Love Poem- what makes you weak, to just think of it?

[olivefun]

My most recent lover called me in the night to recite this to me.
He has the most wonderful voice.

Written by Walter Benton, in the 40's, I think.
A few days later it was left in my bedroom.

....sssooo sexy!

Can you think of other very evocative, mush-inducing poems? What kind of poems turn you into putty?
(Please, no roses-are-red-violets-are-blue poems..)


...I memorize you . . . walking as if to music. Your dress lies
against the cheeks and hollow of your thighs like running water.
Your breasts nod yes each step,
your slow involute hips cradle the eternal synonym for God.

The dress censors not a syllable of you.
Articulate eyes wink from your breasts and belly, signal from your throat ---
beckon from your knees, your waist . . . your mobile shoulders.

Yes, your body makes eyes at me from every salient,
promises warm, lavish promises ---
curved colored . . . finished in warm velvet..

[BBW Betty]

What a beautiful poem. Thanks for sharing this very personal, but incredible story.

[olivefun]

I just love the "your body makes eyes at me" line.

Still makes me swoon.

[olivefun]

I was looking for the rest of this poem and found another by the same guy, Walter Benton.


Pretty hot stuff for the 1940's.

You rise out of sleep like a growing thing rises out of the garden soil.
Two leaves part to be your mouth, two tender sea leaves ---
and your eyes are wonderfully starlike,
your eyes are luminous and soft as the velvet of pansies

Darling, good morning.

Our arms are empty of each other for a moment only.
How beautifully you turn ... your mouth tilts to let my kisses in.
Lie still ... we shall be longer.

We need so little room, we two ... thus on a single pillow ---
as we move nearer,
nearer heaven --- until I burst inside you like a screaming rocket

Then we are quietly apart . . . returning to this earth.

So, think I am a dreadful romantic?
(don't answer that)
Maybe it is valentine's day creeping into my thoughts..

I don't know what it is..


Love is good.

Olive

[thislittlepiggy]

Hurray! A poetry thread ... I'm a literature professor, so I LOVE this stuff!

I adore John Donne's love poetry for its mix of the physical and the spiritual. One of his sexiest (in a 17th century kind of way, at least) is his Elegy XX, "To His Mistress Going to Bed." Here are some of the steamier lines:

Licence my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O, my America, my Newfoundland,
My kingdom, safest when with one man mann'd,
My mine of precious stones, my empery ;
How am I blest in thus discovering thee !
To enter in these bonds, is to be free ;
Then, where my hand is set, my soul shall be.
Full nakedness ! All joys are due to thee ;
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be
To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
Are like Atlanta's ball cast in men's views ;
That, when a fool's eye lighteth on a gem,
His earthly soul might court that, not them.
Like pictures, or like books' gay coverings made
For laymen, are all women thus array'd.
Themselves are only mystic books, which we
—Whom their imputed grace will dignify—
Must see reveal'd. Then, since that I may know,
As liberally as to thy midwife show
Thyself ; cast all, yea, this white linen hence ;
There is no penance due to innocence :
To teach thee, I am naked first ; why then,
What needst thou have more covering than a man?

I think the discovery/exploration metaphor is just HOT! (Yep, only a nerdy English professor gets hot over metaphors .... but I just can't help myself!)

If you'd like to read the whole thing, you can find it at this address: http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/donne/elegy20.htm

Enjoy!

[Jes]

I have always had a fascination with WWI poetry. I have a good-sized collection of it. This is a looong poem by Amy Lowell, 1915. I love the imagery, her description of the confinement (of clothing and morals and everything else) of the period, and, of course, her appelation of her 'heavy-booted lover.' Mrrrow.

Skim, if it's too long.

Patterns

I walk down the garden paths,
And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern. As I wander down
The garden paths.

My dress is richly figured,
And the train
Makes a pink and silver stain
On the gravel, and the thrift
Of the borders.
Just a plate of current fashion,
Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
Not a softness anywhere about me,
Only whalebone and brocade.
And I sink on a seat in the shade
Of a lime tree. For my passion
Wars against the stiff brocade.
The daffodils and squills
Flutter in the breeze
As they please.
And I weep;
For the lime-tree is in blossom
And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the plashing of waterdrops
In the marble fountain
Comes down the garden-paths.
The dripping never stops.
Underneath my stiffened gown
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
A basin in the midst of hedges grown
So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
But she guesses he is near,
And the sliding of the water
Seems the stroking of a dear
Hand upon her.
What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
And he would stumble after,
Bewildered by my laughter.
I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles
on his shoes.
I would choose
To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,
Till he caught me in the shade,
And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
Aching, melting, unafraid.
With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
And the plopping of the waterdrops,
All about us in the open afternoon --
I am very like to swoon
With the weight of this brocade,
For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom
In my bosom,
Is a letter I have hid.
It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
"Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
Died in action Thursday se'nnight."
As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
The letters squirmed like snakes.
"Any answer, Madam," said my footman.
"No," I told him.
"See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
No, no answer."
And I walked into the garden,
Up and down the patterned paths,
In my stiff, correct brocade.
The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
Each one.
I stood upright too,
Held rigid to the pattern
By the stiffness of my gown.
Up and down I walked,
Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband.
In a month, here, underneath this lime,
We would have broke the pattern;
He for me, and I for him,
He as Colonel, I as Lady,
On this shady seat.
He had a whim
That sunlight carried blessing.
And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."
Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
Up and down
The patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
The squills and daffodils
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
I shall go
Up and down,
In my gown.
Gorgeously arrayed,
Boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
By each button, hook, and lace.
For the man who should loose me is dead,
Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
In a pattern called a war.
Christ! What are patterns for?

[Jes]

Originally Posted by thislittlepiggy

Hurray! A poetry thread ... I'm a literature professor, so I LOVE this stuff!

I adore John Donne's love poetry for its mix of the physical and the spiritual. One of his sexiest (in a 17th century kind of way, at least) is his Elegy XX, "To His Mistress Going to Bed." Here are some of the steamier lines:

Licence my roving hands, and let them go
!

Donne always was a hottie, agreed. Must've been the religious thing.

[thislittlepiggy]

[quote=Jes]I have always had a fascination with WWI poetry. I have a good-sized collection of it.

Jes, great poem! I'm fascinated with WWI poetry, too, as well as the novels of the era.

[MissToodles]

A professor I had last semester (and have again this semester) has a doctorate in 17th century lit. from Columbia. But he was so dull, he took any fun out of Donne. I never want to hear the words "metaphysical conceit" again.

[ConnieLynn]

I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair
Pablo Neruda

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.


Translated by Stephen Tapscott

[Jane]

Anne Sexton

The Kiss

My mouth blooms like a cut.
I've been wronged all year, tedious
nights, nothing but rough elbows in them
and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybaby
crybaby , you fool!

Before today my body was useless.
Now it's tearing at its square corners.
It's tearing old Mary's garments off, knot by knot
and see -- Now it's shot full of these electric bolts.
Zing! A resurrection!

Once it was a boat, quite wooden
and with no business, no salt water under it
and in need of some paint. It was no more
than a group of boards. But you hoisted her, rigged her.
She's been elected.

My nerves are turned on. I hear them like
musical instruments. Where there was silence
the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this.
Pure genius at work. Darling, the composer has stepped
into fire.

[Ericthonius]

George Gordon Lord Byron (1788-1824)

She Walks in Beauty


1She walks in beauty, like the night
2 Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
3And all that's best of dark and bright
4 Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
5Thus mellow'd to that tender light
6 Which heaven to gaudy day denies.


7One shade the more, one ray the less,
8 Had half impair'd the nameless grace
9Which waves in every raven tress,
10 Or softly lightens o'er her face;
11Where thoughts serenely sweet express
12 How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.


13And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
14 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
15The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
16 But tell of days in goodness spent,
17A mind at peace with all below,
18 A heart whose love is innocent!


+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


That one always does it to me.

[swamptoad]

Beauty and Love
by Andrew Young

Beauty and love are all my dream;
They change not with the changing day;
Love stays forever like a stream
That flows but never flows away;

And beauty is the bright sun-bow
That blossoms on the spray that showers
Where the loud water falls below,
Making a wind among the flowers.




To a Stranger
by Walt Whitman

Passing stranger! you do not know
How longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking,
Or she I was seeking
(It comes to me as a dream)

I have somewhere surely
Lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall'd as we flit by each other,
Fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,

You grew up with me,
Were a boy with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become
not yours only nor left my body mine only,

You give me the pleasure of your eyes,
face, flesh as we pass,
You take of my beard, breast, hands,
in return,

I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you
when I sit alone or wake at night, alone
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

[jamie]

Amy Lowell had an amazingly subtle way of creating sensual images. I have been in love with her for ages and just keep hoping that one of these days popular culture will embrace her as they have Dickinson. She was a large woman, who was probably a lesbian, and her poetry was greatly ignored because the critics of the day didn't believe someone so "unattractive" could experience and create such sensual work.

My favorites:

Aubade
As I would free the white almond from the green husk
So I would strip your trappings off,
Beloved.
And fingering the smooth and polished kernel
I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting.

A Decade
When you came, you were like red wine and honey,
And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Now you are like morning bread,
Smooth and pleasant.
I hardly taste you at all for I know your savour,
But am completely nourished.

A Lady
You are beautiful and faded
Like an old opera tune
Played upon a harpsichord;
Or like the sun-flooded silks
Of an eighteenth-century boudoir.
In your eyes
Smoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes,
And the perfume of your soul
Is vague and suffusing,
With the pungence of sealed spice-jars.
Your half-tones delight me,
And I grow mad with gazing
At your blent colours.
My vigour is a new-minted penny,
Which I cast at your feet.
Gather it up from the dust,
That its sparkle may amuse you.

And I won't put it all here, but I highly recommend reading "Diya"

[Boteroesque Babe]

Originally Posted by olivefun

Your breasts nod yes each step,
your slow involute hips cradle the eternal synonym for God.

The dress censors not a syllable of you.

Most poetry would have to be written with the tongue on my inner thigh for it to excite me, but I have a very dog-eared copy of Benton's Of My Beloved (may have that title a bit wrong). Wonderfully lusty stuff.

Thanks for posting this, Olive.

[Jes]

Let us not forget dear Rumi!

When I am with you, we stay up all night,
When you're not here, I can't get to sleep.
Praise God for these two insomnias!
And the difference between them.

Translator: Coleman Barks


Suddenly the drunken sweetheart appeared out of my door.
She drank a cup of ruby wine and sat by my side.
Seeing and holding the lockets of her hair
My face became all eyes, and my eyes all hands.

Translator: Shahram Shiva

Not bad for the 13th century, you know?

For some reason, I've always felt Rumi's love poetry speaks to long distance relationships (he must be troping that idea of distance making the heart grow fonder, etc.), which in turn, makes them very applicable to internet involvements.

[Boteroesque Babe]

And let us not forget the fanciful words of that floor-humping '80s R&B singer whose name mercifully escapes me:

And if you ever get lonesome
You know who you can call if you decide
That you want some

[Jes]

BBabe, takin' it down a notch, y'all.

[Boteroesque Babe]

Originally Posted by Jes

BBabe, takin' it down a notch, y'all.

True dat, yo. Brudduh's mo' freak than fop.

[olivefun]

Originally Posted by Jes

Let us not forget dear Rumi!

........

Not bad for the 13th century, you know?

For some reason, I've always felt Rumi's love poetry speaks to long distance relationships (he must be troping that idea of distance making the heart grow fonder, etc.), which in turn, makes them very applicable to internet involvements.

OMG yesssssssss!

Rumi
I nearly did forget Rumi.

I had a long distance relationship with a man who had a book of Rumi couriered to me with a padded envelope full of selections of the best dark swiss chocolate and a beautiful silk scarf.

That man had style!

My goodness, I was just thrust into some pretty powerful reverie with just the mention of this name.

Thanks for that, Jes.

Swoon.

[Jes]

christ jesus! ok--jes is calling bullshit on this! normally i'm live and let live, but i say, 'til after valentine's day is over, no more 'someone did the most romantic thing for me ever!' posts, or it'll be a case of JES ANGRY. JES SMASH!




i'll probably feel better in about 90 seconds, so just hold out 'til then, and it can be business as usual again.

[olivefun]

Originally Posted by Jes

christ jesus! ok--jes is calling bullshit on this! normally i'm live and let live, but i say, 'til after valentine's day is over, no more 'someone did the most romantic thing for me ever!' posts, or it'll be a case of JES ANGRY. JES SMASH!


i'll probably feel better in about 90 seconds, so just hold out 'til then, and it can be business as usual again.

I am not sure I understand, Jes.

[Jes]

Pm.



Pants

[olivefun]

I understand how you are feeling, Jes.

The man knew I was planning on having dinner with an ex, and wanted me to have a clear idea who mattered to me.

It was a very sweet indication of how his mind worked.

Lovely guy.

[olivefun]

Jes,
I wanted to send you a private message, but your mail box is over quota.


Maybe this is the year that cupid finds you on valentine's day.
Never know.