i‘m reading D.H. Lawrence again. He comes from around the same part of England as my hero, and I’m trying to capture a feel for rhythm once again. The problem is that Lawrence is — how shall I say this — not very romantic.
Take this poem:

Intimates

Don’t you care for my love? she said bitterly.

I handed her the mirror, and said:
Please address these questions to the proper person!
Please make all request to head-quarters!
In all matters of emotional importance
please approach the supreme authority direct!–
So I handed her the mirror.

And she would have broken it over my head,
but she caught sight of her own reflection
and that held her spellbound for two seconds
while I fled.

Would you want that man to be your hero?

~ divider ~