Added: Kylene Kinlaw - Date: 11.04.2022 13:09 - Views: 37497 - Clicks: 556
Love is the greatest of all emotions, a passion more meaningful than any other, and the most valuable human experience in our lifetimes. Poets especially understand that words are unique and that the gift of a handwritten love note can often take precedent over an expensive dinner date. Over history, literary couples have shared their love and presented their own personality by swapping a plethora of persuasions, subtle flirtations and sometimes even outrageous filth with one another in print.
Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger. I read the paper about suicides and murders and I understand it thoroughly. I feel murderous, suicidal. What better way to regenerate the mechanics of love and its smouldering, to map out the human psyche and dwindle with the complexities of two people ing together — a puzzle we all struggle with — other than to expose it all in writing, uncovering the sense from the senseless?
At this feast of scribbling, poets feed each other with ink-filled forks, and the chronology of correspondences topple on platters to document their tenuous journey, immortalizing the hunger and tension of desire. And when things go wrong in the relationship poets also have the ability to work it out over a down-pour of spitfire lines, riding out a ram of syllables as argument swiftly starts to negotiate with swoon and fall category to great, tidal love poems.
Anais Nin struggled with the thrills of love, as at its best it came with an absence of turmoil that she felt she needed to spurn praiseworthy prose, she gently mocks herself and her own seriousness in this sudden realisation:. That I love you.
I have become an idiot like Gertrude Stein. They cannot write letters any more. But the platform of writing is an inexhaustible space, there are always a torrent of ways to declare desire; fuelled with lust to loyalty, romance to jealousy, and all the other heralded sentiments that invite deliberate poetics — showing us that seduction really is an affair of language. Yet, some of the great letters between notorious literary lovers were private correspondences that they never expected to be immortalized in books.
They were not written, like most poetry, for publication.
Your slim gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. I know Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved so madly, was you in Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do go there to cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place and lacks only you; but go to Salisbury first.
Always, with undying love, Yours, Oscar. The documents are stocked with typos; missing punctuation, and the grammatical oddities common in writing propelled by a rupturing of intensity, rather than a poetic precision.
Formal metre and rhyme is often tossed for a more fluid juxtaposition of free flowing thoughts, lines are not often tampered with after they are expressed, yet passion is resurrected and candid moments are confessed, asimilar to poetry. Usually written wildly, avoiding line breaks and causing bulky forms instead of slimline shapes, but for those who have never written a poem, writing a love letter is the closest you could get to formatting that kind of cathartic creation, that rapture.
Love letters get right to the heart of truth, despite the haemorrhage of theatricalities performed on the way there. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Ansalusian blood, distilled and poisonous. Everything I do and say and think relates back to the marriage. I saw you as the mistress of your home…eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman. Think of that. Throw over your man, I say, and come. This unparalleled passion stands as a poem to me, but either way, can you imagine finding that as a message in your inbox one morning sipping coffee through a yawn.
The digital crossover of letter to electronic mail does not prevent the beauty in which we write to each other as a method of flattery. I have been intimate with a few writers, and I know that the chemistry between the writing to each other elevates the act of intimacy to a supreme platform. Experiences together are documented and discussed in illuminative fervent messages, all the senses are heightened by the charm of collected words made conceptual on thethe retelling and reliving of the moment keeping us both enthralled.
Flirtation in prose is seriously glorious foreplay. I have felt it in your arm — Hush!
Let not the light see, I was going to say hear it — These confessions should only be uttered — you know where, when the curtains are up — and all the world shut out. Follow her on the blog here.
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Love Letters for Her