Here's how I chose today's poem. First, I thought to myself, "I'm feeling a little Bukowski-ish today," but then I went and read a couple of Bukowski poems including "The Lucky Ones" and I thought, "No, I am asbolutely NOT feeling Bukowski-ish," and I decided that I was feeling happier than that, more along the lines of the Modest Mouse song "Bukowski" than actually like Bukowski. So I went in search of happy poems that would enhance my Friday afternoon mood, and then I discovered that many poetry sites have no happy poems. Poets.org, for example, has categories like "love," "hard times," "work," and "politics," but no happy. So I googled "Happy Poems"and got to this site, where I saw the title of today's poem, Whales Weep Not!, and I thought: "There! That's my poem! It's happy and triumphant sounding and will work perfectly."
Then I read the poem, and thought: "Oh, crap, it's whale porn."
But I went with it anyway.
Whales Weep Not!
by David Herbert Lawrence
They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains
the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.
All the whales in the wider deeps, hot are they, as they urge
on and on, and dive beneath the icebergs.
The right whales, the sperm-whales, the hammer-heads, the killers
there they blow, there they blow, hot wild white breath out of
And they rock, and they rock, through the sensual ageless ages
on the depths of the seven seas,
and through the salt they reel with drunk delight
and in the tropics tremble they with love
and roll with massive, strong desire, like gods.
Then the great bull lies up against his bride
in the blue deep bed of the sea,
as mountain pressing on mountain, in the zest of life:
and out of the inward roaring of the inner red ocean of whale-blood
the long tip reaches strong, intense, like the maelstrom-tip, and
comes to rest
in the clasp and the soft, wild clutch of a she-whale's
And over the bridge of the whale's strong phallus, linking the
wonder of whales
the burning archangels under the sea keep passing, back and
keep passing, archangels of bliss
from him to her, from her to him, great Cherubim
that wait on whales in mid-ocean, suspended in the waves of the
great heaven of whales in the waters, old hierarchies.
And enormous mother whales lie dreaming suckling their whale-
and dreaming with strange whale eyes wide open in the waters of
the beginning and the end.
And bull-whales gather their women and whale-calves in a ring
when danger threatens, on the surface of the ceaseless flood
and range themselves like great fierce Seraphim facing the threat
encircling their huddled monsters of love.
And all this happens in the sea, in the salt
where God is also love, but without words:
and Aphrodite is the wife of whales
most happy, happy she!
and Venus among the fishes skips and is a she-dolphin
she is the gay, delighted porpoise sporting with love and the sea
she is the female tunny-fish, round and happy among the males
and dense with happy blood, dark rainbow bliss in the sea.
And,for good measure, here's Bukowski, by Modest Mouse: