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
My blog: https://frankhubeny.blog/
hehe I agree there is something silly about it but there you go.Originally Posted by YesNo
nice YesNo this is what I call erotic because there is not too much and one is perhaps left wondering.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
and what a nursery rhyme I meanThe first line comes from a nursery rhyme: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/As_I_was_going_to_St_Ives
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.
it may never try
but when it does it sigh
it is just that
good
it fly
tonight
firefly teases
the stargazer lily
amongst her garden of floral
delights
.
Last edited by Melanie; 07-13-2014 at 09:50 AM.
Live in the sunshine. Swim in the sea. Drink the wild air ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
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.
My blog: https://frankhubeny.blog/
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.
Last edited by mona amon; 07-15-2014 at 01:23 AM. Reason: to compress the lines and save space
Exit, pursued by a bear.
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.
My blog: https://frankhubeny.blog/
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.
it may never try
but when it does it sigh
it is just that
good
it fly
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.
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