Sticky Dreams
The type that cling. So that even as I brew the first pot of coffee, my thoughts are still with him. His arms around me, body to my body. You'd think with all of the sex books I write and edit, my dreams would turn to different subjects entirely. You know, like politics. Or greenhouse gasses. But no. Often, I continue whatever story I'm working on once my head meets the pillow. Plots take unexpected directions. Characters revamp themselves.
Last night. Out on the front balcony. Fucking with that brutal intensity. The type of fuck to leave bruises on my hip bones, scratches down my arms and back. Pain I don't remember receiving. The soft skin on my wrists is chafed from the cuffs. I have a bite mark on the back of my neck—no ponytails for me for awhile.
Unexpected gentleness of dropping wisteria flowers. At night, the scent is magical. Being fucked in a fairy tale world with the headlights spearing the darkness. The rumble of faraway traffic. The black chiffon of the sky with the rhinestone-studded stars. And me, cuffed to the railing, assaulted from behind.
The dream clings. Sticks to my fingers as I type, as I look down at my wrists. As I know: it was no dream.
XXX,
Alison
P.S. This is my favorite poem. Sir Thomas Wyatt's "They Flee from Me that Sometime Did Me Seek." I twirl the words on my tongue at the most inappropriate moments. My talisman. My rosary. Do you have poems like that? Do you want to share? I'll give away a copy of our erotic poetry collection, Velvet Heat, to one commenter.
posted by Alison Tyler at 6:03 AM
12 Comments:
The Snake by DH Lawrence
A snake came to the water trough, on an hot hot day
And I in pyjamas for the heat
http://homepages.wmich.edu/~cooneys/poems/dhl.snake.html
I don't know why it's always resonated with me.
Ooh. You went and asked me about poetry. Must restrain self. My favorite poets are Eliot and Frost. So, from The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock a few favorite snippets:
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
~~
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
~~
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
~~
From Birches by Frost a snippet:
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed 15
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
Sorry. Sorry. It's best not to ask me about poetry. It can get messy ;)
XOXO
S
p.s. I like Jo's snippet v. much! Might have to read some poetry today...
John Donne's Holy Sonnet 14 was the first poem I loved.
Batter my heart, three-person'd God ; for you
As yet but knock ; breathe, shine, and seek to mend ;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy ;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
Blessings,
Raven
Poetry, don't get me started. SG, I memorized 'The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock' in my youth...
the burnt out ends of smoky days...
and how should I begin?
Did you know Eliot meant Prufrock to be funny?
However, my favourite poem is another, and here it is:
I Hear an Army Charging Upon the Land
I hear an army charging upon the land,
And the thunder of horses plunging, foam about their knees:
Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand,
Disdaining the reins, with fluttering whips, the charioteers.
They cry unto the night their battle-name:
I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter.
They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame,
Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil.
They come shaking in triumph their long, green hair:
They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore.
My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair?
My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone?
James Joyce
this then--
Charles Bukowski
it's the same as before
or the other time
or the time before that.
here's a cock
and here's a cunt
and here's trouble.
only each time
you think
well now I've learned:
I'll let her do that
and I'll do this,
I no longer want it all,
just some comfort
and some sex
and only a minor
love.
Now I'm waiting again
and the years run thin.
I have my radio
and the kitchen walls
are yellow.
I keep dumping bottles
and listening
for footsteps.
I hope that death contains
less than this.
Oh, yes, Donne. I had 'The Anniversarie' read at my wedding, such beaautiful romance.
But no poems by Michael Madsen?
XXX,
AT
Hey.
What a pearl that Wyatt you picked. It's so subversive.
I wonder if you've got a poem by yourself in Velvet Heat.
Now, this is called 'Elegy', one of my favorite by a local poet. It goes something like this
'I wish I had brought you some rare verses
But I brought are these naked hands that now take the shape of your breasts'.
Cheers,
Tessa
Thanks, Tessa. I actually read the Sir Thomas Wyatt for the first time in one of my favorite books: Getting It Right by Elizabeth Jane Howard. The poem is important in the plot of the book. (I have no idea why this title is no longer easily available. It really is one of my top 3 favorites—maybe my very favorite book ever.)
XXX,
Alison
P.S. In the past week, I have met 6 different novice writers. People starting out, or struggling to keep their motivation in the face of countless rejections. I have told each of them to look into self-publishing—the technology is so high-tech now, writers can fairly easily become their own publishing houses. No, they won't have the marketing money that a huge publisher has. But with Amazon as an outlet, writers can quite easily push their own products. Why am I saying this here? Because I believe each book has an audience. Elizabeth Jane Howard's book found the perfect audience in me. For every writer, I truly think there is the perfect reader waiting, hungrily, for the book to be published.
'For every writer, I truly think there is the perfect reader waiting, hungrily, for the book to be published.'
Nice.
Tessa
You are absolutely right in your review on that paper article. Honestly I expected more from the LA Times.
Been to a sock/stocking shop. Guess who I remembered?
Tessa
So have you read Michael Marsden? Love the conflicting reviews! What's it like?
I have, Jo. I have read Michael Madsen. And, honestly, I enjoyed his book. But I also really like the artist Tracey Emin.
XXX,
Alison
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