Thursday, February 24, 2011

Making Poetic Love

You asked how poets make love with words
I decided to show you not by mouth or curves
Tonight I'll write my poetry across the canvas
Of your body, my willing blinded accomplice
Expressing my innermost secret desires
Planning every word's placement my pen attires
Your angled and plane aroused contour
With pleasure filled fantasies writing on your
honeyed skin; tastes of budding succulence
Building from the ladder of your emergence
From dreamlike slumber to writhing climax
Orgasmic words are the finest aphrodisiacs
So when you feel my pen tantricly lift up
I'll mount you Lover while I sensuously touch
And moan each tattooed word in your ear
Til you can't breathe and can't conjure
More passionate love than a poet's words

By: Can't remember name
Copied and lived by: Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name

Sunday, February 13, 2011

‘Bound for your distant home’
By Alexsandr Pushkin

Bound for your distant home
you were leaving alien lands.
In an hour as sad as I’ve known
I wept over your hands.
My hands were numb and cold,
still trying to restrain
you, whom my hurt told
never to end this pain.

But you snatched your lips away
from our bitterest kiss.
You invoked another place
than the dismal exile of this.
You said, ‘When we meet again,
in the shadow of olive-trees,
we shall kiss, in a love without pain,
under cloudless infinities.’

But there, alas, where the sky
shines with blue radiance,
where olive-tree shadows lie
on the waters glittering dance,
your beauty, your suffering,
are lost in eternity.
But the sweet kiss of our meeting ......
I wait for it: you owe it me .......

Saturday, February 5, 2011

In the Afternoon of my Life

Stone is a forehead where dreams grieve
without curving waters and frozen cypresses.
Stone is a shoulder on which to bear Time
with trees formed of tears and ribbons and planets.

Federico Garcia Lorca “Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias”

Things do not occur without reason,
without some special need for them.
Who will remember me? The gray that I’ve seen
Of winter’s misty streets at dusk
the lighted building windows against the darkness of the sky;
the rebirth of life and spirit that I felt
like Cherry blossoms during Spring;
the hot sultry nights of Summer
where two lovers chance fate’s decrees.
The reds, yellows and browns of Autumn’s rainbow,
that forecast Winter’s gray and white sheet.
Who will remember yesterday’s memories that
I strain to capture in these few lines for you.

I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely head

Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

What is the cause of things, why are they so?
Is it some heavenly master plan or
Fickle fate that prevented you and I from ever meeting?
Perhaps we would have not prevailed…
Or… our happiness too short lived.
But… perhaps… we would have.
For you, I would have: fought dragons,
conquered mountains,
written songs and poems,
collected flowers for your mornings,
sat by you in the afternoon
driving home from work;
brought you a blanket and my
burning body to keep you warm
during the cold nights;
loved you with all my being, for
only you have I loved, and
was honored to be loved by you.
This you must know.
Yet darkness comes to us all,
my heart’s wounds are too deep;
for I bared my soul; now the pain is
more than I can bear.
For a brief moment I wondered:
Do dreams come true after all
these years?
Alas, they remain but dreams.

The child and the afternoon do not know you
because you have died forever.

The autumn will come with small white snails,
misty grapes and with clustered hills,
but no one will look into your eyes
because you have died forever.

Because you have died for ever,
like all the dead of the earth, like all the dead who are forgotten
in a heap of lifeless dogs.

Nobody knows you. No. But I sing of you.
For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.

I sing of [your] elegance with words that groan,
and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.

Federico Garcia Lorca “Llanto por Ignacio Sanchez Mejias”

In the afternoon of my life, I sit on a rock
I can't see all the other rocks;
my thoughts are buried there.
I don't want to remember the past,
The present is but an instant, and
I don't care about the “future”.
“Past, present, future”... they are but
words that some philosopher made up;
they have no relevance for the dead
and the dying.

By: Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name