Real Consent Begs for It

Your aspirations are my inspiration. I love the expression that sets the mood for the......

Love

KS

I hope to aspire to inspiration and expiration, one breath at a time.

I was a goner at the title alone ...

To me, this poem is like one of those paperback books that I fell in love with back in my innocent youth, the ones that were only slightly dirty but caught a bad wrap as being dirtier than they actually were and supposedly 'indecent', from the 80's and 90's - like anything authored by VC Andrews; (ha!) who I absolutely adored to pieces, dragging all those books from all those series around, hidden in my school backpack so I could read and reread, over and over...Until they were so dogeared they were almost unrecognizable...

That's about how many times I felt like I read this poem today.

Loved it, so.
🌹 - B

From My Last Dutchess by Browning...

Sir, ’twas not
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek; perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps
Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat.” Such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

I taught this piece in public school for 30 years. I would have them read it. And I would ask what he was talking about. And they really had no clue. Then I would launch into a round of biochemistry, biology, human sexuality, and a rather sophisticated examination of the difference between the intimate behavior of the naked ape as described by Desmond Morris and the clumsy buffoonery of indifference many of them connoted as dating.  This was unheard of to them. I spoke to them as adults. They could carry weapons to war. I read from Johnny Got His Gun. We spoke emotionally and rigorously about the human heart. We defined poetry.  They learned to argue about Shakespeare. They devoured MacBeth.  They wrote themselves. Sometimes 60,000 words a year.

So, we diagrammed their favorite song lyrics. Read their personal philosophies aloud in class.

And I read Browning outloud in the most wickedly telling way. And Keats. And Byron.

And they demanded to understand. They needed to know. They asked deep and probing questions about life and death and love.

I've been retired for 11 years. I spent the day with an exstudent today, helping him plant a flower garden. Not a month goes by I don't have contact, eat lunch, talk to, spend time with one of my 3500 exstudents.

They dog-eared pages too. As did I. Because life is vital and interesting and intimate. And inquiring minds like ours want to know.  How does it feel to be fully human?

You give in to it. You experience it.

You go at it so deeply that you have to live it. It saturates your dreams and takes over your delusions. It's a delicious pain that we beg for. We are all recovering from the addiction to being human. And once in a while, we dare to fall off the wagon. But sometimes we dive off.  Wretched exuberance.

You're a force to behold and read. I can't properly convey my adoration for a reply like this nor my immense gratefulness.

Know that I am.
🌹 - B

I have read this over and over and keep coming back. One of my favorites of yours for sure 🙂

Thanks for reading and reading.

Açlık ve şevhet kokuyor tebrikler

It smells of hunger and lust, congratulations

Exactly...thanks...message was received both ways!