Friendly reminder, next Salon, third Tuesday of the month – March 16. Lovely poems sent in by Robert Wilson, who lives too far to attend Salon so I promised to post.
You will notice I quoted his conflicted thoughts on erotica. I have them also and I suspect others do as well. I honestly don’t think it is unusual to enjoy the “the real thing” over the spoken word. Perhaps we can come to a place where we honor them both for what they are and not use one to replace the other.
|
erotic poem passion preserved through cryonic words: frozen ashes Sort of how I feel on READing words about eros versus experiencing. –Robert Wilson |
Slip of the Tongue
A few days ago, on my knees
in the public library poetry section,
I was searching for a copy of
the poems of Catullus when an
attractive middle-aged librarian
came near and pleasantly offered
her assistance. Quickly locating
the book on an upper shelf, she
handed it down to me, her leg
close to my face.
Suddenly, without thought, I saw
myself licking her bare knee. Not
just a flick lick, but a wet-tongued
taste, a bit salty.
Just as suddenly, my mind began
seeing all kinds of consequences–
kicks, thrown books, screams, arrest,
jail. A tongue-lashing, at the very least.
Instead, following a pregnant silence,
the librarian simply said, “Thank you,”
and walked away.
Later, at the check-out counter, my
other self heard the librarian say
softly but seriously, “Return the tongue
in two weeks.”
My jaw dropped open I was so surprised,
to which she inquired, “What’s the matter,
cat got your tongue?” With that I ran out
of there so fast that I forgot the book I was
borrowing.
Pullover
A question philosophical, which troubled me for long,
was answered unexpectedly, dismissing right or wrong,
concerning definitions of two words one can confuse,
adopting diverse meanings that depend upon their use.
What words, you may be wondering, deserve such depth of thought?
Without adieu, I’ll give to you the background of the plot:
A friend whose disposition was as sweet as I have known
approached me in the park one day, ostensibly alone,
and coaxed me to display a stare, I normally conceal,
at swellings in her sweater that enhanced its soft appeal.
But lest you think me prurient, please let me say again,
my interest is lexical, semantic and urbane.
For “sweater” is American, but frowned on overseas.
The word they like is “pullover”, without the hint of sleaze.
Thus was it when my friend came up and added a fresh thread
by pulling up her sweater and enveloping my head!
What could I do? This sudden act had caught me by surprise.
One moment we were face-to-face; the next, she scorched my eyes.
I needn’t give you details on the lack of clothes or space.
Suffice it to be said my lips had touched a brand new place.
What would you do? My arms were limp, confusion ruled my brain.
When one has no umbrella then they have to let it rain.
I now know that a sweater is a pullover disguised.
And pullovers can sweat a lot if rightly improvised.
–Robert Wilson
