Read The Poetry of Sex Online

Authors: Sophie Hannah

Tags: #Poetry, #Anthologies (Multiple Authors), #Health & Fitness, #Sexuality

The Poetry of Sex (7 page)

BOOK: The Poetry of Sex
9.42Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
Rhetorical Questions
Hugo Williams

How do you think I feel

when you make me talk to you

and won’t let me stop

till the words turn into a moan?

Do you think I mind

when you put your hand over my mouth

and tell me not to move

so you can ‘hear’ it happening?

And how do you think I like it

when you tell me what to do

and your mouth opens

and you look straight through me?

Do you think I mind

when the blank expression comes

and you set off alone

down the hall of collapsing columns?

Haikus to Fuck to
Leo Cookman

She loses her clothes

In seconds. Out stick her tits

Then she climbs on top

My cock between lips

Day and Night, joyful sucking,

‘Please cum in my mouth’

Hot, sweaty and hard

My dick in her hand, she wanks

Me to perfection

I spread her legs wide

And my head put between them

To lick her pussy

‘Your cock’s amazing’

‘I want your dick inside me’

My cock in her cunt

‘Now, cum on my tits’

‘You’re just so hot when you cum’

‘I’m stroking myself’

It’s lovely to lick

Around the dark nipples on

Her round and soft breasts

She sticks her legs out

As I fuck her so hard, she

Asks it deeper still

Ecstasy in moans

As I hammer forth, inside,

Out driving our cum

My cock soaking wet

Gloved by her slit, now dripping,

We fuck. In and out.

We shout then as I

Ejaculate inside her.

Warm, creamy and white.

I slide my spent dick

Out of her sodden, wet minge.

My lover I kiss.

Caked in each other’s

Kisses and sweat, on her I

Lie. Absolute bliss.

The Sun Rising
John Donne

       Busy old fool, unruly Sun,

       Why dost thou thus,

Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?

Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?

       Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide

       Late school-boys and sour prentices,

    Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,

    Call country ants to harvest offices;

Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,

Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

       Thy beams so reverend, and strong

       Why shouldst thou think?

I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,

But that I would not lose her sight so long.

       If her eyes have not blinded thine,

       Look, and to-morrow late tell me,

     Whether both th’ Indias of spice and mine

     Be where thou left’st them, or lie here with me.

Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,

And thou shalt hear, ‘All here in one bed lay.’

       She’s all states, and all princes I;

       Nothing else is;

Princes do but play us; compared to this,

All honour’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.

       Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we,

       In that the world’s contracted thus;

     Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be

     To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.

Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;

This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.

Flicker
Robert Frant

Your tongue gives such pleasure

When you, at your leisure,

Form words that I treasure –

Such filth, without measure.

Then later, the flicker,

First slowly then quicker,

Addictive as liquor,

Still making me thicker

And harder inside you;

Your mouth, open wide to

Take all I provide through

Your lips as I ride you.

4
 
‘ALL OUR STATES UNITED’
Tying the Knots
Anna-May Laugher

On Audrey’s wedding night

she took a pin to bed;

stabbed her finger in the breathless dark

and dabbed the linen of the ‘breaking cloth’.

She made small sounds that passed for pain,

not sure it was enough, she stabbed again,

smeared a thumb-ful of redemptive blood

across the white of her stocking top.

Audrey was sixty when we met, lovely and vast,

like a dimpled sow in a yellow tabard;

always a scuff-chafe-scuff of thighs

as she mopped corridors and stairs.

Each day, once the Matins bell had stopped,

I’d wash left-greasy supper pots,

she’d squat and settle with toast and tea,

plotting lavish nuptials for her Marie.

She liked her family traditions,

the Kimber cloth for ‘breaking in’.

Five generations of bridal virgins

‘taken’ on it by eager men.

‘Well I saaaay five’ she said and smiled.

‘It wouldn’t matter now, but then …’

Bicycle Pump
Irving Layton

The idle gods for laughs gave man his rump;

In sport, so made his kind that when he sighs

In ecstasy between a woman’s thighs

He goes up and down, a bicycle pump;

And his beloved once his seed is sown

Swells like a faulty tube on one side blown.

Magnets
Jo Bell

Working different hours,

we settled for exchanging rude words

on the fridge.

my purple love juice spit on roses:

this member is a giant bore
.

I came alone into the tired house one night

and reached for milk. I saw

I in bed now

come

Muse
Jo Bell

You show up late

in your biker jacket

hoping that a quick roll

on my laminate flooring

will remedy all ills.

It will. But make it

a good one.

The Day He Met His Wife
Peter Sansom

She said goodbye to common sense

and so they booked a room

in an afternoon hotel to holiday

with fecklessness in laundered sheets;

and there was an orchid

and a crisp new paperback,

the art gallery on a working day,

a second bottle opened and a third

knowing tomorrow in twenty years

they’d wake up with such a head,

a sink full of pots, the fridge

empty as Antarctica

and everything uphill again

in rain you could canoe

the middle of the street down,

which they did.

Conception
Sarah Salway

A winter night, his mouth on her breast

so soft the spring inside her wound tight

following the trail of it, his breath

whispering she should open up, not fight,

and she did, darling. She was one long

ache, hard to see where she ended

and he began. Then such strong

aching, hard to see where she ends

and the baby began. They become one long

whisper, opening up without a fight,

losing the trail of themselves, breath

so real the spring inside winds tight

feeling the shock of what’s happening

this spring night, new mouth on her breast.

After Making Love We Hear Footsteps
Galway Kinnell

For I can snore like a bullhorn

or play loud music

or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman

and Fergus will only sink deeper

into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash,

but let there be that heavy breathing

or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house

and he will wrench himself awake

and make for it on the run – as now, we lie together,

after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies,

familiar touch of the long-married,

and he appears – in his baseball pajamas, it happens,

the neck opening so small he has to screw them on –

and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep,

his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child.

In the half darkness we look at each other

and smile

and touch arms across this little, startlingly muscled body –

this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making,

sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,

this blessing love gives again into our arms.

Their Sex Life
A. R. Ammons

One failure on

Top of another

Featherlite
Neil Rollinson

Waste not, want not you say as you

wring the last drops, the way

you’d get the dregs of the Burgundy

out of a wine box. You swallow the lot

like an epicure, a woman who hasn’t drunk

for weeks. I see the tongue curl

in your mouth, your lips sticky and opalescent

as it runs down your throat.

An elixir, that’s what you call it,

your multi-mineral and vitamin supplement:

amino acids, glucose, fructose, vitamin B12

(essential for vegetarians), vitamin C,

magnesium, calcium, potassium,

and one third of the recommended

daily dose of zinc. You wipe your chin

with a finger, and put the tip to your tongue.

The taste is acquired; like whisky,

and anchovies, you develop a passion.

It’s an aphrodisiac more efficacious

than rhino horn, or Spanish Fly,

it’s delicious, you say, as you grab my hair,

and push your salty tongue in my mouth.

Casanever
Nic Aubury

To most men, the notion

Of ‘romance and mystery’

Means clearing the porn from

Their Internet history.

The Couple Upstairs
Nic Aubury

Their bed springs start to creak;

Their ardour has awoken.

That’s twice at least this week;

Their telly must be broken.

Putting in the Seed
Robert Frost

You come to fetch me from my work to-night

When supper’s on the table, and we’ll see

If I can leave off burying the white

Soft petals fallen from the apple tree

(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,

Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea);

And go along with you ere you lose sight

Of what you came for and become like me,

Slave to a Springtime passion for the earth.

How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed

On through the watching for that early birth

When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,

The sturdy seedling with arched body comes

Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.

And So Today Take Off My Wristwatch
A. F. Harrold

It has snowed and, not venturing out, it seems we must stay in,

draw the curtains back and see the winter light reflecting in

and stay in bed or share a bath and eat straight from the tin

heedless of staining the duvet which has become a sort of skin.

And with the thermostat turned up and with the wireless switched off

we do simply simple things that we know we do not do enough

and sometimes they have something to do with lofty things like love

or passion, perhaps, or loyalty, but at other times do not.

For sometimes it must be recognised that duties have stepped in

and regulated each of the hours that we have stretched between

dawn and breakfast, work and dinner and in time the heart wears thin.

And so today take off my wristwatch, let me lie down, breathe you in.

And in the silence between breathing some bird sings in the garden

and once again certain things between us start to harden.

An Epic in Me
Eva Salzman

So that the telling may not be diverse from the fact

    –Dante

Sweating, his body becomes hot wax

moulding me. I want my impression to last.

The weight of him is a team of horses

lumbering over a wooden bridge,

shoving, shoving on the advance guard.

Not quite bravery, but eloquent brawn.

He runs whole pitches through the night.

A hundred ‘tries’, he’s no closer to goal.

Making his mark deep inside of me,

he stitches the laces of a cross, a dash –

he who loathes the intellectual.

With him I felt sublimely wordless. Until this.

BOOK: The Poetry of Sex
9.42Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Frontline by Alexandra Richland
The Day Before Midnight by Stephen Hunter
Simon Death High by Blair Burden
Cards of Grief by Jane Yolen
Boy Erased by Garrard Conley
Wilda's Outlaw by Velda Brotherton
Walk on Water by Garner, Josephine
Hot Stories for Cold Nights by Joan Elizabeth Lloyd
Understudy by Wy, Denise Kim
Pickle Pizza by Beverly Lewis