Well ok then!

I got bupkiss for sex poetry, Justice. I am enjoying this series lots and lots though, and look forward to the next topic.

I do have a favorite on this, er, subject.

The Fish

IN a cool curving world he lies

And ripples with dark ecstasies.

The kind luxurious lapse and steal

Shapes all his universe to feel

And know and be; the clinging stream

Closes his memory, glooms his dream,

Who lips the roots o’ the shore, and glides

Superb on unreturning tides.

Those silent waters weave for him

A fluctuant mutable world and dim,

Where wavering masses bulge and gape

Mysterious, and shape to shape

Dies momently through whorl and hollow,

And form and line and solid follow

Solid and line and form to dream

Fantastic down the eternal stream;

An obscure world, a shifting world,

Bulbous, or pulled to thin, or curled,

Or serpentine, or driving arrows,

Or serene slidings, or March narrows.

There slipping wave and shore are one,

And weed and mud. No ray of sun,

But glow to glow fades down the deep

(As dream to unknown dream in sleep);

Shaken translucency illumes

The hyaline of drifting glooms;

The strange soft-handed depth subdues

Drowned colour there, but black to hues,

As death to living, decomposes—

Red darkness of the heart of roses,

Blue brilliant from dead starless skies,

And gold that lies behind the eyes,

The unknown unnameable sightless white

That is the essential flame of night,

Lustreless purple, hooded green,

The myriad hues that lie between

Darkness and darkness!…

--Rupert Brooke

At least, I think it has something to do with tit.

=D

What Lips My Lips Have Kissed,
and Where, and Why

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little whilte, that in me sings no more.

- Edna St. Vincent Millay

Well, is it cheating to use song lyrics? Maybe just this once? Okay, I'm gonna cheat with song lyrics but I won't do it again, I promise. And what is it with me and daffodils, anyway?

Songs From the Wood - Jethro Tull.

Velvet Green
lyrics by
Ian Anderson

Walking on velvet green. Scots pine growing.
Isn't it rare to be taking the air, singing.
Walking on velvet green.
Walking on velvet green. Distant cows lowing.
Never a care: with your legs in the air, loving.
Walking on velvet green.
Won't you have my company, yes, take it in your hands.
Go down on velvet green, with a country man.
Who's a young girls fancy and an old maid's dream.
Tell your mother that you walked all night on velvet green.
One dusky half-hour's ride up to the north.
There lies your reputation and all that you're worth.
Where the scent of wild roses turns the milk to cream.
Tell your mother that you walked all night on velvet green.
And the long grass blows in the evening cool.
And August's rare delight may be April's fool.
But think not of that, my love,
I'm tight against the seam.
And I'm growing up to meet you down on velvet green.
Now I may tell you that it's love and not just lust.
And if we live the lie, let's lie in trust.
On golden daffodils, to catch the silver stream
that washes out the wild oat seed on velvet green.
We'll dream as lovers under the stars ---
of civilizations raging afar.
And the ragged dawn breaks on your battle scars.
As you walk home cold and alone upon velvet green.
Walking on velvet green. Scots pine growing.
Isn't it rare to be taking the air, singing.
Walking on velvet green.
Walking on velvet green. Distant cows lowing.
Never a care: with your legs in the air, loving.
Walking on velvet green.

You must haz a little D. H. Lawrence.

Liaison

A big bud of moon hangs out of the twilight,
Star-spiders spinning their thread
Hang high suspended, withouten respite
Watching us overhead.

Come then under the trees, where the leaf-cloths
Curtain us in so dark
That here we're safe from even the ermin-moth's
Flitting remark.

Here in this swarthy, secret tent,
Where black boughs flap the ground,
You shall draw the thorn from my discontent,
Surgeon me sound.

This rare, rich night! For in here
Under the yew-tree tent
The darkness is loveliest where I could sear
You like frankincense into scent.

Here not even the stars can spy us,
Not even the white moths write
With their little pale signs on the wall, to try us
And set us affright.

Kiss but then the dust from off my lips,
But draw the turgid pain
From my breast to your bosom, eclipse
My soul again.

Waste me not, I beg you, waste
Not the inner night:
Taste, oh taste and let me taste
The core of delight.

i'll see your Lawrence and raise you one Rilke:

Some day, if I should ever lose you, will you be able then to go to sleep without me softly whispering above you like night air stirring in the linden tree?

Without my waking here and watching
and saying words as tender as eyelids
that come to rest weightlessly upon your breast,
upon your sleeping limbs, upon your lips?

Without my touching you and leaving you
alone with what is yours, like a summer garden
that is overflowing with masses
of melissa and star-anise?

-- Rainer Maria Rilke
"Slumber Song"

Justice P, thank you very much for sharing. "Art is the sex of imagination." I love that. "Whyispleasure suchdoom." Awesome!

Here is something brief I wrote in 2003 during a difficult time of self-absorbtion. I think it's relevant since egoism is like sex with oneself.

The world swallowed
by my mind;
it is mine.
Falling down a well and
looking to the surface
as the sun spins.
Further and further
away from the opening.
Deeper and deeper
the opening follows.

I echo the thanks for the homage to poetry (a relief from the sniping over important, but divisive issues- mea culpa, too). I saw this post a couple of hours ago and decided to try and write something even though everyone here seems to be proficient at this (beautiful stuff all around) and I'm not a poet or writer of anything (piddling around lately). Still, that's never kept me from posting my idiocies on any other subject, so... Believe it or not, I tried to address your prompt (art and sex) here:

Diving off the faded teak deck
Blue flash of ocean-sky and
Heaven-sea and
Endless deserted horizon
Mine, the sole vessel, not a bird
Not a voice

Only the solitude of
The wind, awesome aloneness

Does life still exist?
Do we end alone like this?

Gashing the surface
As much a shock to the still water as
To the body
A baptism obliterating
wavering clouds and aqua sky

Bracing splashing cool
Immersion, beyond invigorating
A revival or really no more
Than a soft step on the crisp floor
Of a dark and pungent forest?

The solid earth is for burial and rot
Discarded vessels, once of sound wood
That sail no more
Names, mostly of loved-ones
Fading: Gypsy Queen, Paradise Bound, Destination Unknown, Buena Suerte, And the Living is Easy, Godspeed, Sweet Jane
They shall be resurrected, too, in eons
Not days

Spirit is
Fluid and cannot be held
Love is
Living not dying
The sea is
An ocean of souls entered through merging
Of self becoming reflection

Plunging into the water, collapsing into your own
Image as crossing
The threshold
Of the mirror’s frame
You reflect your own reflection

I am the reflection of you
You of me
Make one of two become
None in all
Tumbling into another world
Engulfed