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Poetry to Swoon For

Monday, February 29th, 2016

sex

 

 

The Floating Poem, Unnumbered

By Adrienne Rich

Whatever happens with us, your body

will haunt mine — tender, delicate

your lovemaking, like the half-curled frond

of the fiddlehead fern in forests

just washed by sun. Your traveled, generous thighs

between which my whole face has come and come —

the innocence and wisdom of the place my tongue has found there —

the live, insatiate dance of your nipples in my mouth —

your touch on me, firm, protective, searching

me out, your strong tongue and slender fingers

reaching where I have been waiting years for you

in my rose-wet cave — whatever happens, this is.

———————————————————————

This poem was first published in 1971 in the collection Twenty One Love Poems, which is now so highly regarded (and evidently out of print) that it is being sold on Amazon for $125.

But I’m hooked. So what’s a girl to do? Well. I’ll buy it for myself, of course! I’ve also added a more reasonably-priced collection by Ms Rich to my gift list. Who is going to make me happy?

Kinky Shakespeare

Saturday, January 27th, 2007

Cuckolded: Sonnet 57

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

Pussy Whipped: Sonnet 58

That god forbid that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!
O, let me suffer, being at your beck,
The imprison’d absence of your liberty;
And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,
Without accusing you of injury.
Be where you list, your charter is so strong
That you yourself may privilege your time
To what you will; to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell;
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.

=====

Ah … the romance of Shakespearean sonnets.

(and what’s up with that earring?)

Love, Angela