Well I disagree with the gentleman about not taking advice from Byron. He did after all write, "Woman, thy vows are traced in sand."
But for a thinking woman, 130 is golden...it's easy to love someone that you can compare to a summer's day, especially if you get to fuck them. That's a kind of selfish love. If you say, "You're kind of lame, and you scrape the fork against your teeth when you eat, and watch nothing but Felicity re-runs and think Toni Morrison deserved a Nobel Prize, but I love you anyway" well that's a lot better kind of love in my opinion.
he left out some really schmaltzey crap that could reap Valentine's Day Gold though:
Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears, And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries,-- To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears A smile of such delight, As brilliant and as bright, As when ravished, aching, vassal eyes, Lost in soft amaze, I gaze, I gaze!
--Keats, 'To Fanny' v.2
and for the more obscure:
Ask nothing more of me, sweet; All I can give you I give. Heart of my heart, were it more, More would be laid at your feet: Love that should help you to live, Song that should spur you to soar. -- Swinburne
there ya go. When I was like 16 I had a whole notebook full of sappy love poetry copied from books and stuff, but I think I've since burnt it or something like that.
(And I do like Byron, but let's face it the man was a sister-fucker.)
*Half* sister fucker. And Greek boy fucker. And who knows what else fucker. And thank God. Like a good artist he destroyed the foundation of his own life to create one for his art. Maybe he was trying to live up to his own image. But his life wasn't all fucking and scandal and fun; he was club-footed and got fat later in life, which was one of his great fears. Quoth Byron: "Everything I ingest turns to tallow and sticks to my ribs." In case you couldn't tell, I'm a huge fan of Byron.
I love Byron. But my favorite love poem these days? Well, there's one by ee cummings ive posted, but it's Sonnet 17 by Pablo Neruda.
"I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, Or the arrows of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, In secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love as the plant that never blooms But carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; Thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, Risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; So I love you because I know no other way Than this: where I does not exist, nor you, So close that your hand on my chest is my hand, So close that your eyes close as I fall asleep."
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2003-02-12 09:01 pm (UTC)But for a thinking woman, 130 is golden...it's easy to love someone that you can compare to a summer's day, especially if you get to fuck them. That's a kind of selfish love. If you say, "You're kind of lame, and you scrape the fork against your teeth when you eat, and watch nothing but Felicity re-runs and think Toni Morrison deserved a Nobel Prize, but I love you anyway" well that's a lot better kind of love in my opinion.
he left out some really schmaltzey crap that could reap Valentine's Day Gold though:
Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears,
And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries,--
To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears
A smile of such delight,
As brilliant and as bright,
As when ravished, aching, vassal eyes,
Lost in soft amaze,
I gaze, I gaze!
--Keats, 'To Fanny' v.2
and for the more obscure:
Ask nothing more of me, sweet;
All I can give you I give.
Heart of my heart, were it more,
More would be laid at your feet:
Love that should help you to live,
Song that should spur you to soar.
-- Swinburne
no subject
Date: 2003-02-12 10:45 pm (UTC)(And I do like Byron, but let's face it the man was a sister-fucker.)
no subject
Date: 2003-02-12 10:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-02-13 07:02 am (UTC)"I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
Or the arrows of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
In secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love as the plant that never blooms
But carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
Thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
Risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
So I love you because I know no other way
Than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
So close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
So close that your eyes close as I fall asleep."