D.H. Lawrence never sounded so good.
Who else owns my heart the way Lawrence does? Dunn? Pastan? Oh they own my soul and capture my poetic imagination, make me cry and often sum up my daily existence…and I have been flirting with Gilbert recently…but no, it is Lawrence who has owned, abused, neglected and yet always loved and most importantly, accepted, my poetic heart since we first we met in college.
And this piece…hmm. Yesterday, I would have said that I had never read it—that it had somehow slipped by me. But today, memory has shown itself for what it truly is: a series of educated guesses. And so I have to go with: I have not felt this poem before, and therefore had no prior memory of it.
…and before this gets so purple that you can no longer muddle through, I’ll end it there.
Originally published at Going Public.