The Poems

Yes, William Shakespeare. That upstart niche writer who never really caught on. And here you are with The Poems — the bit of Shakespeare that isn’t all daggers, ghosts, and people dramatically dying in corridors, but is instead packed with desire, wit, vanity, longing, jealousy, philosophy, and the occasional line that makes you mutter, “Alright then, show-off.”

This is the 1978 Methuen edition (ISBN: 0416278701), offered in Good condition by Crappy Old Books. A pleasingly practical copy: not a precious museum relic, not a glossy coffee-table intimidation device, but the sort of book you can actually read, underline (if you’re brave), and carry around while feeling faintly more literate than everyone within a ten-metre radius. Expect normal signs of a life on shelves and in hands — a little wear, perhaps some age toning — but still solid, readable, and ready for another round of being Shakespeare.

What’s inside? The poems. Which is where Shakespeare proves he can do everything he does on stage, but in tighter clothing.

You get the sonnets — those famous 14-line emotional hand grenades — where he immortalises beauty, wrestles with time, moans about desire, praises, scolds, flatters, panics, and then casually invents a new standard for saying “I can’t stop thinking about you” without sounding like a text message at 2am. There’s the whole complicated tangle of devotion and resentment, the dizzy swing between “you are perfect” and “why are you like this,” and the constant awareness that time is coming for your face. It’s romantic, yes — but in the way a storm is romantic.

Then you get the longer narrative poems, where the mood shifts into mythic drama and sensuous storytelling. Everyone is luminous, everyone is doomed, and the language is doing that classic Shakespeare thing where it makes your brain go oh, even when you’re not entirely sure what just happened. It’s like being lightly elbowed by genius.

This book is ideal for:

• People who say they “don’t really do poetry” but secretly enjoy emotional fireworks with elegant phrasing

• Readers who want Shakespeare without needing a family tree, a swordfight, or a stage direction that reads “Exit, pursued by a bear”

• Anyone who enjoys being reminded that humans have always been messy, horny, insecure, and terrified of ageing — they just used to express it with better rhythm

Condition: Good means it has the sort of wear you’d expect from a book that’s been opened more than once, which is very much the point. It may have a gently creased spine, slightly rubbed edges, that faint “1978 paperback paper” feel — but it remains perfectly serviceable for reading, revisiting, and occasionally staring into the middle distance after a particularly sharp line lands.

From Crappy Old Books, where we’re delighted to supply the works of the world’s most quoted writer in a form that doesn’t require white gloves or reverent whispering. Shakespeare didn’t write this to sit politely on a shelf. He wrote it to be read, argued with, and occasionally muttered at under your breath.

Open it anywhere. You’ll find something that still feels inconveniently true.

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