Jenseits von Afrika :thumb91469817:

125th Street and Abomey

Head bent, walking through snow
I see you Seboulisa
printed inside the back of my head
like marks of the newly wrapped akai
that kept my sleep fruitful in Dahomey
and I poured on the red earth in your honor
those ancient parts of me
most precious and least needed
my well-guarded past
the energy-eating secrets
I surrender to you as libation
mother, illuminate my offering
of old victories
over men over women over my selves
who has never before dared
to whistle into the night
take my fear of being alone
like my warrior sisters
who rode in defense of your queendom
disquised and apart
give the woman strength
of tongue in this cold season.

Half earth and time splits
us apart
like struck rock.
A piece lives elegant stories
too simply put
while a dream on the edge of summer
of brown rain in nim trees
snail shells from the dooryard
of King Toffah
bring me where my blood moves
Seboulisa mother goddess with one breast
eaten away by worms of sorrow and loss
see me now
your severed daughter
laughing our name into echo
all the world shall remember.

- Audre Lorde

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Autumn Song

Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow,
The sunset hangs on a cloud;
A golden storm of glittering sheaves,
Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves,
The wild wind blows in a cloud.
Hark to a voice that is calling
To my heart in the voice of the wind:
My heart is weary and sad and alone,
For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone, And why should I stay behind?

-          Sarojini Naidu
(1879 – 1949)
from The Golden Threshold

little birdie’s autumn song by *AsBeautyDies

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The Weeping Rose

Born as a symbol of beauty.
Radiant.
Energetic.
Like a fresh, red rose bud in the brink of spring.
Growing into youth.
Still a fresh smile.
Yet, something has changed.
Several years go by.
Change more significant.
A symbol of all happiness, slowly disappearing.
The world’s problems deteriorate this innocent mind.
She is worn a little, drawn back.
As years go by she becomes worse.
Like a dying rose,
Losing colour,
Losing touch.
Lost like many others in a world of fear.
Darkness.
Reaching out.
But no ones there.
She becomes frail to life.
Hope lessens.
Her body weakens.
Her mind insane.
Once a symbol of beauty, now non-existent.
Feelings are gone.
She has closed her eyes.
This beautiful red rose has died.

- J. Bonura

Image: The weeping rose by ~KoAn72

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Swedish love

You Are My Purest Comfort

You are my purest comfort,
my most steadfast shelter,
you are the best I have,
for nothing hurts as much as you.

No, nothing hurts as you.
You ache like ice and fire,
you cut like steel my  soul -
you are the best I have.

-       Karin Boye

Transl. Jenny Nunn

Image: Swedish love by ~mjagiellicz

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The Bonsai Tree

The bonsai tree
in the attractive pot
could have grown eighty feet tall
on the side of a mountain
till split by lightning.
But a gardener
carefully pruned it.
It is nine inches high.
Every day as he
whittles back the branches
It is your nature
to be small and cozy
domestic and weak;
how lucky, little tree,
to have a pot to grow in.
With living creatures
one must begin very early
to dwarf their growth:
the bound feet,
the crippled brain,
the hair in curlers,
the hands you
love to touch.

Marge Piercy

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Cages

We lived in cages, you and I,
Seeing each other as shadows
in a place with no light.
We stood reaching out,
our fingers almost meeting,
faces pressed to cold iron,
but people who held keys told us
contact was against the rules.
The others there all lived in cages
and did not complain.
When everyone is imprisoned
imprisonment is freedom of a kind
for those who can surrender.
Each day we reached,
almost touched. Almost….
Did our fingers ever meet,
did the glow we made light
our faces or was it just a trick
of my imagination that
burned your image on my mind.
I could not if I tried
forget the hunger in your eyes.
My flesh still imagines
the passion of your touch.
Perhaps my sterile love stays
with you now. But I am gone,
and you live in a different cage.

- Ian R. Thorpe

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The Imperfect Enjoyment

Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with love, and she all over charms;
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.
With arms,legs,lips close clinging to embrace,
She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face.
Her nimble tongue, Love’s lesser lightening, played
Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed
Swift orders that I should prepare to throw
The all-dissolving thunderbolt below.
My fluttering soul, sprung with the painted kiss,
Hangs hovering o’er her balmy brinks of bliss.
But whilst her busy hand would guide that part
Which should convey my soul up to her heart,
In liquid raptures I dissolve all o’er,
Melt into sperm and, and spend at every pore.
A touch from any part of her had done’t:
Her hand, her foot, her very look’s a c***.

Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise,
And from her body wipes the clammy joys,
When, with a thousand kisses wandering o’er
My panting bosom, “Is there then no more?”
She cries. “All this to love and rapture’s due;
Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?”

But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive,
To show my wished obedience vainly strive:
I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive.
Eager desires confound my first intent,
Succeeding shame does more success prevent,
And rage at last confirms me impotent.
Ev’n her fair hand, which might bid heat return
To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn,
Applied to my dead cinder, warms no more
Than fire to ashes could past flames restore.
Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry,
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie.
This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried,
With virgin blood ten thousand maids have dyed;
Which nature still directed with such art
That it through every cunt reached every heart -
Stiffly resolved, ‘twould carelessly invade
Woman or man, nor aught its fury stayed:
Where’er it pierced, a cunt it found or made -
Now languid lies in this unhappy hour,
Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower.

Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame,
False to my passion, fatal to my fame,
Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove
So true to lewdness, so untrue to love?
What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore
Didst thou e’er fail in all thy life before?
When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way,
With what officious haste dost thou obey!
Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets
Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets,
But if his king or country claim his aid,
The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head;
Ev’n so thy brutal valour is displayed,
Breaks every stew, does each small whore invade,
But when great Love the onset does command,
Base recreant to thy prince, thou dar’st not stand.
Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most,
Through all the town a common fucking-post,
On whom each whore relieves her tingling cunt
As hogs do rub themselves on gates and grunt,
May’st thou to ravenous chancres be a prey,
Or in consuming weepings waste away;
May strangury and stone thy days attend;
May’st thou ne’er piss, who did refuse to spend
When all my joys did on false thee depend.
And may ten thousand abler pricks agree
To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.

- John Wilmot

(1647-1680)
2nd Earl of Rochester

Image: Imperfect by ~violet-x

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Chimera

You take my hand and kiss my lips
then like a starburst you are gone;
flown on psyche’s coloured wings
to outshine the dazzling sun.
And when I find you once again
where, as night’s dark mares hold wake,
you rest; lonely as the moonlight
reflected on a still, deep lake.
And sometimes like a timid deer
and sometimes like a butterfly
you change, fearing to know yourself
while I must love you constantly.
Though you may come as summer’s nymph,
clothed in colours of Lammas – day
or as a sullen silent shade
cloaked and cowled in sorrow’s grey.
In memory’s cavernous fears
where monsters haunt your sleepless head
whispering with voices from the past,
wearing dead faces that you dread
to drive you a million miles
from the sanctuary of my light,
love’s timeless, purifying flame
will always guard you through the night.

- Ian R Thorpe

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The Dying Rose

I had opened the double doors.
Where in the sanctuary was the rose?
Its sweet softness
Beyond the smelting embers
Quivering in the altar of love.

You dared feel my soul
in its white heat

when crouching within my door
intoxicated
by the lotus
you indulged
and I am left
- lingering.

As the morning cock
ignores my despondency
I loiter in reddening autumn leaves.

I have yearned embrace.
Now, I lose track of your rejection
your puritan fetish.
That mangled the apple breasts
you ravished
when you tasted the lily
of loves madora.

Constantly disturbed
by throbbing yearning,
I regret the tainted Eucharist,
of virgin milk and blood
the sacrament
to a divine love
that you made pornography
as the rose wilts
corrupted.

-opus125

(in the spirit of Wu Tsao)

Image: The dying rose… by ~DealingHeart

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Smexy Swedish Girl

How Can I Tell …

How can I tell if your voice is beautiful.
I only know, that it penetrates me
and makes me shake like a leaf
and tears me to shreds and splits me.

What do I know about your skin and limbs.
It makes me tremble that they  are yours,
so for me there is no sleep or rest,
till they are mine

-       Karin Boye

Transl. Jenny Nunn

Image: Smexy Swedish Girl

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absinthe by ~feindish http://fav.me/d214upd

French

Twenty minutes was all we’d manage
of compound tenses and conjugated verbs
before she’d lead me down the corridor
into her scented room, her joss-sticks,
and her threadbare Tubular Bells, for extra-
curricular activities beneath a poster of
The Grateful Dead. I remember the cool
expanse of her bed, her smell in the sheets,
her mouth, her short cropped hair,
and the taste of her skin when she came
to me, her nipples harder than stones.
I remember being pinned to the mattress
wondering if every woman was just like this,
amazing that anything could feel so good;
those miniscule breasts, the slope of her belly,
her cunt, so strange it made me tremble
just touching it. I couldn’t get enough of that.
She was the girl from another world, everything
I’d ever dreamed of, the way she loved it
from behind, wore nothing but Dr Marten’s
on that big white bed — that turned me on —
everything about her did: the stud in her tongue,
her voice, the way she came — in French:
baise-moi, baise-moi. And afterwards her
taking the fee my folks could ill afford
for this private tuition, that was a turn-on too:
paying her week after week for the lessons.

- Neil Rollinson

From Spanish Fly (Cape, 2001)

.

Image: absinthe  by ~feindish

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Sharing a bottle of red wine may seem like the best recipe for a romantic interlude. However, the evening may not turn out as planned according to a Concordia University study.

Despite our preconceived notions, many recreational drugs can cause a loss in that lovin’ feeling.

“We reviewed data from more than 100 different studies” says Concordia psychology researcher, Dr. James Pfaus.”including original data from our own studies, to systematically examine the effects of drugs on sexual performance.”

“In addition, we evaluated the aphrodisiac claims of some of these pharmaceuticals. In this broad-based and wide-reaching study, it appears that drugs and sex don’t mix well and there is no global love-potion.”

The study, “Inhibitory and disinhibitory effects of psychomotor stimulants and depressants on the sexual behavior of male and female rats,”  evaluated the effect of drugs on sexual behaviour.

It was published in the journal Hormones and Behavior.

Dr. Pfaus and his colleagues at Concordia’s Center for Studies in Behavioral Neurobiology have been studying the effects of aphrodisiacs on sexual behaviour for many years.

“Only animal model studies can provide direct cause and effect data and physiological information,” says Dr. Pfaus, explaining why theresearch has been narrowed down to animal model studies.

A few interesting results

The research characterized the effect of two classes of drugs: stimulants, such as caffeine and cocaine, and depressants, such as morphine and alcohol.

Although the majority of these drugs decreased sexual performance interesting exceptions include
• Acute administration of cocaine facilitated penile erection in male rats
• Acute caffeine consumption facilitated sexual behaviour in both male and female rats
• Low levels of alcohol removed inhibitory tendencies
• A high level of alcohol disrupted sexual performance, this effect wore off with time

“Sex and drugs may enhance one another under some circumstances, but it is clear from the data that drug use debilitates sexual responding in the majority of situations,” says Dr. Pfaus.

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Mystery Smiles http://fav.me/d6l1jv

Forbidden Fruit

My love you are a mystery of tangled dreams to me,
A slice of life so rich my palate burns to taste.
You came without an invitation,
And I welcomed you without a trace of worth.

Such are the things you bring to me,
From behind the barricades of fear.
You dared to let the devil take the hindmost,
To let your loving flood on out.

A most unlikely consequence of lives,
From not remotely connecting, winding routes.
That came together without a need for introduction,
Down blindly ever-converging paths.

And what of this love you bring to me,
Should I nullify or doubt.
Or do I blindly trust and savour,
This endless banquet of delight.

You envelop me in toll-free love
And honour me with need.
Yet my mind controls the venetian blind,
To safely filter in your soft warm light.

Your heart reminds me of a presence passed,
A love that flourished many dreadful daily memories ago.
And so it is with trembling empty hands,
That I caress and hold your beauty now.

This love a perfect recipe for misconceived idea,
Nailed on to shock the ever prying, half closed eyes.
They could not trace the serenity within these starving hearts,
Nor understand that we could ever love someone this much.

Neil Graham Marsden

Image: Mystery_Smiles_by_lastplaceAAF

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Skunk Hour

(For Elizabeth Bishop)

Nautilus Island’s hermit
heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage;
her sheep still graze above the sea.
Her son’s a bishop. Her farmer
is first selectman in our village;
she’s in her dotage.

Thirsting for
the hierarchie privacy
of Queen Victoria’s century,
she buys up all
the eyesores facing her shore,
and lets them fall.

The season’s ill–
we’ve lost our summer millionaire,
who seemed to leap from an L. L. Bean
catalogue. His nine-knot yawl
was auctioned off to lobstermen.
A red fox stain covers Blue Hill.

And now our fairy
decorator brightens his shop for fall;
his fishnet’s filled with orange cork,
orange, his cobbler’s bench and awl;
there is no money in his work,
he’d rather marry.

One dark night,
my Tudor Ford climbed the hill’s skull;
I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down,
they lay together, hull to hull,
where the graveyard shelves on the town. . . .
My mind’s not right.

A car radio bleats,
“Love, O careless Love. . . .” I hear
my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell,
as if my hand were at its throat. . . .
I myself am hell;
nobody’s here–

only skunks, that search
in the moonlight for a bite to eat.
They march on their soles up Main Street:
white stripes, moonstruck eyes’ red fire
under the chalk-dry and spar spire
of the Trinitarian Church.

I stand on top
of our back steps and breathe the rich air–
a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail.
She jabs her wedge-head in a cup
of sour cream, drops her ostrich tail,
and will not scare.

- Robert Lowell
1959

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Would you chastise
the breast
that suckles generations?
Or mangle their purity
with puritan fetish?

Are these thighs
an invitation to heaven?
Or the gates
of hell?

Is my love
a Eucharist
of milk and virgin blood?
A masquita¹
to a life before we met?

Or will heavens sigh
in my life’s mandola
when the spirit sings
colouring our senses
in a tender Lasya²?

Who am I for you?
divine desire?
or religious
pornography?

A compassion
arousing rite
to life?
Or a corrupted Eucharist
enticed by garden nectar?

Is our love a requiem
resurrecting ecstasy?
Or an invitation
to demons?

STOP!

THINK!

Torn between
heaven and hell
Lust and purity
It isn’t easy
to see the middle.

- to divine
the good,
the G-d -

To know in all things
the creator
who can only be
sensed
with the heart.

-          opus125

1 Masiqta , or raising up primarily celebrated for the newly departed.

2 Lasya is a gentle form of Nataraja a Tamil dance associated with the Hindu creation of the world.

Image: Sex is Religion by ~Kissing-Concrete

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