The Best American Erotic Poems Read online

  If rightly trod, to save the human race—

  O, queenly hole, it is most wisely done

  That you like oracles are kept from sight

  And only show yourself when one by one

  Man’s wits have to his blood lost their delight.

  So, perfumed high and finely diapered

  And coyly hidden in the fat of thighs,

  You shall be mystic still, and your absurd

  And empty grin shall mock no lover’s eyes.

  For love of you, for love of you, old hole,

  Man made the dream of woman and her soul.

  II

  Male

  O, ludicrous and pensive trinity;

  O, jest dependent from the loins of man;

  Symbolic pink and white futility,

  From which let him escape who thinks he can—

  Whether in throbbing hope you raise your head,

  One-eyed and hatless, peering from the bush,

  Or if you dangle melancholy dead,

  A battered hose, long-punished in the push,

  It matters not; you are the potent lord,

  The hidden spinner of our magic schemes,

  The master of the arts, the captain sword,

  The source of all our attitudes and dreams.

  You lead us, master, sniffing to the hunt,

  In quest forever of the perfect cunt.

  (1971)

  HART CRANE (1899–1932)

  Episode of Hands

  The unexpected interest made him flush.

  Suddenly he seemed to forget the pain,—

  Consented,—and held out

  One finger from the others.

  The gash was bleeding, and a shaft of sun

  That glittered in and out among the wheels,

  Fell lightly, warmly, down into the wound.

  And as the fingers of the factory owner’s son,

  That knew a grip for books and tennis

  As well as one for iron and leather,—

  As his taut, spare fingers wound the gauze

  Around the thick bed of the wound,

  His own hands seemed to him

  Like wings of butterflies

  Flickering in sunlight over summer fields.

  The knots and notches,—many in the wide

  Deep hand that lay in his,—seemed beautiful.

  They were like the marks of wild ponies’ play,—

  Bunches of new green breaking a hard turf.

  And factory sounds and factory thoughts

  Were banished from him by that larger, quieter hand

  That lay in his with the sun upon it.

  And as the bandage knot was tightened

  The two men smiled into each other’s eyes.

  (1920)

  LANGSTON HUGHES (1902–1967)

  Desire

  Desire to us

  Was like a double death,

  Swift dying

  Of our mingled breath,

  Evaporation

  Of an unknown strange perfume

  Between us quickly

  In a naked

  Room.

  (1947)

  KENNETH REXROTH (1905–1982)

  from The Love Poems of Marichiko

  To Marichiko

  Kenneth Rexroth

  To Kenneth Rexroth

  Marichiko

  III

  Oh the anguish of these secret meetings

  In the depth of night,

  I wait with the shoji open.

  You come late, and I see your shadow

  Move through the foliage

  At the bottom of the garden.

  We embrace—hidden from my family.

  I weep into my hands.

  My sleeves are already damp.

  We make love, and suddenly

  The fire watch loom up

  With clappers and lantern.

  How cruel they are

  To appear at such a moment.

  Upset by their apparition,

  I babble nonsense

  And can’t stop talking

  Words with no connection.

  IV

  You ask me what I thought about

  Before we were lovers.

  The answer is easy.

  Before I met you

  I didn’t have anything to think about.

  VII

  Making love with you

  Is like drinking sea water.

  The more I drink

  The thirstier I become,

  Until nothing can slake my thirst

  But to drink the entire sea.

  IX

  You wake me,

  Part my thighs, and kiss me.

  I give you the dew

  Of the first morning of the world.

  XIV

  On the bridges

  And along the banks

  Of Kamo River, the crowds

  Watch the character “Great”

  Burst into red fire on the mountain

  And at last die out.

  Your arm about me,

  I burn with passion.

  Suddenly I realize—

  It is life I am burning with.

  These hands burn,

  Your arm about me burns,

  And look at the others,

  All about us in the crowd, thousands,

  They are all burning—

  Into embers and then into darkness.

  I am happy.

  Nothing of mine is burning.

  XVI

  Scorched with love, the cicada

  Cries out. Silent as the firefly,

  My flesh is consumed with love.

  XXIV

  I scream as you bite

  My nipples, and orgasm

  Drains my body, as if I

  Had been cut in two.

  XXV

  Your tongue thrums and moves

  Into me, and I become

  Hollow and blaze with

  Whirling light, like the inside

  Of a vast expanding pearl.

  XXVII

  As I came from the

  Hot bath, you took me before

  The horizontal mirror

  Beside the low bed, while my

  Breasts quivered in your hands, my

  Buttocks shivered against you.

  XXXII

  I hold your head tight between

  My thighs, and press against your

  Mouth, and float away

  Forever, in an orchid

  Boat on the River of Heaven.

  XXXIII

  I cannot forget

  The perfumed dusk inside the

  Tent of my black hair,

  As we awoke to make love

  After a long night of love.

  XLII

  How many lives ago

  I first entered the torrent of love,

  At last to discover

  There is no further shore.

  Yet I know I will enter again and again.

  (1979)

  W. H. AUDEN (1907–1973)

  The Platonic Blow

  It was a spring day, a day for a lay, when the air

  Smelled like a locker-room, a day to blow or get blown;

  Returning from lunch I turned my corner and there

  On a near-by stoop I saw him standing alone.

  I glanced as I advanced. The clean white T-shirt outlined

  A forceful torso: the light-blue denims divulged

  Much. I observed the snug curves where they hugged the behind,

  I watched the crotch where the cloth intriguingly bulged.

  Our eyes met. I felt sick. My knees turned weak.

  I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to say.

  In a blur I hear words, myself like a stranger speak

  “Will you come to my room?” Then a husky voice “O. K.”

  I produced some beer and we talked. Like a little boy

  He told me his story. Present address: next door.

  Hal
f Polish, half Irish. The youngest. From Illinois.

  Profession: mechanic. Name: Bud. Age: twenty-four.

  He put down his glass and stretched his bare arms along

  The back of my sofa. The afternoon sunlight struck

  The blond hairs on the wrist near my head. His chin was strong.

  His mouth sucky. I could hardly believe my luck.

  And here he was, sitting beside me, legs apart.

  I could bear it no longer. I touched the inside of his thigh.

  His reply was to move it closer. I trembled, my heart

  Thumped and jumped as my fingers went to his fly.

  I opened the gap in the flap. I went in there.

  I sought for a slit in the gripper shorts that had charge

  Of the basket I asked for. I came to warm flesh, then to hair.

  I went on. I found what I hoped. I groped. It was large.

  He responded to my fondling in a charming, disarming way:

  Without a word he unbuckled his belt while I felt.

  And lolled back, stretching his legs. His pants fell away.

  Carefully drawing it out, I beheld what I held.

  The circumcised head was a work of mastercraft

  With perfectly bevelled rim, of unusual weight

  And the friendliest red. Even relaxed, the shaft

  Was of noble dimensions with wrinkles that indicate

  Singular powers of extension. For a second or two

  It lay there inert, then it suddenly stirred in my hand,

  Then paused as if frightened or doubtful of what to do.

  And then with a violent jerk began to expand.

  By soundless bounds it extended and distended, by quick

  Great leaps it rose, it flushed, it rushed to its full size.

  Nearly nine inches long and three inches thick,

  A royal column, ineffably solemn and wise.

  I tested its length with a manual squeeze.

  I bunched my fingers and twirled them about the knob.

  I stroked it from top to bottom. I got on my knees.

  I lowered my head. I opened my mouth for the job.

  But he pushed me gently away. He bent down. He unlaced

  His shoes. He removed his socks. Stood up. Shed

  His pants altogether. Muscles in arm and waist

  Rippled as he whipped his T-shirt over his head.

  I scanned his tan, enjoyed the contrast of the brown

  Trunk against white shorts taut around small

  Hips. With a dig and a wriggle he peeled them down.

  I tore off my clothes. He faced me, smiling. I saw all.

  The gorgeous organ stood stiffly and straightly out

  With a slight flare upwards. At each beat of his heart it threw

  An odd little nod my way. From the slot of the spout

  Extended a drop of transparent viscous goo.

  The lair of the hair was fair, the grove of a young man,

  A tangle of curls and whorls, luxuriant but couth.

  Except for a spur of golden hairs that ran

  To the neat navel, the rest of the belly was smooth.

  Well-hung, slung from the form of the muscular legs,

  The firm vase of sperm like a bulging pear,

  Cradling its handsome glands, two herculean eggs,

  Swung as he came towards me, shameless, bare.

  We aligned mouths. We entwined. All act was clutch,

  All fact, contact, the attack and the interlock

  Of tongues, the charms of arms. I shook at the touch

  Of his fresh flesh, I rocked at the shock of his cock.

  Straddling my legs a little I inserted his divine

  Person between and closed on it tight as I could.

  The upright warmth of his belly lay along mine.

  Nude, glued together, for a minute we stood.

  I stroked the lobes of his ears, the back of his head

  And the broad shoulders. I took bold hold of the compact

  Globes of his bottom. We tottered. He fell on the bed.

  Lips parted, eyes closed, he lay there, ripe for the act,

  Mad to be had, to be felt and smelled. My lips

  Explored the adorable masculine tits. My eyes

  Assessed the chest. I caressed the athletic hips

  And the skim limbs. I approved the grooves of his thighs.

  I hugged, I snugged into an armpit. I sniffed

  The subtle whiff of its tuft. I lapped up the taste

  Of its hot hollow. My fingers began to drift

  On a trek of inspection, a leisurely tour of the waist.

  Downward in narrowing circles they playfully strayed,

  Encroached on his privates like poachers, approached the prick,

  But teasingly swerved, retreated from meeting. It betrayed

  Its pleading need by a pretty imploring kick.

  “Shall I rim you?” I whispered. He shifted his limbs in assent.

  Turned on his side and opened his legs, let me pass

  To the dark parts behind. I kissed as I went

  The great thick cord that ran from his balls to his arse.

  Prying the buttocks aside, I nosed my way in

  Down the shaggy slopes. I came to the puckered goal.

  It was quick to my licking. He pressed his crotch to my chin.

  His thighs squirmed as my tongue wormed in his hole.

  His sensations yearned for consummation. He untucked

  His legs and lay panting, hot as a teen-age boy,

  Naked, enlarged, charged, aching to get sucked,

  Clawing the sheet, all his pores open to joy.

  I inspected his erection. I surveyed his parts with a stare

  From scrotum level. Sighting along the underside

  Of his cock I looked through the forest of pubic hair

  To the range of the chest beyond, rising lofty and wide.

  I admired the texture, the delicate wrinkles and the neat

  Sutures of the capacious bag. I adored the grace

  Of the male genitalia. I raised the delicious meat

  Up to my mouth, brought the face of its hard-on to my face.

  Slipping my lips around the Byzantine dome of the head.

  With the tip of my tongue I caressed the sensitive groove.

  He thrilled to the trill. “That’s lovely!” he hoarsely said.

  “Go on! Go on!” Very slowly I started to move.

  Gently, intently, I slid to the massive base

  Of his tower of power, paused there a moment down

  In the warm moist thicket, then began to retrace

  Inch by inch the smooth way to the throbbing crown.

  Indwelling excitements swelled at delights to come

  As I descended and ascended those thick distended walls.

  I grasped his root between my left forefinger and thumb

  And with my right hand ticked his heavy, voluminous balls.

  I plunged with a rhythmical lunge, steady and slow,

  And at every stroke made a corkscrew roll with my tongue.

  He soul reeled in the feeling. He whimpered “Oh!”

  As I tongued and squeezed and rolled and tickled and swung.

  Then I pressed on the spot where the groin is joined to the cock,

  Slipped a finger into his arse and massaged him from inside.

  The secret sluices of his juices began to unlock.

  He melted into what he felt. “O Jesus!” he cried.

  Waves of immeasurable pleasures mounted his member in quick

  Spasms. I lay still in the notch of his crotch inhaling his sweat.

  His ring convulsed around my finger. Into me, rich and thick,

  His hot spunk spouted in gouts, spurted in jet after jet.

  (1948)

  ELIZABETH BISHOP (1911–1979)

  “It Is Marvellous…”

  It is marvellous to wake up together

  At the same minute; marvellous
to hear

  The rain begin suddenly all over the roof,

  To feel the air clear

  As if electricity had passed through it

  From a black mesh of wires in the sky.

  All over the roof the rain hisses,

  And below, the light falling of kisses.

  An electrical storm is coming or moving away;

  It is the prickling air that wakes us up.

  If lightning struck the house now, it would run

  From the four blue china balls on top

  Down the roof and down the rods all around us,

  And we imagine dreamily

  How the whole house caught in a bird-cage of lightning

  Would be quite delightful rather than frightening;

  And from the same simplified point of view

  Of night and lying flat on one’s back

  All things might change equally easily,

  Since always to warn us there must be these black

  Electrical wires dangling. Without surprise

  The world might change to something quite different,

  As the air changes or the lightning comes without our blinking,

  Change as our kisses are changing without our thinking.

  (1988)

  J. V. CUNNINGHAM (1911–1985)

  It Was in Vegas

  It was in Vegas. Celibate and able

  I left the silver dollars on the table

  And tried the show. Aloha, baggy pants,

  Of course, and then this answer to romance:

  Her ass twitching as if it had the fits,

  Her gold crotch grinding, her athletic tits,

  One clock-, the other counter-clockwise twirling.

  It was enough to stop a man from girling.