This is intended to be a somewhat continuing series in honor of National Poetry Month. I intend to post this series two or three times a week throughout the month of April with various themes.
The theme for this offering is, "Art is Sex."
In this and each of the offerings, I will present some poetry of note and a few of my own. I would hope that in the comments, a poem that follows the theme, original or one dear to the heart, might be shared.
With that, let's continue the series with...
Art is Sex
To speak of morals in art is to speak of legislature in sex. Art is the sex of the imagination.
-- George Jean Nathan
"Art," American Mercury (July 1929)
Out of the arms of one love
and into the arms of another.
-- Charles Bukowski
When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.
-- Pablo Neruda
Your Feet
I know I am but summer to your heart,
And not the full four seasons of the year;
And you must welcome from another part
Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear.
No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell
Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing;
And I have loved you all too long and well
To carry still the high sweet breast of Spring.
Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,
I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums,
That you may hail anew the bird and rose
When I come back to you, as summer comes.
Else will you seek, at some not distant time,
Even your summer in another clime.
-- Edna St. Vincent Millay
I Know I Am But Summer To Your Heart
You open to me
a little,
then grow afraid
and close again,
a small boy
fearing to be hurt,
a toe stubbed
in the dark,
a finger cut
on paper.
I think I am free
of fears,
enraptured, abandoned
to the call
of the Bacchae,
my own siren,
tied to my own
mast,
both Circe
and her swine.
But I too
am afraid:
I know where
life leads.
The impulse
to join,
to confess all,
is followed
by the impulse
to renounce,
and love--
imperishable love--
must die,
in order
to be reborn.
We come
to each other
tentatively,
veterans of other
wars,
divorce warrants
in our hands
which we would beat
into blossoms.
But blossoms
will not withstand
our beatings.
We come
to each other
with hope
in our hands--
the very thing
Pandora kept
in her casket
when all the ills
and woes of the world
escaped.
-- Erica Jong
Middle Aged Lovers, II
Now who could take you off to tiny life
In one room or in two rooms or in three
And cork you smartly, like the flask of wine
You are? Not any woman. Not a wife.
You'd let her twirl you, give her a good glee
Showing your leaping ruby to a friend.
Though twirling would be meek. Since not a cork
Could you allow, for being made so free.
A woman would be wise to think it well
If once a week you only rang the bell.
-- Gwendolyn Brooks
The Independent Man
The First Time
by
Justice Putnam
footballfridayafternoon
momanddaddownthehall
intheirroom
mustbequiet
orwillbefoundout
whyispleasure
suchdoom?
(Fullerton, California 1975)
Cupid and Psyche
by
Justice Putnam
Alabaster wings
And a passionate embrace
A kiss and then
The longing.
The mind swoons
In erotic dream
Angel-like
And electricity.
(Montmorancy, France 1994)
Compulsory Surrender
by
Justice Putnam
Slow thoughts
Slipping into the stream
Sunlit crystal memory
Sliding
Moving
Feeling her firm breasts
With my tongue
Kissing her firm lips
With my fingers
Moaning
Crying
Laughing
Gasping the words
Of whispers and
Silhouetted
Silent intent
Greens and reds
Before my eyes
Her eyes pleading
Penetrating to my soul
Her head thrown back
Hips quivering
Wet
Could any journey
Be more real and now?
(Mill Valley, California 1986)
Testament
by
Justice Putnam
Angular lines and dark hair
Feline eyes and crimson lips
A scent of the Oranges
Of Hieronymous Bosch
The music of her Heart
The ecstasy of her Touch.
The fullness of her Mind
The sky of her eyes
A warm breeze
On the hills
At the end
Of Time.
The coolness of her breath
And the sweetness of her kiss
Can change a world at war
Into a Universe of bliss.
So why oh brothers
Why can't we see?
That to simply know her
Is to know infinity.
(San Francisco, California 2007)
The Truth Be Told
by
Justice Putnam
I would worship
Your beautiful feet
Massage each tired
But receptive toe.
I would press and knead
And rub
Then kiss
And worship
Your feet as though
Your feet are
The pinnacle
Of Beauty
Sent from Heaven
And should be
Exalted so.
But I really
Should tell you
What I really
Think
And I really
Must confess
I only worship
Your beautiful feet
Because I worship
Your perfect breasts.
I would worship
Your breasts
As I kissed
The small
Of your back
I would worship
Your breasts
As I touched you
So that
I would worship
Your breasts
As I kissed
You on
The lips
I would worship
Your breasts
As I caressed
Your smooth
Round hips
But as I've worshipped
Your breasts
Not as some
Timeless Art
Or some primitive
Fetish carved
In a Burmese
Valley
Or found
On some
Distant rampart.
As I've worshipped
Your breasts
Without any
Sense of Time
I found I worshipped
Much more than that
I worship
Your Heart
Your Soul
Your Mind.
And though
I've never
Kissed your feet
The small
Of your back
Or anything
In between
I must admit
To being
A little weak
I must admit
What I
Really think
And I really
Must confess
I still dream
Of kissing
Your beautiful feet
And I still worship
Your perfect breasts.
(Berkeley, California 2006)
An Oil Lamp Turned Low
by
Justice Putnam
Warm breath blessed
Etched against
The palace of her skin
Burn in that grace
Embraced
Cradled in her
Soft fragrance
Like a slow boat rocking
Or the steady yellow flicker
Of an oil lamp
Turned low
See her
Kneeled over
Feel the dance
Of her small cries
Forgotten doors and windows
Between the moon and time
Her open eyes
The smell of her hair
An oil lamp
Turned low
(Bastia, Corsica 1985)
© 2009 by Justice Putnam
Fleur de Sel Musique
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen