Lady,i will touch you with my mind.

February 13, 2010

Stumbling over erotic poetry courtesy of e. e. cummings on a saturday night — valentine’s eve, no less — while un-out, at-home and a-lone is a singular experience. But really, these are quite beautiful. What I have always considered mostly unjustified grammatic flippancy on cummings’ part actually suits the feverishness of these two poems perfectly (*nudge* read them aloud, and you’ll see just how sweatily they run):


xvii.

Lady,i will touch you with my mind.
Touch you and touch and touch
until you give
me suddenly a smile,shyly obscene

(lady i will
touch you with my mind.)Touch
you,that is all,

lightly and you utterly will become
with infinite ease

the poem which i do not write.


xx.

you asked me to come:it was raining a little,
and the spring;a clumsy brightness of air
wonderfully stumbled above the square,
little amorous-tadpole people wiggled

battered by stuttering pearl,
leaves jiggled
to the jigging fragrance of newness
—and then. My crazy fingers liked your dress
….your kiss,your kiss was a distinct brittle

flower,and the flesh crisp set
my love-tooth on edge. So until light
each having each we promised to forget—

wherefore is there nothing left to guess:
the cheap intelligent thighs,the electric trite
thighs;the hair stupidly priceless.


Gosh, those sounds, and that quickness of breath. And, of course, what would a feverishly lustful poem be without accompanying illustrations (drawn by the man himself)?

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