do you have or come across erotic poetry?
erotic not sex explicit poetry.
do you have a favourite of few lines you could share here.
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do you have or come across erotic poetry?
erotic not sex explicit poetry.
do you have a favourite of few lines you could share here.
It is hard for me to separate erotic from sexually explicit writing. Maybe someone will have an example.
I see. do you have something in mind ?Quote:
Originally Posted by YesNo
what I meant by erotic is suggestive rather then full one explicit.
actually
John Donne comes to mind.
here is a piece I found:
From “Elegy XIX: To His Mistress Going to Bed”:
Off with that girdle, like heaven’s zone glistering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breastplate, which you wear
That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopped there:
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
Tells me from you that now it is bed time.
here is a really interesting article about John Donne I came across:
http://www.newyorker.com/online/blog...tic-poems.html
The article you cited was interesting. It makes me wonder if it is the topic of the poems that make them erotic or the way the topic is handled?
I think it a good point.Quote:
Originally Posted by YesNo
I think it is the way it is handled.
the eroticism stems from the idea that one can write in a such way rather then what is being said I think.
the reader imagines and the writer indulges.
John Donne I believe was expressing frustrations rather explicitness. His writing comes across as exploitative of the mind and not the body. this is how I see it.
Non-explicit erotic poetry can be erotic in a way that is similar to clothed women being as sexy as unclothed women. The most important sex organ is the brain.
I agree with PeterL. Erotic is clothed. Explicit comes later. The brain keeps it all coherent, but as Joan Rivers observed long ago (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1568150/), when a man is searching up a woman's skirt he's not looking for a library card.
I don't know about searching someone's skirt it is a crude way of putting it. I do find her rather too crude for my liking. her jokes are a bit too much for me.Quote:
Originally Posted by YesNo
Yes erotic is not about the sex act itself it is about the idea of courting and imagination i guess. I am not a man so I am just guessing.
but then I am not sure lust is close to erotic or not?
Come slowly, Eden
by Emily Dickinson
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—alights—
And is lost in balms!
In A Gondola
by Robert Browning
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 ope 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.
even the Bible does a good bit erotic verse:
Song of Solomon
attributed to King Solomon
I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys.
As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters.
As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons.
I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was
sweet to my taste.
He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me
was love.
Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.
His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.
I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes,
and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor wake my love,
till he please.
The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh leaping upon the
mountains, skipping upon the hills.
My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall,
he looketh forth at the windows, shewing himself through the lattice.
My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one,
and come away.
For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is
come,
and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;
The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the
tender grape give a good smell.
Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.
O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of
the stairs, let me see thy countenance,
let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is
comely.
Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines
have tender grapes.
My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies.
Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved,
and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of
spices.
is this supposed to be about Adam and Eve?Quote:
Originally Posted by Pumpkin337
fainting bee??
inhibriated from honey??
Reaching late his flower
interesting the bee here is masculine rather then feminine. I thought the female sipped honey not the male?? the male transport it to and from right??
And is lost in balms
is this suggest infertility?
OK when you have to explain the very obvious metaphors it kind of loses its eroticism... but anyway
eden = innocence = virgin
so come slowly, eden = take it slow
she is not used to kisses and is bashful = shy
by the time he (the bee) reaches his flower = his ultimate destination of consummation he is fainting from desire
he hums around her chamber ie. still taking it slow
and engages in more foreplay
until he alights and is lost in it's delights (balms) which word itself hints all kinds of erotic pleasures
Ok.
what
reaching late his flower??
late??
hence the idea of infertility at the end.
I understood EDEN to be in reference with Adam and Yve,
again here there is a similarity between The Dickinson and this.Quote:
Originally Posted by Pumpkin337
they both made reference to:
eve
and
Bee.
I mean these are outstanding words.
then this line
if you enter'd gay
is this again a play on word?
by gay one means infertility??
I am just speculating.
and I thank you for taking time to post all these fascinating pieces.
I am enjoying reading them.
I have not read the Bible one yet. ;)
It's not the same word. In the Browning poem 'eve' is the poetic form of 'evening'.
'gay' before it meant 'homosexual' meant ''happy'
I Like My Body When It Is With Your
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new
~ e.e.cummings
Love’s Philosophy
by Percy Bysshe Shelley
The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever,
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one another’s being mingle;—
Why not I with thine?
See! the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven,
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;—
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?
You're right. Joan Rivers is rather crude, but funny. I wouldn't call her "erotic" in any way. Just funny. Actually, I can't think of any so-called erotic poem that is pragmatically erotic. That is, if a female tried to get me interested by reciting an erotic poem, I doubt it would work.Quote:
Originally Posted by cacian
However if you tried it the other way around you may well find it has the desired effect - this is one of the differences between men and woman :DQuote:
Originally Posted by YesNo
I like this one. :)Quote:
Originally Posted by Pumpkin337
I agree she is funny maybe she does not mean to be crude. but I do remember watching her few times. she was rather unusual. I must no judge too hastily.Quote:
Originally Posted by YesNo
I often wondered if she was a man trapped in a woman's body.
she did come across like this to me, but then who knows?
how do you mean by pragmatic erotic?
and so what would entice you then YesNo if not a poem? only kidding. haha :D
Perhaps what you are looking for is love poetry rather than erotic poetry. I would find that more interesting. Joan Rivers does seem somewhat masculine now that you mention it.
love poetry is a point actuallyQuote:
Originally Posted by YesNo
love conquers all and with words to awe.
however I think it makes me now wonder what the origin of erotic is.
maybe it is worth looking into that.
erotic is not necessarily physical.
that is one starting point it needs not necessarily be 'offensive' to some viewers/readers if you see what I mean.
in other words erotic does not need to be explicit.
Love poetry is better than erotic poetry, but it is difficult to write because it is so simple. What can one say that hasn't already been said before?
One can link sex, the heart and the brain metaphorically through the spine which keeps them in line if one maintains good posture.
I'm surprised no one has mentioned Pablo Neruda - I find his erotic love poetry deeply moving. There was a man who could see the great beauty and expression of love that sex is capable of being.
Corpo de Mujer
Cuerpo de mujer, blancas colinas, muslos blancos,
te pareces al mundo en tu actitud de entrega.
Mi cuerpo de labriego salvaje te socava
y hace saltar el hijo del fondo de la tierra.
Fui solo como un túnel. De mí huían los pájaros
y en mí la noche entraba su invasión poderosa.
Para sobrevivirme te forjé como un arma,
como una flecha en mi arco, como una piedra en mi honda.
Pero cae la hora de la venganza, y te amo.
Cuerpo de piel, de musgo, de leche ávida y firme.
Ah los vasos del pecho! Ah los ojos de ausencia!
Ah las rosas del pubis! Ah tu voz lenta y triste!
Cuerpo de mujer mía, persistiré en tu gracia.
Mi sed, mi ansia sin límite, mi camino indeciso!
Oscuros cauces donde la sed eterna sigue,
y la fatiga sigue, y el dolor infinito.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Body of a Woman
Body of woman, white hills, white thighs,
you look yourself like a world in your attitude of surrender.
My rough peasant's body digs in you
and makes the son leap from the depths of the earth.
I was alone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me
and the night enveloped me with its crushing invasion.
To survive myself I forged to you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, like a stone in my sling.
But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you.
Body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk.
Ah those goblets of the chest! Ah those eyes of absence!
Ah the roses of the pubis! Ah your voice slow and sad!
Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace.
My thirst, my unbounded desire, my uncertain road!
Dark river-beds where the eternal thirst follows,
and tiredness follows, and the infinite ache.
haha that is true but I find love is specific to each individual one writes it according to themselves.Quote:
Originally Posted by YesNo
it is one topic where the feelings guides the word. love poetry is genuine.
I have never thought about it this way :DQuote:
One can link sex, the heart and the brain metaphorically through the spine which keeps them in line if one maintains good posture.
however I cant imagine one having sex and thinking erotic I am not sure one can do that haha:eek2:
Although I don't particularly like Neruda's poetry, I think you are right. The only poetry he wrote that was authentic was erotic poetry. The rest, at least as I read it, was to manipulate voters or intellectuals. I doubt his love for women went higher than the genitals, but for erotic poetry that's all one needs.Quote:
Originally Posted by Lokasenna
Eros that doesn't transcend the genitals leads to communal tensions which is probably why some people look suspiciously on erotic poetry.
I wonder if someone has studied this? What are people thinking of when they are having sex?Quote:
Originally Posted by cacian
LOL true.Quote:
Originally Posted by YesNo
that would be an interesting study.
Just thought I'd give it a try. The following is as close as I can get to "erotic" poetry. However, I see it more as stupid than erotic.
What She Didn't Tell Her Husband About Her Trip to St Ives
As I was going to St Ives
I met a man who caught my eyes.
I wiggled, giggled, let stuff drop.
He held me and he didn't stop.
The first line comes from a nursery rhyme: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/As_I_was_going_to_St_Ives
hehe I agree there is something silly about it but there you go.Quote:
Originally Posted by YesNo
nice YesNo this is what I call erotic because there is not too much and one is perhaps left wondering.Quote:
What She Didn't Tell Her Husband About Her Trip to St Ives
As I was going to St Ives
I met a man who caught my eyes.
I wiggled, giggled, let stuff drop.
He held me and he didn't stop.
this made chuckle in a nice way :D
and what a nursery rhyme I meanQuote:
to think about it
a man with seven wives is well and good but if you turned the table around all of them only have one husband between them and so it sounds rather silly.
tonight
firefly teases
the stargazer lily
amongst her garden of floral
delights
.
I lost track of this thread. I remember wanting to say more about Pablo Neruda if I could only find one of his ealier, uncollected poems.
Thanks for the comments, cacian. That's a nice one about the firefly and the lily, Melanie. It looks like the lily might also be teasing the firefly.
I like this one by Baudelaire - very sensuous -
Le Parfum
Lecteur, as-tu quelquefois respiré
Avec ivresse et lente gourmandise
Ce grain d'encens qui remplit une église,
Ou d'un sachet le musc invétéré?
Charme profond, magique, dont nous grise
Dans le présent le passé restauré!
Ainsi l'amant sur un corps adoré
Du souvenir cueille la fleur exquise.
De ses cheveux élastiques et lourds,
Vivant sachet, encensoir de l'alcôve,
Une senteur montait, sauvage et fauve,
Et des habits, mousseline ou velours,
Tout imprégnés de sa jeunesse pure,
Se dégageait un parfum de fourrure.
Translation-
The Perfume
Reader, have you at times inhaled
With rapture and slow greediness
That grain of incense which pervades a church,
Or the inveterate musk of a sachet?
Profound, magical charm, with which the past,
Restored to life, makes us inebriate!
Thus the lover from an adored body
Plucks memory's exquisite flower.
From her tresses, heavy and elastic,
Living sachet, censer for the bedroom,
A wild and savage odor rose,
And from her clothes, of muslin or velvet,
All redolent of her youth's purity,
There emanated the odor of furs.
Another translation -
Le Parfum
how long, in silken favours, last
their prisoned scents! how greedily
we breathe the incense-grain, a sea
of fragrance, in cathedrals vast!
o deep enchanting sorcery!
in present joys to find the past!
'tis thus on cherished flesh amassed
Love culls the flower of memory.
her thick curled hair, like bags of musk
or living censers, left the dusk
with strange wild odours all astir,
and, from her lace and velvet busk,
— candid and girlish, over her,
hovered a heavy scent of fur.
Simple and to-the-point eroticism.
Celia, Celia by Adrian Mitchell
When I am sad and weary
When I think all hope has gone
When I walk along High Holborn
I think of you with nothing on
I liked the second translation of Beaudilaire's Le Parfum better than the first. Adrian Mitchell's poem definitely seemed erotic. It started out like one more poem where the poet is tediously whining about his ever depressed soul and then switched comically to a nice eroticism at the end.
agreed. tedious whining. someone who does not how to be happy without having to rely on someone else to do it for them is tediously whining.Quote:
Originally Posted by YesNo
Les chercheuses de poux, RIMBAUD
Quand le front de l'enfant, plein de rouges tourmentes,
Implore l'essaim blanc des rêves indistincts,
Il vient près de son lit deux grandes soeurs charmantes
Avec de frêles doigts aux ongles argentins.
Elles assoient l'enfant auprès d'une croisée
Grande ouverte où l'air bleu baigne un fouillis de fleurs,
Et dans ses lourds cheveux où tombe la rosée
Promènent leurs doigts fins, terribles et charmeurs.
Il écoute chanter leurs haleines craintives
Qui fleurent de longs miels végétaux et rosés
Et qu'interrompt parfois un sifflement, salives
Reprises sur la lèvre ou désirs de baisers.
Il entend leurs cils noirs battant sous les silences
Parfumés ; et leurs doigts électriques et doux
Font crépiter parmi ses grises indolences
Sous leurs ongles royaux la mort des petits poux.
Voilà que monte en lui le vin de la Paresse,
Soupirs d'harmonica qui pourrait délirer ;
L'enfant se sent, selon la lenteur des caresses,
Sourdre et mourir sans cesse un désir de pleurer.
En English translation :
When the child’s brow, tormented by red,
Implores the white crowd of half-seen dreams,
Two charming sisters come close to his bed
Slender-fingered, with silver nails it seems.
They sit the child down in front of the window,
Wide open to where blue air bathes tangled flowers,
And through his thick hair full of dewfall,
Move their fine fingers, fearful, magical.
He hears the sighing of their cautious breath
That flows with long roseate vegetal honeys,
And is interrupted sometimes by a hiss,
Saliva caught on the lips or desire to kiss.
He hears their dark lashes beating in perfumed
Silence: and their fingers, electrified and sweet
Amidst his grey indolence, make the deaths
Of little lice crackle beneath their royal treat.
It’s now the wine of Sloth in him rises, the sigh
Of a child’s harmonica that can bring delerium:
Prompted by slow caresses, the child feels then
An endlessly surging and dying desire to cry.
Read one of my best poem:
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.