I haven't read too much ultra-modern poetry lately, either! But here is just a small selection of love poems that I enjoy and will read again and again. A couple are taken from an excellent anthology on my bookshelf, "Love's Witness, Five Centuries of Love Poetry by Women" - there are some really different poems in here! (See "The Connoisseuse of Slugs" quoted below
)Others I have collected from various sources over the past 30 years or so - I even have some from the 1970's girl's magazines, Jackie and Romeo! - which I copy into a folder, not just love poems, that I come across that I particularly like. (I haven't bothered to mention the "greats" here, such as Shakespeare, Keats etc, as I am sure we are all au fait with the more popular stuff!)
Be Still As You Are Beautiful - Patrick McDonagh
There Is Only One Story - Erica Jong
The Moment - Dannie Abse
"He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven" - W.B.Yeats
When You Are Old - W.B.Yeats
The Voice - Thomas Hardy
Gone - Edward Lucie Smith
Sonnet 43 - Elizabeth Barrett Browning (yes, I know - it's now a common wedding reading, but I still like it!)
Gone - Mary Coleridge
Why? - Mary Webb
Do You Not Know That I Need To Touch You - Frances Horovitz
It could be argued that this is not a love poem - well, I would interpret it as such, personally, as it wasn't until I truly loved a man (and therefore his "downstairs furniture") , that I could relate to Ms Olds' analogy! Plus I used to collect snails at the age of 10, so I especially appreciate the slug-hunting imagery!The Connoisseuse of Slugs- Sharon Olds
When I was a connoisseuse of slugs
I would part the ivy leaves, and look for the
naked jelly of those gold bodies,
translucent strangers glistening along the
stones, slowly, their gelatinous bodies
at my mercy. Made mostly of water, they would shrivel
to nothing if they were sprinkled with salt,
but I was not interested in that. What I liked
was to draw aside the ivy, breathe the
odor of the wall, and stand there in silence
until the slug forgot I was there
and sent its antennae up out of its
head, the glimmering umber horns
rising like telescopes, until finally the sensitive knobs would
pop out the ends,
delicate and intimate. Years later,
when I first saw a naked man,
I gasped with pleasure to see that quiet
mystery reenacted, the slow
elegant being coming out of hiding and
gleaming in the dark air, eager and so
trusting you could weep.