Harlotry with a sexy syntax-ist
I just realized I’ve been dating since I was 15 and yet, no one has EVER given me a poem! *gasp* It’s not that I require it of my lovahs with a threat of a “No Kisses Till I Get My Poetry, You Ingrate!” Policy, but I might be inclined to consent some Unlimited Boob Access for it!
I mean, I’m pretty, right? *wink* I have uber sexy body, RIGHT?!? *glaring* Surely, one time or another, one of them must have been inspired by my goddessness to at least write me something stupid like:
*Long suffering sigh* I know what you’re thinking. “Poetry? Oh, yuck. That’s for cuckoos!” But what can I say? I have always luuuved poetry. (And I never did claim I’m completely sane. :/) Besides, if you think poems can only be nothing but rhymes and rhymes of verbal masturbation that you’d shout for the poet to shut the fuck up—you are wrong-o, evil reader. Uh-hmm... Well, that, or you’ve yet to read E.E. Cummings.
Oh, Edward Estlin... I have always loved your poetry... EVERY. SINGLE. BIT. OF. IT. *sigh* E.E.’s poetry is easy on the brain and melts in your mouth. Like yum yum, mmm mmmm... And did I mention sexy, sexy, sexy? *g* Some of them are romantic, some are verra verra erotic, but all of them are LUV-LEE... They are like word puzzles with syntax scrambled, words divided/misspelled and punctuation marks in odd places to create a kind of “visual” poetry. Like paintings, really. He is the perfect example of the one who broke the rules—rules which must be MASTERED before they can be acceptably broken. Oh my, a man after my own heart. *drawing of cute hearts here* :P With every bit of inspired doggerel and each blithe vowel, E.E. has taught me the miracle of words: they are both everything and nothing.
Now, three poems...
***
***
My favorites are “i carry your heart with me (i carry it in” just because... and of course “somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond.” I find this particular poem intense, magnetic and terrifying, because I KNOW that it could happen to me. The thought of being so completely taken by someone, UTTERLY encompassed, that my self is no longer voluntary... It’s scary. But you know what’s worse? I wish it to happen. *cringe* (Toldja, cuckoo.)
If you like E.E. Cummings’ stuff—and how could you not?—I suggest buying a book or two because you need to actually see his poetry to truly appreciate it. He is FUCKING AWESOME.
I mean, I’m pretty, right? *wink* I have uber sexy body, RIGHT?!? *glaring* Surely, one time or another, one of them must have been inspired by my goddessness to at least write me something stupid like:
Harlot, oh, Harlot... you, I and I’s pecker
Guaranty, my lovey, you is wet your knickers.
*Long suffering sigh* I know what you’re thinking. “Poetry? Oh, yuck. That’s for cuckoos!” But what can I say? I have always luuuved poetry. (And I never did claim I’m completely sane. :/) Besides, if you think poems can only be nothing but rhymes and rhymes of verbal masturbation that you’d shout for the poet to shut the fuck up—you are wrong-o, evil reader. Uh-hmm... Well, that, or you’ve yet to read E.E. Cummings.
Oh, Edward Estlin... I have always loved your poetry... EVERY. SINGLE. BIT. OF. IT. *sigh* E.E.’s poetry is easy on the brain and melts in your mouth. Like yum yum, mmm mmmm... And did I mention sexy, sexy, sexy? *g* Some of them are romantic, some are verra verra erotic, but all of them are LUV-LEE... They are like word puzzles with syntax scrambled, words divided/misspelled and punctuation marks in odd places to create a kind of “visual” poetry. Like paintings, really. He is the perfect example of the one who broke the rules—rules which must be MASTERED before they can be acceptably broken. Oh my, a man after my own heart. *drawing of cute hearts here* :P With every bit of inspired doggerel and each blithe vowel, E.E. has taught me the miracle of words: they are both everything and nothing.
Now, three poems...
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like,, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big Love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new
***
it may not always be so;and i say
that if your lips,which i have loved,should touch
another’s,and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart,as mine in time not far away;
if on another’s face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as i know,or such
great writhing words as,uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;
if this should be,i say if this should be-
you of my heart,send me a little word;
that i may go unto him,and take his hands,
saying,Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.
***
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands
My favorites are “i carry your heart with me (i carry it in” just because... and of course “somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond.” I find this particular poem intense, magnetic and terrifying, because I KNOW that it could happen to me. The thought of being so completely taken by someone, UTTERLY encompassed, that my self is no longer voluntary... It’s scary. But you know what’s worse? I wish it to happen. *cringe* (Toldja, cuckoo.)
If you like E.E. Cummings’ stuff—and how could you not?—I suggest buying a book or two because you need to actually see his poetry to truly appreciate it. He is FUCKING AWESOME.
Labels: bibliophile’s affair, bitchy mcrant
I love poetry as well! Does it say much about me that I love Edgar Allan Poe's stuff? I swear I'm not insane. LOL.
P.S. Unlimited Boob Access?! LMFAO!
Oh and dude, you never told me what you thought about my Chinese singing! I know my pronunciation was atrocious. :-P
7/20/2007 11:50:00 AM
luv ur site
7/20/2007 12:29:00 PM
Mailyn, i thought it was fab! ;) But really, i'm just ashamed because even if i'm quarter Chinese, i didn't understand a word of it! I can't speak Chinese. :/
AWCIHW, thanks and welcome. :)
7/20/2007 01:30:00 PM
Harlot LOL. I like poetry too but I have to admit the only thing I've read from EE Cummings is Bufalo Bill. I have to say, these ones are great :).
7/20/2007 01:53:00 PM
UBA. unlimited boob access.
oh yes, that's a goodie.
ee cummings is wonderful.
Here's an old fav, GK Chesterton:
The Strange Music
Other loves may sink and settle, other loves may loose and slack,
But I wander like a minstrel with a harp upon his back,
Though the harp be on my bosom, though I finger and I fret,
Still, my hope is all before me: for I cannot play it yet.
In your strings is hid a music that no hand hath e'er let fall,
In your soul is sealed a pleasure that you have not known at all;
Pleasure subtle as your spirit, strange and slender as your frame,
Fiercer that the pain that folds you, softer than your sorrow's name.
Not as mine, my soul's anointed, not as mine the rude and light
Easy mirth of many faces, swaggering pride of song and fight;
Something stranger, something sweeter, something waiting you afar,
Secret as your stricken senses, magic as your sorrows are.
But on this, God's harp supernal, stretched but to be stricken once,
Hoary time is a beginner, Life a bungler, Death a dunce.
But I will not fear to match them-no, by God, I will not fear,
I will learn you, I will play you and the stars stand still to hear.
7/20/2007 03:03:00 PM
Donna thanks for sharing. That was lovely. :)
7/20/2007 04:13:00 PM
LOL. I recognize the last one from the theme song of the 80's TV show, Beauty and the Beast. You know, from that song "The first time I loved forever". They had random verses of the third poem.
Anyway, getting a poem from an admirer isn't all that. I happened to receive poems from two guys. The first one was like this mushy romantic guy who I also liked. But later on, I found out he turned gay. The second one was more like a stalker. The poem had lots of spelling and grammatical mistakes. So even before seeing the guy, I disliked him. To tell the truth, poems usually are mushy, so it's a turnoff either way. I want my men to be manly men.
7/20/2007 04:39:00 PM
How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways...
:p
I like Edgar Allan Poe as well. I think he's brilliant. I prefer dark poems than something about love.
7/20/2007 05:07:00 PM
LMAO! Harlot, I think anything could be had if you promise a guy you would give him unlimited boob access.
Anonymous, I don't think a man who likes poetry means a man who isn't manly. Not that I like poems because I don't. Just tell me what you want to say and stop confusing me! LOL.
7/20/2007 06:06:00 PM
Rachel same reason I love Poe! Dark is gewd. LOL.
7/20/2007 06:28:00 PM
I'd be incredibly suspicious of any man who wrote me poetry.
but I think the line about wet nickers shows an amazing talent for turn of phrase ... lol!
7/20/2007 09:35:00 PM
I like ee cummings, esp the last poem. As for guys making poetry, sort of had a negative experience. There was this guy who kept writing poetry for me and other mushy stuff -- turns out i hate it when guys are overly mushy -- or maybe i just didn't like the guy. LOL!
Now, if it was Gerard....
7/21/2007 11:00:00 PM
I love e.e. cummings. I even adore sappy poets like Robert Frost, Sylvia Plath...she's something else. What about Walt Whitman...he's the very master of imagery.
Some days just call for poetry. I had a guy or two wrote poetry inspired by me. It was pretty bad, but now I wish I kept it so I can make you laugh.
7/22/2007 12:59:00 AM
Harlot,
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
7/27/2007 09:14:00 PM
Thanks, Anon. I won't forget. :)
7/28/2007 01:23:00 PM
Harlot, I e-mailed you links of poems, did you get it?
8/04/2007 08:32:00 PM
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