Is there any poems about cheating on a person, in the perspective of the one who getting cheated on. I am doing a project, and didn't know if there was any famous poets who wrote a poem about cheating.

Dorothy Parker - Ultimatum

I'm wearied of wearying love, my friend,
Of worry and strain and doubt;
Before we begin, let us view the end,
And maybe I'll do without.
There's never the pang that was worth the tear,
And toss in the night I won't-
So either you do or you don't, my dear,
Either you do or you don't!

The table is ready, so lay your cards
And if they should augur pain,
I'll tender you ever my kind regards
And run for the fastest train.
I haven't the will to be spent and sad;
My heart's to be gay and true-
Then either you don't or you do, my lad,
Either you don't or you do!

Les

Your cheating heart
will make you weep
You'll cry and cry
and try to sleep
But sleep won't come
the whole night through
Your cheating heart
will tell on you

When tears come down,
like falling rain
You'll toss around
and call my name
You'll walk the floor
the way I do
Your cheating heart
will tell on you

Your cheating heart
will pine someday
And crave the love
you threw away
The time will come
when you'll be blue
Your cheating heart
will tell on you

Hank Williams

Browning's My Last Duchess is spoken by a husband who- sometimes- thinks he was cuckolded

[eir.library.utoronto.ca]

Bartleby says there's a cuckolded husband among the speakers in Ovid's ART OF LOVE, but I don't know the passage.

And I'm absolutely certain I've read a poem in which the husband, reflecting on all his wife's possible reasons -- NO, WAIT: I found it!



Anyhow, you fed her five MacKewan Ales,
took her to your room, put the right records on,
and in an hour or two it was done.
I know all about passion and honor
but unfortunately, this had really nothing to do with either:
Oh, there was passion I'm only too sure
And even a little honor
but the important thing was to cuckold Leonard Cohen
I like that line because it's got my name in it.

from "The Cuckold's Song" by (of course) Leonard Cohen



I love the pure self-indulgence of those lines. I found them at: [www.ckk.chalmers.se]

That may be the entire poem, I'm not sure.

yes allie i agree i feel my bf is a cheat but cant tell it sux

no i haven't heard of any so.

And of course Shakespeare- Othello and The Winter's Tale obviously.

Here is another Dorothy Parker titled Unfortunate Coincidence
By the time you swear you're his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying--
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying

Maybe this one written in July 1962 by Sylvia Plath:

'Words heard, by accident, over the phone'

O mud, mud, how fluid!--
Thick as foreign coffee, and with a sluggy pulse.
Speak, speak! Who is it?
It is the bowel-pulse, lover of digestibles.
It is he who has achieved these syllables.

What are these words, these words?
They are plopping like mud.
O god, how shall I ever clean the phone table?
They are pressing out of the many-holed earpiece, they are looking for a listener.
Is he here?

Now the room is ahiss. The instrument
Withdraws its tentacle.
But the spawn percolates in my heart. They are fertile.
Muck funnel, muck funnel--
You are too big. They must take you back!

Oh, gosh, what a lot of merde words. Muck funnel is interesting, especially if the paramour's name is Munnel.

Larkin's Love Again

I'm too delicate a flower to post Larkin's words, but here is a link anyway:

[plagiarist.com]

I wasn't sure whether the forum would permit his frankness, which is why I didn't post them.

This is a stretch, but you might look at HAMLET.

When Hamlet rages about his mother's marriage to Claudius, there's a strong element of him feeling betrayed by her. He identifies strongly with his father (as well as idolizing him), so he takes on the anger of the betrayed husband.

There's stuff scattered through the play, in scenes with Gertrude and in solo passages.

This is one I particularly like, by contemporary Oz poet Anne Brewster -

Ghoul

His kind smile is pasted like a poster
his comfortable eyes arranged
like the meticulous three-piece suit
contriving intimacy. He hints
that he abhors respectability picking
his words like lice, sticky with boredom.
He's slick, he's just like all the rest,
so cool, he does this every day
and asks conspicuously who is that girl,
his hooks so thin they fail the bait.
He's the man who knows the world
and girls inside out, he can give you a taste
of the good life, the one you covet
through shop windows. He talks like a telephone,
hiring sex. His wife doesn't trust him
but he's an individual who doesn't
wash up. He advertises availability
like an empty lot, craving dereliction.
He probes the imagined flesh, a ghoul
at the sideshow of rictal clowns.

A D Hope: Meditation on a Bone