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Poèmes
La poésie n'est pas l'aspect le plus connu de l'auteur de L'Amant de Lady Chatterley. Or ses premières oeuvres sont pourtant des poèmes, c'est par eux qu'il a été connu, et il n'a jamais cessé d'en écrire au cours de sa très brève existence (il est mort dans sa quarante-cinquième année). Le scandale qui entoura son oeuvre romanesque et fit que la police saisit L'Arc-en-ciel en 1915, puis L'Amant de Lady Chatterley en 1928, fut le même pour ses poésies, et Pansies (Pensées) a aussi été saisi en 1929.
- GenresPoetry
300 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 1967
3 people are currently reading
40 people want to read
About the author
D.H. Lawrence
2,272 books4,259 followersDavid Herbert Richards Lawrence was an English writer of the 20th century, whose prolific and diverse output included novels, short stories, poems, plays, essays, travel books, paintings, translations, literary criticism, and personal letters. His collected works represent an extended reflection upon the dehumanizing effects of modernity and industrialisation. In them, Lawrence confronts issues relating to emotional health and vitality, spontaneity, human sexuality and instinct.
Lawrence's opinions earned him many enemies and he endured official persecution, censorship, and misrepresentation of his creative work throughout the second half of his life, much of which he spent in a voluntary exile he called his "savage pilgrimage." At the time of his death, his public reputation was that of a pornographer who had wasted his considerable talents. E. M. Forster, in an obituary notice, challenged this widely held view, describing him as "the greatest imaginative novelist of our generation." Later, the influential Cambridge critic F. R. Leavis championed both his artistic integrity and his moral seriousness, placing much of Lawrence's fiction within the canonical "great tradition" of the English novel. He is now generally valued as a visionary thinker and a significant representative of modernism in English literature.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D.H._Law...
Lawrence's opinions earned him many enemies and he endured official persecution, censorship, and misrepresentation of his creative work throughout the second half of his life, much of which he spent in a voluntary exile he called his "savage pilgrimage." At the time of his death, his public reputation was that of a pornographer who had wasted his considerable talents. E. M. Forster, in an obituary notice, challenged this widely held view, describing him as "the greatest imaginative novelist of our generation." Later, the influential Cambridge critic F. R. Leavis championed both his artistic integrity and his moral seriousness, placing much of Lawrence's fiction within the canonical "great tradition" of the English novel. He is now generally valued as a visionary thinker and a significant representative of modernism in English literature.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D.H._Law...
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Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews
September 6, 2022
If she would come to me here
Now the sunken swaths
Are glittering paths
To the sun, and the swallows cut clear
Into the setting sun! if she came to me here!
...
I should like to drop
On the hay, with my head on her knee,
And lie dead still, while she
Breathed quiet above me; and the crop
Of stars grew silently.
I should like to lie still
...feeling
Her hand go stealing
Over my face and my head, until
This ache was shed.
(Dog-Tired)
***
Piano
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appasionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
***
At the open door of the room I stand and look at the night,
Hold my hand to catch the raindrops, that slant into sight,
Arriving grey from the darkness above suddenly into the light
of the room.
...
I will catch in my eyes' quick net
The faces of all the women as they go past,
Bend over them with my soul, to cherish the wet
Cheeks and wet hair a moment, saying: 'Is it you?'
...
I can always linger over the huddled books on the stalls,
Always gladden my amorous fingers with the touch of their leaves
...
I will trail my hands again through the drenched, cold leaves
Till my hands are full of the chillness and touch of leaves,
Till at length they induce me to sleep, and to forget.
(Restlessness)
***
I have been, and I have returned.
I have mounted up on the wings of the morning, and I have
dredged down to the zenith's reversal.
Which is my way, being man.
Gods may stay in mid-heaven, the Son of Man has climbed
to the Whitsun zenith,
But I, Matthew, being a man
Am a traveller back and forth.
So be it.
(St Mathew)
***
Desire is Dead
Desire may be dead
and still a man can be
a meeting place for sun and rain
wonder outwaiting pain
as in a wintry tree.
***
Though the purple dreams of the innocent spring have gone
And the glimmering dreamlets of the morning are pallid and wan
...
The Campions drift in fragile, rosy mist,
Draw nearer, redden and laugh like young girls kissed
Into a daring, short breath'd confession
Which opens earth and Heaven to Love's fugitive, glowing
progression
(Campions)
Now the sunken swaths
Are glittering paths
To the sun, and the swallows cut clear
Into the setting sun! if she came to me here!
...
I should like to drop
On the hay, with my head on her knee,
And lie dead still, while she
Breathed quiet above me; and the crop
Of stars grew silently.
I should like to lie still
...feeling
Her hand go stealing
Over my face and my head, until
This ache was shed.
(Dog-Tired)
***
Piano
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appasionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
***
At the open door of the room I stand and look at the night,
Hold my hand to catch the raindrops, that slant into sight,
Arriving grey from the darkness above suddenly into the light
of the room.
...
I will catch in my eyes' quick net
The faces of all the women as they go past,
Bend over them with my soul, to cherish the wet
Cheeks and wet hair a moment, saying: 'Is it you?'
...
I can always linger over the huddled books on the stalls,
Always gladden my amorous fingers with the touch of their leaves
...
I will trail my hands again through the drenched, cold leaves
Till my hands are full of the chillness and touch of leaves,
Till at length they induce me to sleep, and to forget.
(Restlessness)
***
I have been, and I have returned.
I have mounted up on the wings of the morning, and I have
dredged down to the zenith's reversal.
Which is my way, being man.
Gods may stay in mid-heaven, the Son of Man has climbed
to the Whitsun zenith,
But I, Matthew, being a man
Am a traveller back and forth.
So be it.
(St Mathew)
***
Desire is Dead
Desire may be dead
and still a man can be
a meeting place for sun and rain
wonder outwaiting pain
as in a wintry tree.
***
Though the purple dreams of the innocent spring have gone
And the glimmering dreamlets of the morning are pallid and wan
...
The Campions drift in fragile, rosy mist,
Draw nearer, redden and laugh like young girls kissed
Into a daring, short breath'd confession
Which opens earth and Heaven to Love's fugitive, glowing
progression
(Campions)
August 29, 2020
El barco de la muerte, tremendo poema.
December 31, 2019
Muy buena edición en Rústica. Cuidada selección de poemas, introducción desde la pasión por el autor que nos da una visión más acabada de donde ubicar sus obras. Y me ayuda a valorarla
August 11, 2023
2'5 ⭐. No es un mal poemario, simplemente no conecté con él.
October 8, 2014
Ammetto la mia (poco) beata ignoranza ma conoscevo David Herbert Lawrence solo ed unicamente per il famosissimo, come direbbero Aldo, Giovanni e Giacomo, è un libro che conoscono anche i fermenti lattici, "L'amante di Lady Chatterley". Ed invece, grazie ad una delle mie incursioni in biblioteca, ho scoperto un, per me sconosciuto, aspetto di David Herbert Lawrence, quello di poeta. In questa raccolta scopriamo che Lawrence è anche "il più grande poeta della natura... il più sottile, spietato interprete del mistero della vita e del cosmo.", come recita la quarta di copertina del volume.
Tra le varie poesie che compongono questo libro voglio soffermarmi su alcune, racchiuse in quella che, idealmente, possiamo definire la seconda parte del volume, anche se nel libro non vi sono suddivisioni di sorta. La prima s'intitola "Prigioniero del suo ego" e paragona le persone chiuse, alla stregua di prigionieri, nel proprio ego alle piante prigioniere di vasi che le costringono limitandone lo sviluppo. La poesia finisce con un alito di ottimismo quando il poeta suggerisce alle persone che si trovassero in quella limitante situazione di prigioniere di farsi forti come quelle piante che riescono ad infrangere i vasi ed a svilupparsi finalmente libere.
La seconda poesia che voglio mettere sotto la lente è "Il trionfo della macchina" nella quale Lawrence afferma che il trionfo delle macchine sarà destinata a terminare e quindi suggerisce di far maggiore affidamento a quello che è destinato ad avere una durata ed un'importanza maggiore.
Fedele al famoso detto "Non c'è due, senza tre concludo le mie osservazioni da vicino con la poesia "Non ci sono dei. Qui il poeta dice, evidentemente rivolgendosi a quel tipo di persone che vivono senza guardare oltre al "qui e ora", "Non ci sono dei, e tu puoi compiacertene" quindi invitando, per così dire, la propria controparte a vivere tranquillo facendo tutto quello che preferisce senza preoccupazioni. Poi però invita questa terza parte a lasciargli le sue certezze, così come lui lascia che lui (o lei) viva come meglio crede.
Una raccolta di poesie per scoprire ed apprezzare una delle voci più alte del panorama poetico mondiale.
Tra le varie poesie che compongono questo libro voglio soffermarmi su alcune, racchiuse in quella che, idealmente, possiamo definire la seconda parte del volume, anche se nel libro non vi sono suddivisioni di sorta. La prima s'intitola "Prigioniero del suo ego" e paragona le persone chiuse, alla stregua di prigionieri, nel proprio ego alle piante prigioniere di vasi che le costringono limitandone lo sviluppo. La poesia finisce con un alito di ottimismo quando il poeta suggerisce alle persone che si trovassero in quella limitante situazione di prigioniere di farsi forti come quelle piante che riescono ad infrangere i vasi ed a svilupparsi finalmente libere.
La seconda poesia che voglio mettere sotto la lente è "Il trionfo della macchina" nella quale Lawrence afferma che il trionfo delle macchine sarà destinata a terminare e quindi suggerisce di far maggiore affidamento a quello che è destinato ad avere una durata ed un'importanza maggiore.
Fedele al famoso detto "Non c'è due, senza tre concludo le mie osservazioni da vicino con la poesia "Non ci sono dei. Qui il poeta dice, evidentemente rivolgendosi a quel tipo di persone che vivono senza guardare oltre al "qui e ora", "Non ci sono dei, e tu puoi compiacertene" quindi invitando, per così dire, la propria controparte a vivere tranquillo facendo tutto quello che preferisce senza preoccupazioni. Poi però invita questa terza parte a lasciargli le sue certezze, così come lui lascia che lui (o lei) viva come meglio crede.
Una raccolta di poesie per scoprire ed apprezzare una delle voci più alte del panorama poetico mondiale.
January 1, 2024
EL ELEFANTE TARDA EN COPULAR
El elefante, la inmensa bestia antigua,
tarda en copular,
encuentra una hembra; no tienen prisa, aguardan
a que lenta, lentamente aparezca
la simpatía en sus vastos y tímidos corazones,
mientras pasean por las orillas del río
y beben y comen las ramas
y se precipitan en pánico a través del matorral
del bosque con la manada,
y duermen en masivo silencio, y se despiertan juntos
sin una palabra.
Tan lentamente crece el deseo
en sus grandes corazones cálidos de elefantes,
que por último las grandes bestias copulan en secre-
to, escogiendo su fuego.
Las bestias más antiguas y más sabias
saben por último
cómo esperar la más solitaria de las fiestas
para el ágape más pleno.
Ni arrebatan ni rasguñan;
su sangre masiva
se mueve como las mareas de la luna, más cerca
hasta que se tocan en la inundación.
p. 78 - Magnética traducción de Marcelo Covián
El elefante, la inmensa bestia antigua,
tarda en copular,
encuentra una hembra; no tienen prisa, aguardan
a que lenta, lentamente aparezca
la simpatía en sus vastos y tímidos corazones,
mientras pasean por las orillas del río
y beben y comen las ramas
y se precipitan en pánico a través del matorral
del bosque con la manada,
y duermen en masivo silencio, y se despiertan juntos
sin una palabra.
Tan lentamente crece el deseo
en sus grandes corazones cálidos de elefantes,
que por último las grandes bestias copulan en secre-
to, escogiendo su fuego.
Las bestias más antiguas y más sabias
saben por último
cómo esperar la más solitaria de las fiestas
para el ágape más pleno.
Ni arrebatan ni rasguñan;
su sangre masiva
se mueve como las mareas de la luna, más cerca
hasta que se tocan en la inundación.
p. 78 - Magnética traducción de Marcelo Covián
January 6, 2017
D.H. Lawrence est l'un de mes auteurs préférés et chaque nouvelle lecture me renforce dans cette conviction. Ses poèmes sont magnifiques. Exceptionnels dans leur simplicité. Lawrence nous pose cette question simple : qu'est-ce que vivre ? qu'est ce que la vie ? et chacun de ses poèmes est guidé par l'envie de rendre sensible l'experience vivante, la faire durer au-delà de la technique, au-delà de la mort.
Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews