D.H.

The English writer D.H. Lawrence [1885-1930] is someone with a particular reputation, and especially famous for his novels. He's also a very interesting poet--try this piece below. More and other poets here.

SCENT OF IRISES

A faint, sickening scent of irises Persists all morning. Here in a jar on the table A fine proud spike of purple irises Rising above the class-room litter, makes me unable To see the class's lifted and bended faces Save in a broken pattern, amid purple and gold and sable. I can smell the gorgeous bog-end, in its breathless Dazzle of may-blobs, when the marigold glare overcast You with fire on your brow and your cheeks and your chin as you dipped Your face in your marigold bunch, to touch and contrast Your own dark mouth with the bridal faint lady-smocks Dissolved in the golden sorcery you should not outlast. You amid the bog-end's yellow incantation, You sitting in the cowslips of the meadows above, —Me, your shadow on the bog-flame, flowery may-blobs, Me full length in the cowslips, muttering you love— You, your soul like a lady-smock, lost, evanescent, You, with your face all rich, like the sheen on a dove—! [Pg 77] You are always asking, do I remember, remember The buttercup bog-end where the flowers rose up And kindled you over deep with a coat of gold? You ask again, do the healing days close up The open darkness which then drew us in, The dark that swallows all, and nought throws up. You upon the dry, dead beech-leaves, in the fire of night Burnt like a sacrifice;—you invisible— Only the fire of darkness, and the scent of you! —And yes, thank God, it still is possible The healing days shall close the darkness up Wherein I breathed you like a smoke or dew. Like vapour, dew, or poison. Now, thank God, The golden fire has gone, and your face is ash Indistinguishable in the grey, chill day, The night has burnt you out, at last the good Dark fire burns on untroubled without clash Of you upon the dead leaves saying me yea.