Then maidenheads are going.
There’s a blush for won’t, and a blush for shan’t,
And a blush for having done it:
There’s a blush for thought, and a blush for naught,
And a blush for just begun it.
O sigh not so! O sigh not so!
For it sounds of Eve’s sweet pippin;
By those loosened lips you have tasted the pips
And fought in an amorous nipping.
Will you play once more at nice-cut-core,
For it only will last our youth out?
And we have the prime of the kissing time,
We have not one sweet tooth out.
There’s a sigh for yes, and a sigh for no,
And a sigh for I can’t bear it!
O what can be done, shall we stay or run?
O, cut the sweet apple and share it!
I Do Not Love Thee
THE HONORABLE CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON
I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!
And yet when thou art absent I am sad;
And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,
Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.
I do not love thee!—yet, I know not why,
Whate’er thou dost seems still well done, to me:
And often in my solitude I sigh
That those I do love are not more like thee!
I do not love thee!—yet, when thou art gone,
I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear)
Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone
Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.
I do not love thee!—yet thy speaking eyes,
With their deep, bright and most expressive blue,
Between me and the midnight heaven arise,
Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.
I know I do not love thee! yet, alas!
Others will scarcely trust my candid heart;
And oft I catch them smiling as they pass,
Because they see me gazing where thou art.
From Hero and Leander
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
It lies not in our power to love or hate,
For will in us is over-ruled by fate.
When two are stripped, long ere the course begin
We wish that one should lose, the other win;
And one especially do we affect
Of two gold ingots, like in each respect.
The reason no man knows; let it suffice,
What we behold is censured by our eyes.
Where both deliberate, the love is slight;
Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?
Love’s Philosophy
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the Ocean,
The winds of Heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle.
Why not I with thine?—
See the mountains kiss high Heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What is all this sweet work worth
If thou kiss not me?
Having a Coke with You
FRANK O’HARA
is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye,
Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in
Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier
St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for
yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people
and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be
anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in
front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and
forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just
paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in
the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in
the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go
together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care
of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase
or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that
used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do
them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when
the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider
as carefully
as the horse
it seems they were all cheated of some marvellous
experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I’m telling
you about it
Symptom Recital
DOROTHY PARKER
I do not like my state of mind;
I’m bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn’s recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I’m disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I’d be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men . . .
I’m due to fall in love again.
To Aphrodite of the Flowers, at Knossos
SAPPHO
Leave Crete and come to this holy temple
where the pleasant grove of apple trees
circles an altar smoking with frank-
incense.
Here roses leave shadow on the ground
and cold springs babble through apple branches
where shuddering leaves pour down pro-
found sleep.
In our meadow where horses graze
and wild flowers of spring blossom,
anise shoots fill the air with a-
roma.
And here, Queen Aphrodite, pour
heavenly nectar into gold cups
and fill them gracefully with sud-
den joy.
Come to the Orchard in Spring
RUMI
Come to the orchard in Spring.
There is light and wine, and sweethearts
in the pomegranate flowers.
If you do not come, these do not matter.
If you do come, these do not matter.
MAKING LOVE
MY CHILDREN WERE HORRIFIED to see the words “Making Love” in the Contents for this book. A
fter all, there are few things more disturbing than the idea of your parents being engaged in any sort of romantic activity. However, as I tried to point out, in literature the phrase “making love” refers to courtship, flirtation, and other aspects of romantic pursuit and intimacy. But my words fell on disbelieving ears with fingers sticking out of them—they would hear none of it.
Longing for love, the anticipation of a big night, the accoutrements of romance—handkerchiefs, valentines, corsages, lockets—keepsakes and mementos all have the power to conjure up intense emotion. Today, when popular culture often demeans women and promotes graphic and vulgar descriptions of sex, love poetry can seem old-fashioned and irrelevant. But if we open our minds and listen, we will find unbelievably suggestive images and metaphors in poems that are thousands of years old. Though much is left to the imagination, and perhaps because it is, there are few more evocative lines in all of literature than the Song of Solomon. I doubt I am the only person who has squirmed when it is read aloud at a wedding. Likewise, John Donne, writing in the late 1500s, was a minister and a holy man, but the fervor of his love poetry is unmatched, and those who prefer explicit descriptions of “making love” won’t be disappointed.
Poems about amorous activities are often lighthearted and funny. In “may I feel said he,” e. e. cummings captures the guilty pleasures of an illicit affair. Galway Kinnell writes ruefully of the ability of young children to interrupt their parents at inappropriate moments, and Antonio Machado wryly advises lovers to proceed slowly.
Poets like Wallace Stevens in “Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour” and W. S. Merwin in his translation of “Youth” create in a very few words a world of two lovers. They distill passion and evoke moments of peaceful joy and a universe of all-encompassing love. It is up to the reader to take the concept of “making love” forward from there.
Don’t try to rush things
from Poem 41
ANTONIO MACHADO
Don’t try to rush things:
for the cup to run over,
it must first be filled.
From From June to December
Summer Villanelle
WENDY COPE
You know exactly what to do—
Your kiss, your fingers on my thigh—
I think of little else but you.
Touching one shoulder, makes me sigh—
You know exactly what to do.
You make me happy through and through,
The way the sun lights up the sky—
I think of little else but you.
I hardly sleep—an hour or two;
I can’t eat much and this is why—
You know exactly what to do.
The movie in my mind is blue—
As June runs into warm July
I think of little else but you.
But is it love? And is it true?
Who cares? This much I can’t deny:
You know exactly what to do;
I think of little else but you.
. . .
Wild Nights—Wild Nights!
EMILY DICKINSON
Wild Nights—Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile—the Winds—
To a Heart in port—
Done with the Compass—
Done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden—
Ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor—Tonight—
In Thee!
may i feel said he
E. E. CUMMINGS
may i feel said he
(i’ll squeal said she
just once said he)
it’s fun said she
(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she
(let’s go said he
not too far said she
what’s too far said he
where you are said she)
may i stay said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she
may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you’re willing said he
(but you’re killing said she
but it’s life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she
(tiptop said he
don’t stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she
(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you’re divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)
When He Pressed His Lips
after Vikatanitamba
STEVE KOWIT
When he pressed his lips to my mouth
the knot fell open of itself.
When he pressed them to my throat
the dress slipped to my feet.
So much I know—but
when his lips touched my breast
everything, I swear,
down to his very name,
became so much confused
that I am still,
dear friends,
unable to recount
(as much as I would care to)
what delights
were next bestowed upon me
& by whom.
Corinna’s Going a-Maying
ROBERT HERRICK
Get up, get up for shame! the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colours through the air:
The dew-bespangling herb and tree.
Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the east,
Above an hour since; yet you not drest,
Nay! not so much as out of bed?
When all the birds have matins said,
And sung their thankful hymns, ’tis sin,
Nay, profanation to keep in,
Whenas a thousand virgins on this day
Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May.
Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,
And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For jewels for your gown or hair:
Fear not; the leaves will strew
Gems in abundance upon you:
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.
Come, and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
And Titan on the eastern hill
Retires himself, or else stands still
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying:
Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.
Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park
Made green and trimmed with trees: see how
Devotion gives each house a bough
Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this,
An ark, a tabernacle is,
Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove,
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street
And open fields, and we not see’t?
Come, we’ll abroad: and let’s obey
The proclamation made for May,
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But, my Corinna, come, let’s go a-Maying.
There’s not a budding boy or girl this day
But is got up and gone to bring in May.
A deal of youth ere this is come
Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
Some have dispatched their cakes and cream,
Before that we have left to
dream:
And some have wept and wooed, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
Many a green-gown has been given;
Many a kiss, both odd and even;
Many a glance too has been sent
From out the eye, love’s firmament:
Many a jest told of the keys betraying
This night, and locks picked: yet we’re not a-Maying!
Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,
And take the harmless folly of the time!
We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty.
Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun.
And as a vapour or a drop of rain,
Once lost, can ne’er be found again:
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
All love, all liking, all delight
Lies drowned with us in endless night.
Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying,
Come, my Corinna, come, let’s go a-Maying.
The Weather-Cock Points South
AMY LOWELL
I put your leaves aside,
One by one:
The stiff, broad outer leaves;
The smaller ones,
Pleasant to touch, veined with purple;
The glazed inner leaves.
One by one
Parted you from your leaves,
Until you stood up like a white flower
Swaying slightly in the evening wind.
White flower,
Flower of wax, of jade, of unstreaked agate;
Flower with surfaces of ice,
With shadows faintly crimson.
Where in all the garden is there such a flower?
The stars crowd through the lilac leaves
To look at you.
The low moon brightens you with silver.
The bud is more than the calyx.