And hearts are warm'd and faces bloom, As drinking health to bride and groom We wish them store of happy days.

Nor count me all to blame if I Conjecture of a stiller guest, Perchance, perchance, among the rest, And, tho' in silence, wishing joy. But they must go, the time draws on, And those white-favour'd horses wait; They rise, but linger; it is late; Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. A shade falls on us like the dark From little cloudlets on the grass, But sweeps away as out we pass To range the woods, to roam the park, Discussing how their courtship grew, And talk of others that are wed, And how she look'd, and what he said, And back we come at fall of dew.

Again the feast, the speech, the glee, The shade of passing thought, the wealth Of words and wit, the double health, The crowning cup, the three-times-three, And last the dance;?