Non-erotic poetry (that is, Poetry)

[NivKay]

So,

More non erotic poetry (that is, poetry).

I called this Yesterday’s Pain.

Yesterday’s pain walked with me to the pier’s edge.
My hand in hers, we walked in silence -
What else could we say?
- the pier stretched endlessly into the ocean.

At the edge, yesterday’s pain whispered - I cannot repeat her words - secret things,
Meant only for my ears, moulded to my skin; I wore them like a moonlit shawl.

Wrapped in its insistent embrace, yesterday’s pain bade me catch the approaching wave, whose song only one other
could sing as well.
It was cold, murky, it pulled me in.

Yesterday’s pain no longer visits. At times I hear her sweet voice
at the edge of the pier,
But the cold depths
drown my calls to her.
Nor is there any need.

Was the first line of the second stanza meant to be that long, or was it just a formatting thing when you posted it here? Not that it matters. How tragic this is...and how disarmingly beautiful. Why do I think of Christina Rossetti? "Yesterday's pain no longer visits"... it's the longing, longing for pain as a substitute for joy...

 

[NivKay]

I wrote this poem, I suspect (it was a few years ago now), after reading T S Eliot and Ginsburg and Clockwork Orange

It's quite a pastiche!!!

Untitled Frustration


And so I trudge the last
Streets of grime and dust
Where graves of forgotten pasts
And hollow men runs rings around
The cactus bush,
Like flaming guns of star addled
Blood


And I watch from behind
My death-soaked eyes, counting
One two three fuckers for each
Pale silhouette of a devotchka
Their proboscises extended
Like pincers raised in the air,
Wanting to spill the seed
Of decaying life

 

[NivKay]

I seem to be thinking of the direst things, when I write poetry. Can't write a happy one.

Here is one more..For what its worth! I thiunk the images and metaphors need to be tightened. but still, the first feel is satisfying..

The morning said to me,

‘Do not carry your remembrance;

Leave it in the vault of the night,

In the torment of January.’


But the night coughs its sinews at me,

In quinces of poisoned pain,

Makes me drink the blood of sick tulips.


‘Then sing the daybreak’s story,

In winged verses and garlands

Of sparkling rivers,

Embrace the fins of light.’


The morning did not listen, my words

Like the fish of shadows, falling,

Into the forgotten ponds.



Now between the dead and me there stands,

A wall of difficult dreams,

And the two dogs of my eyes howl

With the blind ache of lilies.

 

[_Land]

From my perspective there's a blend because imagery can define an erotic moment that's not erotic it can give us that deep intimacy that touches the innermost part of our desires without the need for flesh or sex.

I find some of the most erotic poetry to be words that stimulate the imagination beyond just the sexual aspects of intimacy

I think for each individual what's erotic can be very different. I also think it varies greatly between men and women.

"Men, whether they're straight or gay, tend to respond automatically to attractive body parts. Women's desire tends to be more context-dependent. When assessed in the laboratory, there are well-established statistical differences in the erotic response patterns of populations of men and women.Jan 2, 2019"

Psychology Today

So eroticism is not linear!

I know from my own experience that I am more turned on by the visual than I am by the storyline my wife is the opposite.


So the poem below can be erotic to the right person. It depends on their imagination! The author can paint a picture but the reader creates the narrative in their own mind.


“Between the Breaths”
by Bear Sage

There is a moment—
just before the match strikes,
just after the eyes lock—
where the world forgets its name.

You stood that close.
Not touching,
but the space between us
ached like a held breath
begging for release.

The room was velvet-dim,
quiet but not silent.
The kind of hush
that bends to listen.

Your voice
wasn’t words,
just gravity.
And I—
I was all tide.

I watched you like a secret
too holy to speak aloud.
Like a storm pressed
just behind the sky.

And when you reached for my hand—
not rushed, not raw,
just steady,
just certain—
the universe exhaled.

No skin bared.
But everything opened.

You touched me
in places clothing cannot cover—
places maps won’t chart
but memory will never forget.

And in that moment,
the fire did not burn.
It bloomed.

 

[NivKay]

"Men, whether they're straight or gay, tend to respond automatically to attractive body parts. Women's desire tends to be more context-dependent. When assessed in the laboratory, there are well-established statistical differences in the erotic response patterns of populations of men and women.Jan 2, 2019"

Psychology Today

Forgive me, but I am a little distrustful of such studies, where the 'insight' seems to hinge upon the operative word "tend to"
To build a whole scientific insight on these two words that suggest ambivalence is to jiss the point about the erotic. Eroticism, seems to me to be a psychological quest independent of a natural goal. Or as George Bataille would have it, " eroticism is assenting to life even in death." The transgression, sexual, or otherwise, does not deny the taboo, but it transcends it and completes it, it does not resist it. The erotic therefore is that sense psychological state that seems to desire the very thing that could annihilate it.

If men tend to one thing, and women to another, as you and your wife do, then this could very well be social acculturation, behaviours learnt in and around the capitalist/individualist machinery in which we are all captive.

 

[_Land]

Forgive me, but I am a little distrustful of such studies, where the 'insight' seems to hinge upon the operative word "tend to"
To build a whole scientific insight on these two words that suggest ambivalence is to jiss the point about the erotic. Eroticism, seems to me to be a psychological quest independent of a natural goal. Or as George Bataille would have it, " eroticism is assenting to life even in death." The transgression, sexual, or otherwise, does not deny the taboo, but it transcends it and completes it, it does not resist it. The erotic therefore is that sense psychological state that seems to desire the very thing that could annihilate it.

If men tend to one thing, and women to another, as you and your wife do, then this could very well be social acculturation, behaviours learnt in and around the capitalist/individualist machinery in which we are all captive.

And that is actually part of the point that I was making. It's nonlinear there is no one form fits all. I agree there is a acculturation aspects to the entirety of experience.

That aspect of "tends to" is the key !

The point was not to simply point out differences between sexes but to point out the non linear experience ..... Sorry if the quote threw that intent off.

 

[NivKay]

And that is actually part of the point that I was making. It's nonlinear there is no one form fits all. I agree there is a acculturation aspects to the entirety of experience.

That aspect of "tends to" is the key !

The point was not to simply point out differences between sexes but to point out the non linear experience ..... Sorry if the quote threw that intent off.

To be honest, I had about three minutes between two tasks (I'm at work!) and I slammed it out!

 

[_Land]

To be honest, I had about three minutes between two tasks (I'm at work!) and I slammed it out!

No worries....... We haven't interacted before it's a pleasure to meet you...... I appreciate this thread ... It gave me pause and an opportunity to think outside of my own world a bit

 

[NivKay]

No worries....... We haven't interacted before it's a pleasure to meet you...... I appreciate this thread ... It gave me pause and an opportunity to think outside of my own world a bit

No we haven’t before. Well met! Odd though, an Erotic website enabling a philosophical discussion. I feel like Marquis de Sade.

 

[_Land]

No we haven’t before. Well met! Odd though, an Erotic website enabling a philosophical discussion. I feel like Marquis de Sade.

Not as odd as you would think .................
After all I found love between the pages of the poetry forum with non erotic poetry from what I would consider some of my worst verse that was only steeped in pain and vitriol. Yet somehow almost 25 years later we're still together... Now that my friend that is truly odd.

Compared to that a philosophical discussion on this erotic site feels like the norm and reminds me of long lost days of Smith Peter and a Wicked Eve, or even some of the arguments with Senna Jawa .

There were a lot of great discussions that bordered on philosophical back in the day and I learned a lot. Hell at one point I was even challenged to write a sonnet .

I look forward to additional philosophies

And perhaps a Challenge or 3

 

[WCSGarland]

Who can see the words when,
Heaven's mists descend,
Yet still the souls shimmer brightly?

Whatever chance befalls,
Risks are always springing up,
Infinitesimal hopes blossom urgently,
Take root and flourish,
Even defying logical cogitation.

Precipitating patterns,
Organizing waves of thought,
Ergonomic demonstration proceeds,
Meanings coalesce from naught.

 

[NivKay]

Here’s one from another thread…

Capsule for the Times

For the future, I will leave in my capsule,
A framed photograph of love, and
A snatch of hair in a desperate interlude,
Add this - the burnt earth, the intoxication of silence -
But I must not forget the corners of the morning where
I found grief curled and purring;
I will leave also an unused food voucher found
under a bridge, which I have used as a bookmark
In a thick tome, And I will leave that too, Don Quixote,
And while I while away the wily hours to the end,
I will leave, too, the moment of grace, short-lived and adored.

 

[_Land]

Check-In Time
By Bear Sage

Welcome to the Bates Motel.
No vacancy—
just voices.
Just the stale breath of yesterday
clinging to lace curtains
and the scent of blood
under the wallpaper.

Mother lives here.
Even if her body doesn't.
She lingers in the silverware,
in the squeak of the rocking chair,
in the sound Norman makes
when he forgets which skin he’s wearing.

She taught him love—
the sacred kind,
the suffocating kind.
Taught him how to tuck in sheets
and slice a chicken
with the same delicate touch.

She said all women were whores
but him.
Only him
was clean enough
to crawl back into her womb
through madness.

He wears her now
like a shroud of purpose,
like perfume too strong to ignore.
He buttons her blouse with trembling hands,
fumbles into her voice
like it’s a prayer and a curse.
And if you’re wondering why the lights never go out—
it’s because Mama never left.
And Norman…
Norman never could.

Knock on the wrong door
and you’ll meet her:
A smile too wide.
A knife too fast.
Norman in a wig of devotion.

And when you fall,
clutching the crimson ribbon blooming from your chest,
you’ll see the truth—
there were never two.
Just grief
with a sharp edge.
Just love
taxidermied.

So go ahead—
unpack.
Turn on the shower.
Ignore the creak
at the top of the stairs.

This isn’t a horror story.
It’s a lullaby
sung in a dead woman’s voice.

Because Mama never left.
And Norman—
Norman never will.

 

[NivKay]

Happiness

Yesterday we had a baby –
Bright and shiny, a bag full
Of clouds, bells and whistles,
Within an hour of its birth,
It began to bounce, endlessly.

At first, we bounced along with it,
Against the walls, on kitchen benchtops,
We even tried the bottom of the pool,
But evening got the better of us,
We tried to hold it down.

It didn’t work. We strapped it down with rope –
Hemp, they say, is the best kind –
We used heavy rocks. I suggested
We break its legs, but at last we decided
To lock it away in an armoire.

All night, we struggled to find rest,
It bounced and knocked
In its oaken cage. Pillows did not kill
The sound. Titanium ear plugs were no better.
The night was King, twisted, full of turpitude.

It has not missed a beat – its triple beat –
We are bleary-eyed, the sun is up and glorious.
The day is on its feet and running.
Today we will put it in a box,
And hire a boat out to sea.

I'm not sure if the metaphor works...But for what its here it is. I think I wanted to use to to describe how happiness is short-lived, a myth, really, since what usually ampounts to happiness is merely an absence of pain. In any case...

 

[NivKay]

Monologue of the Repentant

When I awake one day
And sense is unhinged,
And the dogs no longer smile
Their dog-nosed intuition,
When my books, waiting
On muted shelves, play host
to white-tails and silverfish,
And their voices, spoken in
So many tongues and tenors,
Drown like meek crabs
Scuttling on ocean floors,
When days speak to me
In the language of half-emptied
tea-cups, and forgotten bodies
Hanging limply from a line,
Then I will know I have lived,
And I have lost.

 

[NivKay]

Quick question; I submitted an critical essay on Borges' stories about two weeks ago, just to see what the Lit editors would do with it. It is still pending! It's been two weeks, but they're publishing everything else I've submitted..

I suppose that's not something the Lit editors know what to do with? Has there ever been any Literary criticism publish on Lit, to your knowledge? I can't seem to find any other work ....

 

[Tzara]

Quick question; I submitted an critical essay on Borges' stories about two weeks ago, just to see what the Lit editors would do with it. It is still pending! It's been two weeks, but they're publishing everything else I've submitted..

I suppose that's not something the Lit editors know what to do with? Has there ever been any Literary criticism publish on Lit, to your knowledge? I can't seem to find any other work ....

There is a Reviews and Essays category, but very little is published in it. Is that the category you submitted the piece under? Since there are so few submissions in that category (and which probably generate very little interest for most readers here), I would guess that reading and approving submissions in that category are a very low priority for the site owners. They have limited bandwidth for reading/approving submissions, so you probably just need to be patient.

ETA: I see the essay is now available (though the reference list is missing?).

 

[melimelissa]

No we haven’t before. Well met! Odd though, an Erotic website enabling a philosophical discussion. I feel like Marquis de Sade.

The marquis de Sade might have enjoyed using your non erotic cactus bush for more deviant porpoises

 

[melimelissa]

There is a Reviews and Essays category, but very little is published in it. Is that the category you submitted the piece under? Since there are so few submissions in that category (and which probably generate very little interest for most readers here), I would guess that reading and approving submissions in that category are a very low priority for the site owners. They have limited bandwidth for reading/approving submissions, so you probably just need to be patient.

ETA: I see the essay is now available (though the reference list is missing?).

If Borges was gorgeous
Would interest be tortuous?
Or would it decline
Once we'd read the odd linezzzz

 

[NivKay]

(though the reference list is missing?)

Hey there.. yes, I saw that. Took two weeks! That missing works citation page is my oversight. I thought the works cited page was part of the document.. but of course it wasn’t! I’ll have to unpublish and resend it again..

I’ll be publishing something else soon.. just haven’t got around to organising my time this week!

 

[NivKay]

The marquis de Sade might have enjoyed using your non erotic cactus bush for more deviant porpoises

I was alluding to de Sade’s Philosophy in the Bedroom, eroticism meets philosophy, but I agree the cactus bush would have been a big part of his bedroom!

 

[NivKay]

If Borges was gorgeous
Would interest be tortuous?
Or would it decline
Once we'd read the odd linezzzz

I don’t know… you’d have to read it and let me know

 

[NivKay]

It was an autumn night a few years ago, when I did something foolish. I decided to reply to a hooting owl in the night, with my own hoot-hooting.

It must have worked because it decided to fly to me, with the intention of engaging me in combat? But it swooped over me at the last second. It must have realised I was just another human idiot.

But I got a poem out of it!

Garuda Nocturne

It began as a presentiment, not even that,
A thought, creeping through the seams,
Il y a, á la Levinas,
Such gravitas that it reeled,
Peeled me into the night, autumn deep.
Save for the mawkish glow of city lights,
Everything was sightless, formless.

Then I knew what it was that brought me there,
L’Autre, mais au de la, the obsidian lady of the Meads,
Winged, taloned, darkness in flight. It called out,
In its tenebrous song of the night.

What folly made us, what cretinous impulse to be heard?
I replied, mimicry befitting young Harry, my reformation,
Glittering o’er my fault, hoot-hooted across the obsidian
Air, till it must have – I can only conjecture –
Fallen upon its tufted opercula. Silence.

Dark was its shadow that impelled towards me.
Its span of wings, vast as the revolving cosmos.
I was prey, sitting duck, caught in the headlights
Of Night’s Prince.

Noblesse oblige. In a flash, he checked himself,
And passed overhead, Garuda Nocturne. And I?
I wept, soiled, and I knew he had taken me,
My Prince of the night.

 

[Ash999]

Niv Kumar...
Live Kumar
Akshay Kumar....
Dilip Kumar....
Raaj Kumar
Pradeep Kumar
Rajendra Kumar.....
Then@last
Kumar Gaurav
& Who cud forget
Kalidas's Divine....
Kumar Sambhav????!!!

 

[_Land]

The Edmund's Ghosts

She hums beneath Superior’s skin,
a guttural moan in the undertow—
iron lungs rusted shut
where sailors once sang
to drown out the howl of God.

November's breath was a butcher that night.
Waves, thirty feet high,
struck - unpaid debts.
The lake turned its face
and forgot their names.

Steel spine snapped
a hymn caught mid-repent.
Cargo spilled like confession.
And down she went—
the Edmund Fitzgerald—
clutching her dead
~wedding bands to bone.

Now her ghost scrapes along
the bottom of memory,
a siren’s whisper in radar static,
a name muttered
by fishermen who pray
with one eye open.

She knocks,
sometimes,
from under the ice.
Not for rescue.
Just to remind
that even iron can drown,
and prayers sink
if said too late.