The Dirtier the better??
The divine combination of suspense and revelation creates the best spark for example:
"wetter than niagra,i am your viagra, call this kitty gushers cuz im sweeter, leakin faster,she serious as cancer,wannabe my private dancer, ill be your private
groupie, now watch me in the mirror while ya do me"
"wetter than niagra,i am your viagra, call this kitty gushers cuz im sweeter, leakin faster,she serious as cancer,wannabe my private dancer, ill be your private
groupie, now watch me in the mirror while ya do me"
Not that keen on erotic poetry as a genre, because it too easily descends into pointless obscenity, which is about as erotic as seeing naughty words and crude cock and balls scrawled on a wall. If I ever do read it, I prefer it smart, subtle and witty. My favourite, I think, is Andrew Marvell's 'To His Coy Mistress', written about 1650. Its main message, loud and clear, is 'Carpe diem' - Seize the day, 'cos life's too short to hang around: the plea of the guy trying to get a girl into bed throughout the ages. It is both funny and naughty ('then worms shall try That long-preserved virginity'). And the lines about 'Time's wingéd chariot' are terrifying in their intensity. It's also a great reminder that we didn't invent lust.
To His Coy Mistress
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingéd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
Another is 'To His Mistress Going to Bed', by the great John Donne, written in the 1590s. This poem is full of erotic imagery. In the first verse, he encourages his mistress to strip off, bit by bit, and even refers to his own erection ('these Angels from an evil sprite,
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright'), and the actions of lovers when making love ('Licence my roving hands, and let them go,
Before, behind, between, above, below'). He even throws in a reference to America, a mysterious country (like his mistress's body) at the time.
To His Mistress Going to Bed
Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,
Until I labour, I in labour lie.
The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,
Is tir’d with standing though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven’s Zone glistering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,
That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime,
Tells me from you, that now it is bed time.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,
As when from flowery meads th’hill’s shadow steals.
Off with that wiry Coronet and shew
The hairy Diadem which on you doth grow:
Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread
In this love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes, heaven’s Angels used to be
Received by men; Thou Angel bringst with thee
A heaven like Mahomet’s Paradise; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know,
By this these Angels from an evil sprite,
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
Licence my roving hands, and let them go,
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America! my new-found-land,
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann’d,
My Mine of precious stones, My Empirie,
How blest am I in this discovering thee!
To enter in these bonds, is to be free;
Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,
As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth’d must be,
To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
Are like Atlanta’s balls, cast in men’s views,
That when a fool’s eye lighteth on a Gem,
His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them.
Like pictures, or like books’ gay coverings made
For lay-men, are all women thus array’d;
Themselves are mystic books, which only we
(Whom their imputed grace will dignify)
Must see reveal’d. Then since that I may know;
As liberally, as to a Midwife, shew
Thy self: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,
There is no penance due to innocence.
To teach thee, I am naked first; why then
What needst thou have more covering than a man.
Now that's erotic poetry!
To His Coy Mistress
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingéd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
Another is 'To His Mistress Going to Bed', by the great John Donne, written in the 1590s. This poem is full of erotic imagery. In the first verse, he encourages his mistress to strip off, bit by bit, and even refers to his own erection ('these Angels from an evil sprite,
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright'), and the actions of lovers when making love ('Licence my roving hands, and let them go,
Before, behind, between, above, below'). He even throws in a reference to America, a mysterious country (like his mistress's body) at the time.
To His Mistress Going to Bed
Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,
Until I labour, I in labour lie.
The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,
Is tir’d with standing though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven’s Zone glistering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,
That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime,
Tells me from you, that now it is bed time.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,
As when from flowery meads th’hill’s shadow steals.
Off with that wiry Coronet and shew
The hairy Diadem which on you doth grow:
Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread
In this love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes, heaven’s Angels used to be
Received by men; Thou Angel bringst with thee
A heaven like Mahomet’s Paradise; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know,
By this these Angels from an evil sprite,
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
Licence my roving hands, and let them go,
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America! my new-found-land,
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann’d,
My Mine of precious stones, My Empirie,
How blest am I in this discovering thee!
To enter in these bonds, is to be free;
Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,
As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth’d must be,
To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
Are like Atlanta’s balls, cast in men’s views,
That when a fool’s eye lighteth on a Gem,
His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them.
Like pictures, or like books’ gay coverings made
For lay-men, are all women thus array’d;
Themselves are mystic books, which only we
(Whom their imputed grace will dignify)
Must see reveal’d. Then since that I may know;
As liberally, as to a Midwife, shew
Thy self: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,
There is no penance due to innocence.
To teach thee, I am naked first; why then
What needst thou have more covering than a man.
Now that's erotic poetry!
Too much subtlety would lead me to wonder if that was even erotic at all, but too much crudeness makes it look like cheap porn. What I like is the writer focusing less on the graphic aspect of the acts and more on the influence that said acts may have on the protagonist(s), whether that influence may be physical, psychological, emotional, or a mix of it all. That leaves the reader wondering about what may have caused those reactions, and mystery is always sexy in poetry. But it shouldn't be too much of that either. Proper dosing is the key.
Anonymous
Marcus said:Need to be graphic and realistic detailed all that... But no fluff like roses are red etc...
Rozizz r Redd
violetz r blu
Whoo knew da mistereez
uh da universe?
U?
Nope.
Da dopperz?
Nope.
Bob hope?
Yep!
Dat'z wryte.
He wuzza a phunknee gai.
Eye hurd he wuz sexee tew.
He wuzza a baskit weever.
Rozizz r Redd
violetz r blu
Whoo knew da mistereez
uh da universe?
U?
Nope.
Da dopperz?
Nope.
Bob hope?
Yep!
Dat'z wryte.
He wuzza a phunknee gai.
Eye hurd he wuz sexee tew.
He wuzza a baskit weever.
