Today I feature D. H. Lawrence, the English writer whose prolific and diverse output included his novels, short stories, poems, plays, essays and much more. Lawrence confronted issues that related to emotional health and vitality, human sexuality and instinct, for which he was condemned.
D. H. Lawrence’s opinions did earn him many enemies and he did endure official persecution, censorship and the misrepresentation of of his creative work that took place throughout the second half of his life, he voluntarily spent in exile which he called his “savage pilgrimage”.
At the time of his death his public reputation was that of a pornographer and that he had wasted his talents. A pornographer he most certainly was not, the beauty of his work can hardly be called a waste of talents.
Time moves on and we can see to call him a “pornographer” was unjustified. It is always sad to me that so many Poets, writers who are “different” say things that so many of us say within ourselves, they are so cruelly vilified not only in life but in some cases even Death. These writers have the courage to write those words so frowned upon by the so called critics and experts, for us to enjoy. Is it not better to be “different” in life, people remember you may not like you because you are different but thats their problem.
Born – David, Herbert, Richards Lawrence – September 11, 1885 at Eastwood, Nottinghamshire, England. Died – March 2, 1930 age 44 years, Vence, France.
D. H. Lawrence died of Tuberculosis. His Ashes are interred in a small Chapel, East of Taos amid the Mountains of New Mexico.
As its Sunday, as a treat I have included two small Poems of D. H. Lawrence, which I hope you will enjoy.
“All The Roses”
By Isar, in the twilight
We were wandering and singing;
By the Isar, in the evening
We climbed the huntsman’s ladder and sat swinging
In the fir-tree overlooking the marshes;
While river met with river, and the ringing
Of the their pale-green glacier-water filled the evening.
The dawn was apple green,
The sky was green wine held up in the sun,
The moon was a golden petal between.
She opened her eyes, and green
They shone, clear like flowers undone,
For the first time, now for the first time seen.
The two Poems appeared in “Poetry a magazine of Verse January 1914” Vol III No.4