I Moan

I could gasp
Loudly,
Breath taken away by how much I love you;
The way you love me.
But I’ll probably moan about it instead,
Reliving you as you
Come inside my head.

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Self-Portrait at 38 BY JENNIFER TONGE

There are lots of ways in which I can relate to the speaker of this poem who thinks that Courbet ‘might capture’ her. I’d like to think he’d paint me as ‘L’origine du Monde’:A scandalous gift for someone important to keep hidden behind a green curtain.

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An unused portion of ‘L’origine du Monde’ by Gustav Courbet

Hair still Titian,
but Botticelli’s grip has loosened—

not now Rubenesque,
and probably never;

Ingres approaches,
but Courbet might capture me.

Could I be surreal?
It seems almost likely—

bells in my ears
and fortresses under;

cones have been set on my eyes.
My spring is gone

and summer’s upon me,
rude in its ripening.

I’m espaliered, strung wide and tied,
pinioned, and thus can I fly.

Francesca Says More by Olena Kalytiak Davis

When you have time to kill, like when you are doing a Francesca and just casually hanging out in the second circle of hell, it’s amazing what great poems you can happen upon, take this fragmented sonnet by Olena Kalytiak Davis for example. According to Dan Chiasson in his article for thNew Yorker, “her poems feel like quickies, rough liaisons where ‘sex meets books.’” I kind of agree with this poem, and I like it. 

that maiden thump was book on floor, but
does it really matter who kissed who
first or then who decided to go further?
lower? faster? naturally, we took
turns on top. now here, now there, and up
and down…once it started no one even thought to think to stop.
so, we have holes inside our souls,
but mustn’t we begin by filling others’?
god gave us lips and hands and parts
that cannot possibly be saved for prayer. nor by.
i will not name name, claim fame by how well
or who i fucked or why, it happens all the time.
and it’s you, white pilgrim, whom next galehot seeks.
fuck. we didn’t read again for weeks.

In Xanadu

‘That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!’

Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

I was day dreaming of
Love again,
You know how it goes…
So I tried to keep my eyes clamped shut
My body from waking but there wasn’t much
I could do when the sun started to shine
And life started to stir
More than squeeze my eyes shut even tighter,
Anything rather than wake up.

I’ve become good at it too,
Lying there with the real world held at arms length
As I slumber and dream of
Ever after, being loved,
Loving.

I guess you might call me a fantasist
But I can create every fantasy you
Want me to,
You are my imagination to
Conjure with in those restless hours before sleep, before wake
Where you belong to me.

I wish this dream to last forever
To stay here with you in Xanadu where
I will let you taste the milk of paradise
In the slumber of my need
Amidst those half dreamt, dreams of you.

Dancers

Words have proved elusive this week but I found some in the end...

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The Kiss by Edvard Munch

At night, in that cold, steel silence
Silvered in moonlight
They come together
Their white forms one,
Then two again;
Dancers on a cotton stage,
Intuitive, beautiful.

The orchestra of imagination
Plays on as they move,
His powerful limbs
Leading her with a
Graceful fierceness and
A touch that trails fire,
Speaks of love and
Untold desire.

Pulse

Pulse
Pulse
That wild staccato rhythm
Two hearts beat.
Two heart beats
Tapping out morse code messages to
…- – – …
As red hot blood courses through blue veins,
Throbs
Throbs
Unstoppable.

A Picture

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It made a glorious picture:
The nude and his lover
In a car 
In a field
Behind a hedge,
On the other side of which,
An old man walked
And cyclists, panting uphill, passed,
Whilst the nude and his lover
Just moaned and gasped.