Tuesday, April 14, 2009
National (Erotic) Poetry Month
Clearly, not everyone’s a poetry fan. For me, I blame those high school English classes where I had to do lengthy explications of John Donne poems. (Which is not to slight Donne. He wrote some pretty smoldering stuff. “License my roving hands, and let them go/ Before, behind, between, above, below.” Needless to say, my teacher didn’t choose that poem for us to explicate.) It may have been something different for you… perhaps a bad experience as the subject of a limerick. Still, I got over my fear of poetry. And perhaps you can as well. My recommended therapy for poetry aversion disorder is to read poetry. Well, to read erotic poetry.
Celebrate National Poetry Month by reading some erotic poetry. Visit the Old Poetry erotica area and start browsing. For starters, let me recommend Ovid’s “Love in the Afternoon,” Brautigan’s “Deer Tracks,” and Bukowski’s “Like a Flower in the Rain,” all on the first page. My poem below isn’t in that league, but I try.
nooner
we have an hour, maybe less.
an hour to dive inside
each other’s skin,
an hour to laugh and moan,
an hour to throw off blankets
and imagined discretion,
an hour that’s both
short and expansive,
restrictive yet liberating,
discrete not discreet,
an hour that now has only 58 minutes.
and with only 58 minutes,
one doesn’t stand on formality.
the clothes must come off.
i hop like a buffoon,
wrestling a delinquent sock.
there are no awards
for showmanship, only results.
your hand is cold.
you hold my cock
like a drawer pull.
I grip the back of your neck
like a cello.
striped muscle cells contract
and the distance between us closes.
still more than 55 minutes.
still more than enough time
to back you against the wall
where warmth is palpable.
skin is inevitable.
lips haved started to touch
in that easy face dance of
dip and dart,
move countermove.
perhaps this clock is internal.
we seem to know how much time
we have to kiss, know how many minutes remain
after letting you grind your wet desire
against my edgewise wrist,
riding the nub of bone
until my fingers drip.
and yes, there is a bed.
it is a fourth-dimensional wormhole.
there is no other possible explanation,
no other way for us to
have had enough time
to fuck so many ways.
no time left to shower.
you pee.
I pee.
we share a soapy washcloth,
a towel, a mirror.
and with two minutes left,
there’s nothing left to do
except start to kiss again.
Hear this poem read aloud…
Comments:
You know what I think we need more of? Erotic Haikus - I love them!
Posted by Shay on 04/20/09 at 12:48 AM
Yes… I agree that the short form poems are working better for me these days than the long form. I’ll have to do some summer haiku in July.
Posted by Prospero on 04/28/09 at 11:21 AM
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