Favourite erotic poems

cue

Can anyone recommend favourite erotic poems please? The internet is not proving very good. I'm looking for some clever quirky modern stuff that is accessible and tasteful. No porn. Its dull. Prefer romance, sensuality, passion, humour etc. Looking into romantics etc but would greatly appreciate suggestions. Thanks in advance.

Talliesin

Well, there's such a variety it's hard to know how to answer.

Would you be looking for something like "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
brakes Bothatonce and

brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.

stand-
;Still)

And of course the fragments of Sappho are always worth re-reading every now again.

“When I look on you a moment, then I can speak no more, but my tongue falls silent, and at once a delicate flame courses beneath my skin, and with my eyes I see nothing, and my ears hum, and a wet sweat bathes me, and a trembling seizes me all over”

Something that's often under-stated about Sappho is how good she was on the eroticism of the male form.

To a Handsome Man

If you are my friend, stand up before me
and scatter the grace that's in your eyes.

But of course it was her appreciation of the female form for which she remains well known. Let's have a modern poet continuing the same line:

My Mouth Hovers Across Your Breasts

My mouth hovers across your breasts
in the short grey winter afternoon
in this bed we are delicate
and touch so hot with joy we amaze ourselves
tough and delicate we play rings
around each other our daytime candle burns
with its peculiar light and if the snow
begins to fall outside filling the branches
and if the night falls without announcement
there are the pleasures of winter
sudden, wild and delicate your fingers
exact my tongue exact at the same moment
stopping to laugh at a joke
my love hot on your scent on the cusp of winter

Adrienne Riche

Continuing that line, but switching to the men, probably the most famous homoerotic poem of the last century is James Kirkup's "The Love that Dares to Speak its Name". It failed to bring society to its knees, despite the successful prosecution for blasphemy. In all, it's not bad, but it's hardly great. If it wasn't for the criminal case that followed we'd have forgotten it by now.

As they took him from the cross
I, the centurion, took him in my arms-
the tough lean body
of a man no longer young,
beardless, breathless,
but well hung.

He was still warm.
While they prepared the tomb
I kept guard over him.
His mother and the Magdalen
had gone to fetch clean linen
to shroud his nakedness.

I was alone with him.
For the last time
I kissed his mouth. My tongue
found his, bitter with death.
I licked his wound-
the blood was harsh
For the last time
I laid my lips around the tip
of that great cock, the instrument
of our salvation, our eternal joy.
The shaft, still throbbed, anointed
with death's final ejaculation

I knew he'd had it off with other men-
with Herod's guards, with Pontius Pilate,
With John the Baptist, with Paul of Tarsus
with foxy Judas, a great kisser, with
the rest of the Twelve, together and apart.
He loved all men, body, soul and spirit. - even me.

So now I took off my uniform, and, naked,
lay together with him in his desolation,
caressing every shadow of his cooling flesh,
hugging him and trying to warm him back to life.
Slowly the fire in his thighs went out,
while I grew hotter with unearthly love.

It was the only way I knew to speak our love's proud name,
to tell him of my long devotion, my desire, my dread-
something we had never talked about. My spear, wet with blood,
his dear, broken body all open wounds,
and in each wound his side, his back,
his mouth - I came and came and came

as if each coming was my last.
And then the miracle possessed us.
I felt him enter into me, and fiercely spend
his spirit's finbal seed within my hole, my soul,
pulse upon pulse, unto the ends of the earth-
he crucified me with him into kingdom come.

-This is the passionate and blissful crucifixion
same-sex lovers suffer, patiently and gladly.
They inflict these loving injuries of joy and grace
one upon the other, till they dies of lust and pain
within the horny paradise of one another's limbs,
with one voice cry to heaven in a last divine release.

Then lie long together, peacefully entwined, with hope
of resurrection, as we did, on that green hill far away.
But before we rose again, they came and took him from me.
They knew not what we had done, but felt
no shame or anger. Rather they were glad for us,
and blessed us, as would he, who loved all men.

And after three long, lonely days, like years,
in which I roamed the gardens of my grief
seeking for him, my one friend who had gone from me,
he rose from sleep, at dawn, and showed himself to me before
all others. And took me to him with
the love that now forever dares to speak its name.

Well, enough of that, it's more historically interesting than any good. The title of course references "Two Loves" by Lord Alfred Douglas, which is a decent poem, but not particularly erotic. His "In Praise of Shame" is more erotic, if at a remove from it:

Last night unto my bed bethought there came
Our lady of strange dreams, and from an urn
She poured live fire, so that mine eyes did burn
At the sight of it. Anon the floating fame
Took many shapes, and one cried: "I am shame
That walks with Love, I am most wise to turn
Cold lips and limbs to fire; therefore discern
And see my loveliness, and praise my name."

And afterwords, in radiant garments dressed
With sound of flutes and laughing of glad lips,
A pomp of all the passions passed along
All the night through; till the white phantom ships
Of dawn sailed in. Whereat I said this song,
"Of all sweet passions Shame is the loveliest."

There's plenty more, but I tried to think of a few of the top of my head that were quite different from each other, to give a few different approaches.

Let's finish up with another case of straight sexuality being written about from a male perspective:

Celebration

When you kneel below me
and in both your hands
hold my manhood like a sceptre,

When you wrap your tongue
about the amber jewel
and urge my blessing,

I understand those Roman girls
who danced around a shaft of stone
and kissed it till the stone was warm

Kneel, love, a thousand feet below me,
so far I can barely see your mouth and hands
perform the ceremony,

Kneel till I topple to your back
with a groan, like those gods on the roof
that Samson pulled down.

Leonard Cohen

cue

That is great stuff! Exactly what I am looking for. Thanks a lot. Any others?

Talliesin

Well of the above, those from Sappho, Adrienne Riche and Leonard Cohen are quite indicative of some of what else you'll find if you read more.

If a few more come to mind I'll add a few more examples.

Jay P

Some Barry White...

RonMexico

The Dog licked his balls
So I kicked him
Bastard

Oh wait wrong thread sorry... :P

Talliesin

Jay P wrote: »

Some Barry White...

It would only count if it sounded erotic in most people's voices.

Barry White can make most shopping lists seem sexy, it's not the poetry of the words that's doing it

cue

Have to agree about Barry White. With song lyrics it is not so much about the words. It is usually the way it is being sung.

Talliesin

There are cases where you have both at the same time though.

I gave one of Leonard Cohen's poems above, but of course he is better known as a singer-songwriter and personally his voice does it for me more than Barry White's (I lend towards the romantically melancholic though, YMMV). He had published volumes of poetry before his first LP release, which may be related to his being taken more seriously than many others who are both poets and songwriters - though in other cases it's more a matter of decisions that are better for business than they are for art; Jim Morrison's reputation as a poet seriously suffers from poor editing meaning that the gems are lost in sophomoric rubbish that wouldn't have made the cut if it wasn't an attempt to cash in on his enduring Rock-God status.

Some of Cohen's songs have also been published as poetry ("Suzanne" making it into some of the Norton anthologies and similar, making them as close to being in the canon as we have in these post-canon days), and some of his other song lyrics can also make the cut in this regard IMO. For present purposes, consider the warm nostalgic eroticism of the opening lines to the first and third verses of "Hey, That's No Way to Say Goodbye":

I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but now it's come to distances and both of us must try,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.

I'm not looking for another as I wander in my time,
walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme
you know my love goes with you as your love stays with me,
it's just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea,
but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.

I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.

Which leads my train of thought to another of his. For the most part I've been thinking of poetry where the erotic aspect is relatively "pure". Of course the erotic impulses often happen as just one strain of a lot of other things going on. Consider the ultra-short short story in my signature below, it's focus is on how the heroine's crush can't be fulfilled, but the erotic impulse is still in there.

Edit: This post has inspired me to make a change in my signature. The signature I'm talking about here had been:

Safe Love (Lydia Davis)
She was in love with her son's pediatrician. Alone out in the country — could anyone blame her.
There was an element of grand passion in this love. It was also a safe thing. The man was on the other side of a barrier. Between him and her: the child on the examining table, the office itself, the staff, his wife, her husband, his stethoscope, his beard, her breasts, his glasses, her glasses, etc.

Which makes me think of his wonderful "Master song" which hints at sadomasochism in many ways, but in a very disapproving way. I'll link to it rather than quote it since it's long and not directly answering your question. But it's led me to an answer to a question I had for myself when I first posted in this thread, which was why could I not think of any good poetry on BDSM, despite that being how I lean sexually. I'm sure there's some good BDSM-positive poetry out there that I just don't know about, but taking this new way of thinking of eroticism in poetry I can think of a good few which touch on it, but not as the sole topic nor in a directly positive way. The lyrics to Fiona Apple's "Criminal" starts with "I've been a bad bad girl" in such a way as to make it completely ambiguous as to whether she's playing at being a "bad girl" as a sexual game, or is truly racked with guilt and self-blame, or a mixture of the two. For a long time my tagline here was a line from Sylvia Plath's "Poppies in July" that hints along similar lines, "If I could bleed, or sleep!—
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!" similar is the earlier lines "A mouth just bloodied.
Little bloody skirts!".

I've stretched things out to the merest of hints, and following that tangent other cases that hint at sexual desire but are really talking about other things include the line in Tori Amos' "Professional Widow"; "Honey, bring it close to my lips", which hints at kissing or oral sex, but in the context is more likely referring to a gun being used in a suicide attempt. The second meaning is the dominant one, but the first does use eroticism to lend a tactility to the lines.

And thinking of tactility and modern poetry it's hard not to think of Seamus Heaney, which finally brings to mind an example of a poem that directly answers your question:

Undine

He slashed the briars, shovelled up grey silt
To give me right of way in my own drains
And I ran quick for him, cleaned out my rust.

He halted, saw me finally disrobed,
Running clear, with apparent unconcern.
Then he walked by me. I rippled and I churned

Where ditches intersected near the river
Until he dug a spade deep in my flank
And took me to him. I swallowed his trench

Gratefully, dispersing myself for love
Down in his roots, climbing his brassy grain —
But once he knew my welcome, I alone

Could give him subtle increase and reflection.
He explored me so completely, each limb
Lost its cold freedom. Human, warmed to him.

- Seamus Heaney

While the eroticism of undines is pretty obvious, it's interesting that this has an description of sexual activity (and in particular a sexual conquest of sorts, though in this case her being an undine makes it clear just who has conquered whom) in parallel with a description of another satisfying task, with it highly ambiguous as to which is the metaphor for which - just as the very first poem I quoted above did.

So, I hope you find that last poem a good enough answer to justify my exploring a few tangents. I've enjoyed thinking around this question, since it does link two of my favourite topics

cue

Wow! Never would have thought of Heaney. Thanks Talliesin

Talliesin

Well, it's the only poem of his I can think of that is erotic all the way through (though plenty touch on sexual themes in one way or another).

An erotic poem about digging out a ditch. Only Heaney

tSubh Dearg

Right, I've had a root around in my Roger McGough collection and I've found a couple I think are appropriate.

'6' from Summer with Monka

i have lately learned to swim
and now feel more at home
in the ebb and flow of your slim
rhythmic tide
than in the fully dressed

couldntcareless

restless world outside

- Roger McGough

this one I think is more poignant overall you can still see the eroticism in the middle stanzas.

The Golden Treasury of Flesh

Stoned and lonely in the union bar
looking for a warm student
to fall upon. Someone gentle
and understanding. History perhaps?
Not Maths or English.

Not English. I'm in
no mood to be laid
alongside our literary heritage
allocated my place in her
golden treasury of flesh.

Geography might do the job.
To snuggle up to
shifting continents and
ocean currents. Swap tonnage
and compare monsoons.

Even Chemistry. Someone
tangible. Flasks, bubblings
and a low flame underneath.
With someone warm like this
I'd take my chances.

Maths would find in my no questions
English Lit. no answers.

- Roger McGough

Earthhorse

cue wrote: »

That is great stuff! Exactly what I am looking for. Thanks a lot. Any others?

Y'know, Talliesin has really put given you some great material to go on in this thread but maybe you should do some reading for yourself? As he says, you might start with the poets he's already mentioned. I might re-iterate cummings, and add John Donne and Edna St. Vincent Millay to the mix. Maybe even some Herbert. To be honest most poets have a few poems that cover the subject though few write exclusively about it.

Talliesin wrote: »

An erotic poem about digging out a ditch. Only Heaney

Not to quibble with your choice but I, for one, am going to say "Thank God for that".

mojokiss13

John Donne - Elegy 20 - To His Mistress Going to Bed

C[SIZE=-1]OME[/SIZE], madam, come, all rest my powers defy ;
Until I labour, I in labour lie.
The foe ofttimes, having the foe in sight,
Is tired with standing, though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glittering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breast-plate, which you wear,
That th' eyes of busy fools may be stopp'd there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
Tells me from you that now it is bed-time.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown going off such beauteous state reveals,
As when from flowery meads th' hill's shadow steals.
Off with your wiry coronet, and show
The hairy diadems which on you do grow.
Off with your hose and shoes ; then softly tread
In this love's hallow'd temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes heaven's angels used to be
Revealed to men ; thou, angel, bring'st with thee
A heaven-like Mahomet's paradise ; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know
By this these angels from an evil sprite ;
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
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?


One of my favourites

Talliesin

I hope this is considered a reasonable cause for returning to such an old thread, but I was reminded of this seventeenth-century ballad by a thread in the Sex & Sexuality forum. It's cruder than most of what we've had so far, but has a certain charm:

A Pleasant New Ballad; Being a Merry Discourse between a Country Lass and a young Taylor;
Shewing
How the Taylor lost his plight and pleasure,
His yard not being of Standard Measure.
To a Pleasant New Tune; or, Kester [Chester] Crab.

In harvest-time I walked
hard by a corn-close side;
I hearing people talk,
I look'd about and spy'd

A young man and a maid,
together they did lye;
When you hear it told,
you'l laugh full heartily.

She was as buxsome a lass
as any in our town;
She will not let you pass
but she'l call you to sit down.

A taylor passing by,
she hit him on the heele:
"You are very welcome, Sir,
to sit you down and feele:

"What money's in my purse
at your command shall be,
If you will go along
to Marson Wake with me."

He hearing her say so,
and seeing her to smile,
Was charned with her, so
he sate him down a while.

And having groped her purse,
and taken all her money,
He grop'd again, and mist
and caught her by the coney.

"Where am I now?" quoth he,
"another I have found;
Its not the same," quoth he,
for this is tufted round."

"If it be tufted round," quoth she,
"there is good reason for't,
There in such treasure lyes
will make a taylor sport."

He hearing her say so,
being a frolicksome lad,
Was willing for to know
more of the fringed bag.

With that he eagerly
to feel put forth his hand.
"Nay, hold, good Sir," said she,
"go not before you stand:

"Except you take your yard,
the depth of it to measure,
You'l find the purse so deep,
you'l hardly come to th' treasure."

He hearing her say so,
it put him to a stand;
She seeing him dismaid,
she took his yard in hand:

"is this your yard ?" quoth she,
"is this your taylor's measure?
It is too short for me,
it is no Standard-Measure."

The taylor being abashed,
she told him that it was
More fitter for a man,
than such a penny ass.

She bids him now be gone,
since he could make no sport,
And said, 'thou are too dull
to enter such a fort."

Then looking fiercely at him,
she said, "Thou sneaking fool,
Go straight away to Vulcan,
and let him mend thy tool.

"And tell him that Dame Venus
at him is almost mad,
For sending to her school,
such an unfit lad."

You taylors that attempt
fringed bags to measure,
Be sure your yard be sealed,
and full Standard Measure.

raah!

The Trout by John Montague

Flat on the bank I parted
Rushes to ease my hands
In the water without a ripple
And tilt them slowly downstream
To where he lay, tendril-light,
In his fluid sensual dream.

Bodiless lord of creation,
I hung briefly above him
Savouring my own absence,
Senses expanding in the slow
Motion, the photographic calm
That grows before action.

As the curve of my hands
Swung under his body
He surged, with visible pleasure.
I was so preternaturally close
I could count every stipple
But still cast no shadow, until

The two palms crossed in a cage
Under the lightly pulsing gills.
Then (entering my own enlarged
Shape, which rode on the water)
I gripped. To this day I can
Taste his terror on my hands.

whe, whe, whe.