poetry loves

the-dream-of-perpetual-romance:

So, get this.

Many scholars believe that the best written description of the orgasm exists in Mrs. Dalloway, the novel by Virginia Woolf. Here it is:

“Only for a moment; but it was enough. It was a sudden revelation, a tinge like a blush when one tried to check and then, as it spread, one yielded to its expansion, and rushed to the farthest verge and there quivered and felt the world come closer, swollen with some astonishing significance, some pressure of rapture, which split its thin skin and gushed and poured with an extraordinary alleviation over the cracks and sores! Then, for that moment, she had seen an illumination; a match burning in a crocus; an inner meaning almost expressed. But the close withdrew; the hard softened. It was over — the moment.”

If this is wrong then I don’t wanna be right. 

(via vwvw)

"When the artist depersonalizes the model by focusing solely on the aesthetics of her body, he proves to have a pornographic mind. When, on the other hand, he interprets her external beauty in conjunction with her personal qualities, he is then an artist/lover for whom the aesthetics of his art reveals woman not as sexual object but as an objet d’art. He sees her as subject matter, as a person out of whom art is made."

"The sexual act in erotica is not an end in itself; it is only one of the forms that eroticism takes."

"I must be a mermaid…I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living."

"These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways)."

"

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.
Both of you are great light borrowers.
Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected,

And your first gift is making stone out of everything.
I wake to a mausoleum; you are here,
Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes,
Spiteful as a woman, but not so nervous,
And dying to say something unanswerable.

The moon, too, abuses her subjects,
But in the daytime she is ridiculous.
Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand,
Arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity,
White and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide.

No day is safe from news of you,
Walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.

"

"Love is not just a function of the eyes.
Beautiful objects will, of course, inspire
possessive urges - you need not despise
your taste. But when insatiable desire
inflames you for a girl who’s out of fashion,
lacking in glamour - plain, in fact - that fire
is genuine. That’s the authentic passion.
Beauty, though, any critic can admire."

"Who carved Love
and placed him by
this fountain,
thinking
he could control
such fire
with water?"

"Take courage, lover!
Could you endure such grief
At any hand but hers?"

"

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Strawberry”

I.
I suck on strawberries when I miss you
Pink flesh, sweet and
Soft.

II.
Strawberries are all seeds like a
Gangly twelve-year-old is all legs
Trying so hard to blossom.

III.
If strawberry fields are forever
why did you go?

IV.
They tell you to rinse your berries
Before eating
But I came from dirt, too
And I don’t clean up for no one.

V.
I believed in strawberry trees
until you told me they came from bushes.
I wish you had let me believe
in strawberry trees or
us.

VI.
Summer is a marathon.
I’m looking for my second wind
and your face
in the crowd
behind the caution tape,
but all I can find are long nights
and fresh strawberries.

VII.
Strawberries have a season.
Sometimes they leave you
soggy-tongued and disappointed
and sometimes they’re like bee nectar.
Like you.

VIII.
I spilled a pale dish of strawberries
Staining heart-shaped half-moon kisses
on my sheets.
They remind me of the kind you used to leave
on the pale of my neck.

IX
The center of a strawberry is a cavern
I wish we were all
so lucky.

X.
The elderberry spoke of the strawberry’s
naivety.
Her taut, vibrant skin.
The way she withered so easily.

XI.
Strawberry stems,
so bitter.
I guess nobody likes
to be
ripped
from their roots.

XII.
I like my strawberries sour,
like most things.

XIII.
I suck on strawberries when I miss you.
Wait for that fuzzy feeling like t.v. static
like limbs falling asleep
like picking strawberry pulp out of our teeth
while we laugh all June long.

"

Poem Swap: Peter Quince at the Claviar

She Dreamed of Paradise.: Sunday Morning by Wallace Stevens

"I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after."

Poem Swap: Peter Quince at the Claviar