26 Poems on Physical Love and Sex

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Poet­ry is the lit­er­ary form which leaves more unsaid than what’s said, hence, exist­ing and flour­ish­ing in the blank spaces it leaves, rely­ing more on sim­i­les and metaphors, indi­rect ref­er­ences than direct descrip­tion. A counter argu­ment can be made by refer­ring to the epic poet­ry, Qis­sas and long poems that remained in vogue for mil­len­nia but even there, poet­ry remained more elu­sive than prose and one aspect of its joy remained in unfold­ing the mul­ti­ple lay­ers of its mean­ings.

It’s a com­mon per­cep­tion that poet­ry has expand­ed its hori­zon in terms of form, tech­nique and theme in the mod­ern, rather con­tem­po­rary world, with the poets dis­cussing every aspect of life, every top­ic under the sun and all kinds of human rela­tions, includ­ing phys­i­cal love or sex. How­ev­er, poet­ry as the most rebel­lious form of lit­er­a­ture nev­er remained with­in bounds, espe­cial­ly regard­ing selec­tion of its themes and the poets always fol­lowed throes of pas­sion, pour­ing emo­tions into their poems.

Here are the ama­to­ry poems going thou­sands of years back in the his­to­ry of poet­ry that take on the theme of phys­i­cal love, sex and sex­u­al­i­ty. The old­est ones are from Gath­as­ap­tasati or Gaha Sat­ta­sai, a poet­ry col­lec­tion writ­ten from 200BC to 200AD in Prakrit lan­guage of ancient India. There are ancient Chi­nese as well as ancient Ara­bic poems. All of them are writ­ten by famous poets and include some of them who use metaphors as well, like Plath, Auden and H.Y.’s poems that don’t take the sub­ject as direct­ly as oth­ers. They include the poets from Ovid to Rumi, from Brown­ing to Yeats, from Dick­en­son to Plath, from Auden to Lawrence and Adri­enne Rich. The read­ers may over­look the title of this col­lec­tion as there is no such divide as of phys­i­cal and spir­i­tu­al when it comes to love.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column width=“1/2”][vc_column_text css=”.vc_custom_1455416422846{background-color: #ebe­beb !impor­tant;}”]

1

Your Hair

Anony­mous from Gatha Sap­tasati, Prakrit (India, 200BCE-200CE)

-i-

Your hair is as messy as a peacock’s tail,
Thighs are trem­bling,
Eyes half-closed.

You have been play­ing the man a lit­tle
And you want to rest.
So con­sid­er the tri­als of men!

-ii-
Even ele­gant
And prac­ticed sex
From shrewd men
Won’t sweep me off my feet

As will love made
In good­ness and affec­tion
Wher­ev­er or how­ev­er done.

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3

Mu’allaqat (The Hang­ing Poems) (excerpt)

By Imru­al Qais (6th cen­tu­ry Najd, Arab)

And the day I hopped up into her how­dah
She screamed:
“Damn you.
Get out of here.
Do you want me to walk?”
The how­dah rocked with the rare pair of us in there.
She shouts:
“Get out! Get down!
You’ve hocked my camel.”
I teased:
“Ride on.
Loosen the rein.
Don’t refuse me your fruity ripeness.
You’re not the first preg­nant woman I’ve got into nor the first
nurs­ing moth­er I’ve got at night-times
and dis­tract­ed her from her dar­ling
with his mag­ic amulet against the evil eye.
When he bawled behind her
she’d half twist her body to him
but hold her low­er half
hard against
under me.”

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 5

To the Tune of “Mag­pie on the Branch”

Anony­mous from Ming Dynasty (1368–1644)

Her peony is raised high and dewed with fra­grance
but his legs are too short to reach,
so he uses a small table
like a man climb­ing up a cloud lad­der
or an old monk beat­ing the tem­ple drum.
His vast and gen­tle squashy pas­sion,
is like a swing
swing­ing up and down in the court­yard
till the urge is uncon­tain­able.
When the tree falls down,
mon­keys scat­ter every­where.

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7

A Woman Waits for Me

By Walt Whit­man (1819–92)
A woman waits for me, she con­tains all, noth­ing is lack­ing,
Yet all were lack­ing, if sex were lack­ing, or if the mois­ture of the
right man were lack­ing.

Sex con­tains all,
Bod­ies, souls, mean­ings, proofs, puri­ties, del­i­ca­cies, results,
pro­mul­ga­tions,
Songs, com­mands, health, pride, the mater­nal mys­tery, the sem­i­nal
milk;
All hopes, bene­fac­tions, bestowals,
All the pas­sions, loves, beau­ties, delights of the earth,
All the gov­ern­ments, judges, gods, fol­low’d per­sons of the earth,
These are con­tain’d in sex, as parts of itself, and jus­ti­fi­ca­tions of
itself.

With­out shame the man I like knows and avows the deli­cious­ness of his
sex,
With­out shame the woman I like knows and avows hers.

Now I will dis­miss myself from impas­sive women,
I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women that
are warm-blood­ed and suf­fi­cient for me;
I see that they under­stand me, and do not deny me;
I see that they are wor­thy of me, I will be the robust hus­band of
those women.

They are not one jot less than I am,
They are tan­n’d in the face by shin­ing suns and blow­ing winds,
Their flesh has the old divine sup­ple­ness and strength,
They know how to swim, row, ride, wres­tle, shoot, run, strike,
retreat, advance, resist, defend them­selves,
They are ulti­mate in their own right, they are calm, clear, well-
pos­sess’d of them­selves.

I draw you close to me, you women!
I can­not let you go, I would do you good,
I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but for
oth­ers’ sakes;
Envelop’d in you sleep greater heroes and bards,
They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me.

It is I, you women, I make my way,
I am stern, acrid, large, undis­suad­able, but I love you,
I do not hurt you any more than is nec­es­sary for you,
I pour the stuff to start sons and daugh­ters fit for These States, I
press with slow rude mus­cle,
I brace myself effec­tu­al­ly, I lis­ten to no entreaties,
I dare not with­draw till I deposit what has so long accu­mu­lat­ed
with­in me.

Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,
In you I wrap a thou­sand onward years,
On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and Amer­i­ca,
The drops I dis­til upon you shall grow fierce and ath­let­ic girls, new
artists, musi­cians, and singers,
The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn,
I shall demand per­fect men and women out of my love-spend­ings,
I shall expect them to inter­pen­e­trate with oth­ers, as I and you
inter­pen­e­trate now,
I shall count on the fruits of the gush­ing show­ers of them, as I
count on the fruits of the gush­ing show­ers I give now,
I shall look for lov­ing crops from the birth, life, death,
immor­tal­i­ty, I plant so lov­ing­ly now.

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9

She Being Brand

By E. E. Cum­mings

She being Brand

-new; and you
know con­se­quent­ly a
lit­tle stiff I was
care­ful of her and (hav­ing

thor­ough­ly oiled the uni­ver­sal
joint test­ed my gas felt of
her radi­a­tor made sure her springs were O.

K.)i went right to it flood­ed-the-car­bu­re­tor cranked her

up,slipped the
clutch (and then some­how got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell) next
minute i was back in neu­tral tried and

again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my

lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
sec­ond-in-to-high like
greas­ed­light­ning) just as we turned the cor­ner of Divin­i­ty

avenue i touched the accel­er­a­tor and give

her the juice,good

(it

was the first ride and believe i we was
hap­py to see how nice she act­ed right up to
the last minute com­ing back down by the Pub­lic
Gar­dens i slammed on

the
inter­nal­ex­pand­ing
&
exter­nal­con­tract­ing
breaks Both­a­tonce and

brought allofher tremB
‑ling
to a:dead.

stand-
;Still)

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11

Gloire de Dijon

By D. H. Lawrence (1885–1930)

When she ris­es in the morn­ing
I linger to watch her;
She spreads the bath cloth under­neath the win­dow
And the sun­beams catch her
Glis­ten­ing white on the shoul­ders,
While down her sides the mel­low
Gold­en shad­ow glows as
She stoops to the sponge, and her swung breasts
Sway like full blown yel­low Gloire de Dijon ros­es.

She drips her­self with water, and her shoul­ders
Glis­ten as sil­ver, they crum­ple up
Like wet and falling ros­es, and I lis­ten
For the sluic­ing of their rain-dishev­elled petals.
In the win­dow full of sun­light
Con­cen­trates her gold­en shad­ow
Fold on fold, until it glows as
Mel­low as the glo­ry ros­es.

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13

Leda and the Swan
By William But­ler Yeats (1865–1939)

A sud­den blow: the great wings beat­ing still
Above the stag­ger­ing girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her help­less breast upon his breast.

How can those ter­ri­fied vague fin­gers push
The feath­ered glo­ry from her loos­en­ing thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beat­ing where it lies?

A shud­der in the loins engen­ders there
The bro­ken wall, the burn­ing roof and tow­er
And Agamem­non dead.

Being so caught up,
So mas­tered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowl­edge with his pow­er
Before the indif­fer­ent beak could let her drop?

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15

Le Bal­con (The Bal­cony)

By Charles Baude­laire (1821–67), trans­la­tion by Michael R. Burch

Para­mour of mem­o­ry, ulti­mate mis­tress,
source of all plea­sure, my only desire;
how can I for­get your ecsta­t­ic caress­es,
the warmth of your breasts by the roar­ing fire,
para­mour of mem­o­ry, ulti­mate mis­tress?

Each night illu­mined by the burn­ing coals
we lay togeth­er where the rose-fra­grance clings—
how soft your breasts, how ten­der your soul!
Ah, and we said imper­ish­able things,
each night illu­mined by the burn­ing coals.

How beau­ti­ful the sun­sets these sul­try days,
deep space so pro­found, beyond life’s brief floods …
then, when I kissed you, my queen, in a daze,
I thought I breathed the bou­quet of your blood
as beau­ti­ful as sun­sets these sul­try days.

Night thick­ens around us like a wall;
in the deep­en­ing dark­ness our iris­es meet.
I drink your breath, ah! poi­so­nous yet sweet!,
as with fra­ter­nal hands I mas­sage your feet
while night thick­ens around us like a wall.

I have mas­tered the sweet but dif­fi­cult art
of hap­pi­ness here, with my head in your lap,
find­ing pure joy in your body, your heart;
because you’re the queen of my present and past
I have mas­tered love’s sweet but dif­fi­cult art.

O vows! O per­fumes! O infi­nite kiss­es!
Can these be reborn from a gulf we can’t sound
as suns reap­pear, as if heav­en miss­es
their light when they sink into seas dark, pro­found?
O vows! O per­fumes! O infi­nite kiss­es!

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17

Enthralled

By Alfred Byron (1871–1958)

Teach me to sin—
In love’s for­bid­den ways,
For you can make all pas­sion pure;
The mag­ic lure of your sweet eyes
Each shape of sin makes virtue praise.

Teach me to sin—
Enslave me to your wan­ton charms,
Crush me in your vel­vet arms
And make me, make me love you.
Make me fire your blood with new desire,
And make me kiss you—lip and limb,
Till sense reel and puls­es swim.
Aye! even if you hate me,
Teach me to sin.

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19

I Knew a Woman

By Theodore Roethke (1908–83)

I knew a woman, love­ly in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright con­tain­er can con­tain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or Eng­lish poets who grew up on Greek
(I’d have them sing in cho­rus, cheek to cheek).

How well her wish­es went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undu­lant white skin:
I nib­bled meek­ly from her prof­fered hand;
She was the sick­le; I, poor I, the rake,
Com­ing behind her for her pret­ty sake
(But what prodi­gious mow­ing did we make).

Love likes a gan­der, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they daz­zled at her flow­ing knees;
Her sev­er­al parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in cir­cles, and those cir­cles moved).

Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I’m mar­tyr to a motion not my own;
What’s free­dom for? To know eter­ni­ty.
I swear she cast a shad­ow white as stone.
But who would count eter­ni­ty in days?
These old bones live to learn her wan­ton ways:
(I mea­sure time by how a body sways).

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21

Love Is Not All

By Edna St. Vin­cent Mil­lay (1892–1950)

Love is not all: It is not meat nor drink
Nor slum­ber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a float­ing spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can­not fill the thick­ened lung with breath
Nor clean the blood, nor set the frac­tured bone;
Yet many a man is mak­ing friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a dif­fi­cult hour,
Pinned down by need and moan­ing for release
Or nagged by want past res­o­lu­tion’s pow­er,
I might be dri­ven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the mem­o­ry of this night for food.
It may well be. I do not think I would.

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23

Priv­i­lege of Being

By Robert Hass (b.1907)

Many are mak­ing love. Up above, the angels
in the unshak­en ether and crys­tal of human long­ing
are braid­ing one another’s hair, which is straw­ber­ry blond
and the tex­ture of cold rivers. They glance
down from time to time at the awk­ward ecsta­sy-
it must look to them like feath­er­less birds
splash­ing in the spring pud­dle of a bed-
and then one woman, she is about to come,
peels back the man’s shut eye­lids, and says,
look at me, and he does. Or is it the man,
tug­ging the cur­tain rope in the dark the­atre?
Any­way, they do, they look at each oth­er,
two beings with evolved eyes, rapa­cious,
star­tled, con­nect­ed at the bel­ly in an unbe­liev­ably sweet
lubri­cious glue, stare at each oth­er,
and the angels are des­o­late. They hate it. They shud­der pathet­i­cal­ly
like lith­o­graphs of Vic­to­ri­an beg­gars
with per­fect fea­tures and alabaster skin hawk­ing rags
in the lewd alleys of the nov­el.
All of cre­ation is offend­ed by this dis­tress
It is like the keen­ing sound the moon makes some­times,
ris­ing. The lovers espe­cial­ly can­not bear it.
It fills them with unspeak­able sad­ness, so that
they close their eyes again, and hold each oth­er, each
feel­ing the mor­tal sin­gu­lar­i­ty of the body
they have enchant­ed out of death for an hour or so
and one day, run­ning at the sun­set, the woman says to the man
I woke up feel­ing so sad this morn­ing because I real­ized
that you could not, as much as I love you,
dear heart, cure my lone­li­ness.
where­with she touched his cheek to reas­sure him
that she did not mean to hurt him with this truth.
And the man is not hurt exact­ly,
he under­stands that this life has lim­its, that peo­ple
die young, fail at love,
fail at their ambi­tions. He runs beside her, he thinks
of sad­ness they have gasped and crooned their way out of
com­ing, clutch­ing each oth­er, with old invent­ed
forms of grace and clum­sy grat­i­tude, ready
to be alone again, or dis­sat­is­fied, or mere­ly
com­pan­ion­able like the cou­ples on the sum­mer beach
read­ing mag­a­zine arti­cles about the inti­ma­cy between the sex­es
to them­selves, and to each oth­er.

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25

To a Dark Moses

By Lucille Clifton (b. 1936)

You are the one
I am lit for.

Come with your rod
that twists
and is a ser­pent.

I am the bush.
I am burn­ing
I am not con­sumed.

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2

Ars Ama­to­ria

By Ovid (Rome, 43BC-17CE)

i. Book II Part XVIII: Don’t Ask About Her Age
Don’t ask how old she is, or who was Con­sul when
she was born, that’s strict­ly the Censor’s duty:
Espe­cial­ly if she’s past bloom, and the good times gone,
and now she plucks the odd grey hair.
There’s val­ue, O youth, in this or a greater age:
this will bear seed, this is a field to sow.
Besides, they’ve more knowl­edge of the thing,
and have that prac­tice that alone makes the artist:
With ele­gance they repair the marks of time,
and take good care that they don’t appear old.
As you wish, they’ll per­form in a thou­sand posi­tions:
no painting’s ever con­trived to show more ways.
They don’t have to be aroused to plea­sure:
man and woman equal­ly deliv­er what delights.
I hate sex that doesn’t pro­vide release for both:
that’s why the touch of boys is less desir­able.
I hate a girl who gives because she has to,
and, arid her­self, thinks only of her spin­ning.
Pleasure’s no joy to me that’s giv­en out of duty:
let no girl be duti­ful to me.
I like to hear a voice con­fess­ing to her rap­ture,
which begs me to hold back, and keep on going.
I gaze at the dazed eyes of my fran­tic mis­tress:
she’s exhaust­ed, and won’t let her­self be touched for ages.
Nature doesn’t give those joys to raw youths,
that often come so eas­i­ly beyond thir­ty-five.
The hasty drink the new and unfer­ment­ed: pour a vin­tage wine
for me, matured in the cask, from an ancient con­sul­ship.
Not till it’s grown can the plane tree bear the sun,
and naked feet destroy a new-laid lawn.
I sup­pose you’d pre­fer Hermione to Helen,
and was Medusa any bet­ter than her moth­er?
Then, he who wants to come to his love late,
earns a valu­able prize, if he’ll only wait.

—

ii. Book III Part XVIII: And So to Bed
To have been taught more is shame­ful: but kind­ly Venus
said: ‘What’s shame­ful is my par­tic­u­lar con­cern.’
Let each girl know her­self: adopt a reli­able pos­ture
for her body: one layout’s not suit­able for all.
She who’s known for her face, lie there face upwards:
let her back be seen, she who’s back delights.
Milan­ion bore Atalanta’s legs on his shoul­ders:
if they’re good look­ing, that mode’s accept­able.
Let the small be car­ried by a horse: Andro­mache,
his The­ban bride, was too tall to strad­dle Hector’s horse.
Let a woman not­ed for her length of body,
press the bed with her knees, arch her neck slight­ly.
She who has youth­ful thighs, and fault­less breasts,
the man might stand, she spread, with her body down­wards.
Don’t think it shame­ful to loosen your hair, like a Mae­nad,
and throw back your head with its flow­ing tress­es.
You too, whom Lucina’s marked with childbirth’s wrin­kles,
like the swift child of Parthia, turn your mount around.
There’s a thou­sand ways to do it: sim­ple and least effort,
is just to lie there half-turned on your right side.
But nei­ther Phoebus’s tripods nor Ammon’s horn
shall sing greater truths to you than my Muse:
If you trust art’s promise, that I’ve long employed:
my songs will offer you their promise.
Woman, feel love, melt­ed to your very bones,
and let both delight equal­ly in the thing.
Don’t leave out seduc­tive coos and delight­ful mur­mur­ings,
don’t let wild words be silent in the mid­dle of your games.
You too whom nature denies sex­u­al feel­ing,
pre­tend to sweet delight with art­ful sounds.
Unhap­py girl, for whom that slug­gish place is numb,
which man and woman equal­ly should enjoy.
Only beware when you feign it, lest it shows:
cre­ate belief in your move­ments and your eyes.
When you like it, show it with cries and pant­i­ng breath:
Ah! I blush, that part has its own secret signs.
She who asks fond­ly for a gift after love’s delights,
can’t want her request to car­ry any weight.
Don’t let light into the room through all the win­dows:
it’s fit­ting for much of your body to be con­cealed.
The game is done: time to descend, you swans,
you who bent your necks beneath my yoke.
As once the boys, so now my crowd of girls
inscribe on your tro­phies ‘Ovid was my mas­ter.’

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4

The Poem of Huizhen

By Yuan Zhen (Chi­na, 779–831), trans­lat­ed by Tony Barn­stone

A thin moon pierces the win­dow lat­tice
and fire­fly lights appear in the jade sky.
Where the far sky begins is all silky dis­tance.
The low trees emerge as a dark blur of green.
Drag­on songs swirl through the court­yard bam­boo
as phoenix songs touch para­sol trees by the well.
Thin fog descends like silk gauze.
In slight wind the sound of jade rings is heard.
The Roy­al Moth­er of the West trails a dark red train.
Her maids car­ry cloud-shaped jade in their hands.
Deep in the night, peo­ple all are qui­et.
Our meet­ing is like dawn, though rain is driz­zling.
Pearl light shines from her dec­o­rat­ed shoes,
flow­ers peek from her embroi­dered clothes,
her jew­eled hair­pin is a col­ored phoenix,
and her silk shawl cov­ers a red rain­bow.
She says she’s from Yao Hua Gar­den
and is on pil­grim­age to the Jade Emperor’s palace.
Because she took a tour to Luo City
she hap­pened to come here, east of Song fam­i­ly.
When I flirt with her she resists at first.
but soft feel­ings already secret­ly con­nect us.
When she bows her hair it seems the shad­ows of cicadas move.
As she walks about her jade stock­ing are gild­ed with dust.
When she turns it’s like snowflakes swirling.
On the bed we embrace through silk
and like Man­darin ducks dance with our necks twined.
Like two kinds of jade, we go well togeth­er,
though her dark eye­brows knit fre­quent­ly in shy­ness.
Her warm red lips feel like they are melt­ing.
I taste her breath like a fra­grant orchid,
her creamy skin, her full jade flesh.
She feels strength­less, unable to move even a wrist,
though she’s so sen­si­tive that her body tens­es.
The light of her sweat is like pearls.
Her tan­gled hair is loose and black.
Hap­pi­ness like this comes once in a thou­sand years.
But now we hear the fifth beat of the night drum.
We want to stay, but time is scarce,
We are so close that it is hard to stop.
Her face is sor­row
and her words promise faith­ful­ness.
She gives me ring to remem­ber this time,
ties a knot, to say our hearts are twined.
Her tears drop on the mir­ror
and around the gut­ter­ing lamp insects swirl.
The dawn light comes slow­ly
and the ris­ing sun starts to show.
She flies back to Luo on the back of a crane
and plays a ver­ti­cal flute on Song Moun­tain.
My clothes are fra­grant as if dyed with musk.
There are red stains still on the pil­low.
Stand­ing in front of the grass in the pond,
my thoughts are float­ing far away.
I hear a harp cry­ing and com­plain­ing like a crane.
gaze at the clear Riv­er of Stars and hope to see her crane return­ing.
But the ocean is too broad to cross
and the sky is too high to soar above,
so like a float­ing cloud with nowhere to go
I walk back inside the tow­er.

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6

Like This

By Rumi (Per­sia 1207–1273), trans­la­tion by Cole­man Barks with John Moyne

If any­one asks you
how the per­fect sat­is­fac­tion
of all our sex­u­al want­i­ng
will look, lift your face
and say,
Like this.
When some­one men­tions the grace­ful­ness
of the night sky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,
Like this.
If any­one wants to know what “spir­it” is,
or what “God’s fra­grance” means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.
Like this.
When some­one quotes the old poet­ic image
about clouds grad­u­al­ly uncov­er­ing the moon,
slow­ly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.
Like this.
If any­one won­ders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the mir­a­cle.
Kiss me on the lips.
Like this. Like this.
When some­one asks what it means
to “die for love”, point
here.
If some­one asks how tall I am, frown
and mea­sure with your fin­gers the space
between the creas­es on your fore­head.
This tall.
The soul some­times leaves the body, then returns.
When some­one doesn’t believe that,
walk back into my house.
Like this.
When lovers moan,
they’re telling our sto­ry.
Like this.
I am a sky where spir­its live.
Stare into this deep­en­ing blue,
while the breeze says a secret.
Like this.
When some­one asks what there is to do,
light the can­dle in his hand.

Like this.
How did Joseph’s scent come to Jacob?
Huu­u­uu.
How did Jacob’s sight return?
Huu­uu.
A lit­tle wind cleans the eyes.
Like this.
When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he’ll put just his head around the edge
of the door to sur­prise us
Like this.

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8

May I Feel Said He
By E. E. Cum­mings (1894–1962)

may i feel said he
(i’ll squeal said she
just once said he)
it’s fun said she
-
(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she
-
(let’s go said he
not too far said she
what’s too far said he
where you are said she)
-
may i stay said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she
-
may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you’re will­ing said he
(but you’re killing said she
-
but it’s life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she
-
(tip­top said he
don’t stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she
-
(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you’re divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)

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10

Come slow­ly – Eden!

By Emi­ly Dick­in­son (1830–1886)

Come slow­ly – Eden!
Lips unused to Thee –
Bash­ful – sip thy Jas­mines –
As the faint­ing Bee –

Reach­ing late his flower,
Round her cham­ber hums –
Counts his nec­tars –
Enters – and is lost in Balms!

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12

Arrival

By William Car­los Williams (1883–1963)

And yet one arrives some­how,
finds him­self loos­en­ing the hooks of
her dress
in a strange bed­room—
feels the autumn
drop­ping its silk and linen leaves
about her ankles.
The tawdry veined body emerges
twist­ed upon itself
like a win­ter wind … !

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14

In a Gon­do­la

By Robert Brown­ing (1812–1889)

The moth­’s kiss, first!
Kiss me as if you made me believe
You were not sure, this eve,
How my face, your flower, had pursed
Its petals up; so, here and there
You brush it, till I grow aware
Who wants me, and wide open I burst.

-

The bee’s kiss, now!
Kiss me as if you enter’d gay
My heart at some noon­day,
A bud that dares not dis­al­low
The claim, so all is ren­der’d up,
And pas­sive­ly its shat­ter’d cup
Over your head to sleep I bow.

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16

Love and Sleep

By A. C. Swin­burne (1837–1909)

Lying asleep between the strokes of night
I saw my love lean over my sad bed,
Pale as the duski­est lily’s leaf or head,
Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,
Too wan for blush­ing and too warm for white,
But per­fect-coloured with­out white or red.
And her lips opened amorous­ly, and said—
I wist not what, sav­ing one word—Delight.

And all her face was hon­ey to my mouth,
And all her body pas­ture to mine eyes;
The long lithe arms and hot­ter hands than fire,
The quiv­er­ing flanks, hair smelling of the south,
The bright light feet, the splen­did sup­ple thighs
And glit­ter­ing eye­lids of my soul’s desire.

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18

I Am Ver­ti­cal

By Sylvia Plath (1932–63)

But I would rather be hor­i­zon­tal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Suck­ing up min­er­als and moth­er­ly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I the beau­ty of a gar­den bed
Attract­ing my share of Ahs and spec­tac­u­lar­ly paint­ed,
Unknow­ing I must soon unpetal.
Com­pared with me, a tree is immor­tal
And a flower-head not tall, but more star­tling,
And I want the one’s longevi­ty and the oth­er’s dar­ing.

Tonight, in the infin­i­tes­i­mal light of the stars,
The trees and the flow­ers have been strew­ing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are notic­ing.
Some­times I think that when I am sleep­ing
I must most per­fect­ly resem­ble them —Thoughts gone dim.
It is more nat­ur­al to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open con­ver­sa­tion,
And I shall be use­ful when I lie down final­ly:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flow­ers have time for me.

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20

Sea Pop­pies

By H. D. (1886–1961)

Amber husk
flut­ed with gold,
fruit on the sand
marked with a rich grain,

trea­sure
spilled near the shrub-pines
to bleach on the boul­ders:

your stalk has caught root
among wet peb­bles
and drift flung by the sea
and grat­ed shells
and split conch-shells.

Beau­ti­ful, wide-spread,
fire upon leaf,
what mead­ow yields
so fra­grant a leaf
as your bright leaf?

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22

Babies in their moth­ers’ arms

By W.H. Auden (1907–73)

Babies in their moth­ers’ arms
Exer­cise their bud­ding charms
On their fin­gers and their toes,
Striv­ing ever to enclose
In the cir­cle of their will
Objects dis­obe­di­ent still,
But the boy comes fast enough
To the lim­its of self-love,
And the adult learns what small
Forces ral­ly at his call.
Large and para­mount the State
That will not co-oper­ate
With the Duchy of his mind:
All his life­time he will find
Swollen knee or aching tooth
Hos­tile to his quest for truth;
Nev­er will his prick belong
To his world of right and wrong,
Nor its val­ues com­pre­hend
Who is foe and who is friend.

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24

The Float­ing Poem Unnum­bered

By Adri­enne Rich (1929–2012)

What­ev­er hap­pens with us, your body
will haunt mine — ten­der, del­i­cate
your love­mak­ing, like the half-curled frond
of the fid­dle­head fern in forests
just washed by sun.
Your trav­eled, gen­er­ous thighs
between which my whole face has come and come –
the inno­cence and wis­dom of the place my tongue has found there –
the live, insa­tiate dance of your nip­ples in my mouth –
your touch on me, firm, pro­tec­tive, search­ing
me out, your strong tongue and slen­der fin­gers
reach­ing where I have been wait­ing years for you
in my rose-wet cave — what­ev­er hap­pens, this is.  

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26

What Do Women Want?

By Kim Addonizio (b.1954)

I want a red dress.
I want it flim­sy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until some­one tears it off me.
I want it sleeve­less and back­less,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what’s under­neath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hard­ware store
with all those keys glit­ter­ing in the win­dow,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong sell­ing day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guer­ra broth­ers
sling­ing pigs from the truck and onto the dol­ly,
hoist­ing the slick snouts over their shoul­ders.
I want to walk like I’m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to con­firm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how lit­tle I care about you
or any­thing except what
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that gar­ment
from its hang­er like I’m choos­ing a body
to car­ry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,
it’ll be the god­damned
dress they bury me in.

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