Pickup Poems, Part IV: the End Is Nigh

Well, we seem to be winding down on the beautiful pickup poems, so I think this will be the last list, at least for a while. Many thanks to everyone who sent me their preferences!

In a wonderful shift from the sleazy to the sublime, Spellbound offered this poem by Kenneth Patchen:

As we are so wonderfully done with each other
We can walk into our separate sleep
on floors of music where the milkwhite cloak of childhood
lies

oh my love, my golden lark, my soft long doll
Your lips have splashed my dull house with print of flowers
My hands are crooked where they spilled over your dear
curving

It is good to be weary from that brilliant work
It is being God to feel your breathing under me

A waterglass on the bureau fills with morning.....
Don't let anyone in to wake us


Pickled Olives offered two pieces, both of which were wonderful. The first one hearkens back to "Goblin Market":

Stole:

eating a plum
I tongue the tight skin
drawn seam
that halves this globed
whole is two
it's midnight
but when I bite in
bursting
with wet red flesh
the juice dripping down
my fingers sweet
sticky sticky
sweet pulp
engorged I
fill my mouth
eat it down
eat it down
all the way to the plumbstone

It also reminded me of this one by William Carlos Williams. By the way, I think this is probably the only poem by Williams that I really, truly love:

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast.

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.

Of course, Williams lacks the sexuality of Olives' poem, but the imagery gives me chills. No pun intended.

Olives also offered these lyrics:

Ooh, now let's get down tonight
Baby I'm hot just like an oven
I need some lovin'
And baby, I can't hold it much longer
It's getting stronger and stronger
And when I get that feeling
I want Sexual Healing
Sexual Healing, oh baby
Makes me feel so fine
Helps to relieve my mind
Sexual Healing baby, is good for me
Sexual Healing is something that's good for me
Whenever blue tear drops are falling
And my emotional stability is leaving me
There is something I can do
I can get on the telephone and call you up baby, and
Honey I know you'll be there to relieve me
The love you give to me will free me
If you don't know the things you're dealing
I can tell you, darling, that it's Sexual Healing
Get up, Get up, Get up, Get up, let's make love tonight
Wake up, Wake up, Wake up, Wake up, 'cos you do it right
Baby I got sick this morning
A sea was storming inside of me
Baby I think I'm capsizing
The waves are rising and rising
And when I get that feeling
I want Sexual Healing
Sexual Healing is good for me
Makes me feel so fine, it's such a rush
Helps to relieve the mind, and it's good for us
Sexual Healing, baby, is good for me
Sexual Healing is something that's good for me
And it's good for me and it's good to me
My baby ohhh
Come take control, just grab a hold
Of my body and mind soon we'll be making it
Honey, oh we're feeling fine
You're my medicine open up and let me in
Darling, you're so great
I can't wait for you to operate
I can't wait for you to operate
When I get this feeling, I need Sexual Healing

I'm not totally sure that she was serious, but God bless Olives! Here's the video:



I thought about putting up a video of George Michael singing the song, but there's a limit to my sense of irony. Besides, GM grosses me out.

Rhapsody offered this wonderful poem. It's not romantic, per se, but definitely puts Marvell in his place:

His Coy Mistress to Mr. Marvell
by A.D. Hope

Since you have world enough and time
Sir, to admonish me in rhyme,
Pray Mr Marvell, can it be
You think to have persuaded me?
Then let me say: you want the art
To woo, much less to win my heart.
The verse was splendid, all admit,
And, sir, you have a pretty wit.
All that indeed your poem lacked
Was logic, modesty, and tact,
Slight faults and ones to which I own,
Your sex is generally prone;
But though you lose your labour, I
Shall not refuse you a reply:

First, for the language you employ:
A term I deprecate is "coy";
The ill-bred miss, the bird-brained Jill,
May simper and be coy at will;
A lady, sir, as you will find,
Keeps counsel, or she speaks her mind,
Means what she says and scorns to fence
And palter with feigned innocence.

The ambiguous "mistress" next you set
Beside this graceless epithet.
"Coy mistress", sir? Who gave you leave
To wear my heart upon your sleeve?
Or to imply, as sure you do,
I had no other choice than you
And must remain upon the shelf
Unless I should bestir myself?
Shall I be moved to love you, pray,
By hints that I must soon decay?
No woman's won by being told
How quickly she is growing old;
Nor will such ploys, when all is said,
Serve to stampede us into bed.

When from pure blackmail, next you move
To bribe or lure me into love,
No less inept, my rhyming friend,
Snared by the means, you miss your end.
"Times winged chariot", and the rest
As poetry may pass the test;
Readers will quote those lines, I trust,
Till you and I and they are dust;
But I, your destined prey, must look
Less at the bait than at the hook,
Nor, when I do, can fail to see
Just what it is you offer me:
Love on the run, a rough embrace
Snatched in the fury of the chase,
The grave before us and the wheels
Of Time's grim chariot at our heels,
While we, like "am'rous birds of prey",
Tear at each other by the way.

To say the least, the scene you paint
Is, what you call my honour, quaint!
And on this point what prompted you
So crudely, and in public too,
To canvass and , indeed, make free
With my entire anatomy?
Poets have licence, I confess,
To speak of ladies in undress;
Thighs, hearts, brows, breasts are well enough,
In verses this is common stuff;
But -- well I ask: to draw attention
To worms in -- what I blush to mention,
And prate of dust upon it too!
Sir, was this any way to woo?

Now therefore, while male self-regard
Sits on your cheek, my hopeful bard,
May I suggest, before we part,
The best way to a woman's heart
Is to be modest, candid, true;
Tell her you love and show you do;
Neither cajole nor condescend
And base the lover on the friend;
Don't bustle her or fuss or snatch:
A suitor looking at his watch
Is not a posture that persuades
Willing, much less reluctant maids.

Remember that she will be stirred
More by the spirit than the word;
For truth and tenderness do more
Than coruscating metaphor.
Had you addressed me in such terms
And prattled less of graves and worms,
I might, who knows, have warmed to you;
But, as things stand, must bid adieu
(Though I am grateful for the rhyme)
And wish you better luck next time.

Yeats was a particular favorite. Judith offered "Ominous and Rejoiceful yeats to melt and harden the heart." A perfect description:

Never give all the Heart

Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost

Judith also offered this one:

Brown Penny

I whispered, 'I am too young,'
And then, 'I am old enough';
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
'Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.'
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.

O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.

Glamourpuss put forth "When You Are Old" by Yeats. As she said, "I would melt if someone wrote that to me. Sigh."

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

I don't know if Yeats is romantic, but he's amazingly beautiful. Once again, thank you all for playing, and I'll leave you with one last poem by Cummings:

somewhere i have never travelled...

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, misteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

Pick Up Poems, Part III: The Rise of the Perverse

Once again, here's a mess of sexy poems. As before, most of these were suggested by you. If I haven't included your poem, I certainly will do so in the future.

Glamourpuss suggested that we take a peek at "Don Juan," "I Watched Thee," and "She Walks In Beauty Like the Night" by Lord Byron; "Upon the Nipples of Julia's Breast," by Robert Herrick; "Her Voice" by Oscar Wilde; and "She Lay All Naked on Her Bed," an anonymous poem.

In the interests of brevity, I included one Byron, the Herrick, and "She Lay All Naked on Her Bed." I got rid of the rest because, frankly, they didn't turn me on. The Byron poem is, I think, terrifically atmospheric, and could be used to great effect in the right circumstances:

She Walks in Beauty
George Gordon, Lord Byron

SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Of course, you'd have to leave out the whole "innocent" part, lest you end up with a kiss on the forehead or a sturdy handshake. Still, imagine someone writing that for you!

Herrick, as always, can be counted on for some seriously fun sexiness:

Upon the Nipples of Julia's Breast
Robert Herrick


HAVE ye beheld (with much delight)
A red rose peeping through a white?
Or else a cherry, double grac'd,
Within a lily centre plac'd?
Or ever mark'd the pretty beam
A strawberry shows half-drown'd in cream?
Or seen rich rubies blushing through
A pure smooth pearl and orient too?
So like to this, nay all the rest,
Is each neat niplet of her breast.

God, I wish I'd known this one a long time ago. It's the perfect playful, post-prandial poem, almost guaranteed to make someone relax and giggle. I love Herrick!

"She Lay All Naked on Her Bed" is fantastic! It's another poem that I wish I knew years ago, as it perfectly describes my sex life from about 15 to 23 or so. For that matter, it should give Odat a serious laugh.

She lay all naked on her bed and I myself lay by;
No veil but curtains about her spread, no covering but I.
Her head upon her shoulder seeks to hang in careless wise,
And full of blushes were her cheeks, and of wishes were her eyes.

Her blood still fresh into her face, as on a message came,
To say that in another place it meant another game.
Her cherry lip moist, plump and fair, millions of kisses crown,
Which ripe and uncropt dangled there and weighed the branches down.

Her breasts, that well'd so plump and high, bred pleasant pain in me.
For all the world I do defy the like felicity;
Her thighs and belly, soft and fair, to me were only shown:
To see such meat, and not to eat, would anger any stone.

Her knees lay upward gently bent, and all lay hollow under,
As if on easy terms, they meant to fall unforc'd asunder;
Just so the Cyprian Queen did lie, expecting in her bower,
When too long stay had kept the boy beyond his promis'd hour.

"Dull clown" quoth she, "Why dost delay such proffer'd bliss to take?
Canst thou find out no other way similitudes to make?"
Mad with delight I, thundering, threw my arms about her,
But pox upon't 'twas but a dream, and so I lay without her.

Judith offered a couple of classics. First off, she suggested Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti. Unfortunately, the poem is really long. The gist of the story is that two sisters, Laura and Lizzie, are wandering home one day when they see the goblins selling fruit at the Goblin Market. They try to avoid looking at the goblins, as they don't want to be tempted. However, Laura can't resist the goblin call, so she looks. She's snared, and agrees to trade a lock of her hair for some goblin fruit, which she lustily consumes:

She clipped a precious golden lock,
She dropped a tear more rare than pearl,
Then sucked their fruit globes fair or red:
Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flowed that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She sucked and sucked and sucked the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore,
She sucked until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away,
But gathered up one kernel stone,
And knew not was it night or day
As she turned home alone.

Having tasted the forbidden fruit, Laura is filled with unquenched desire and, over the next few weeks, she starts to waste away. Lizzie, realizing that her sister is going to die, goes to the Goblin Market to get fruit to save her. The Goblins welcome her with hugs and kisses, but they become abusive when she refuses their hospitality:

Their looks were evil.
Lashing their tails
They trod and hustled her,
Elbowed and jostled her,
Clawed with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soiled her stocking,
Twitched her hair out by the roots,
Stamped upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeezed their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.

One may lead a horse to water,
Twenty cannot make him drink.
Though the goblins cuffed and caught her,
Coaxed and fought her,
Bullied and besought her,
Scratched her, pinched her black as ink,
Kicked and knocked her,
Mauled and mocked her,
Lizzie uttered not a word;
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in;
But laughed in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syruped all her face,
And lodged in dimples of her chin,
And streaked her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people,
Worn out by her resistance,
Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit
Along whichever road they took,
Not leaving root or stone or shoot.
Some writhed into the ground,
Some dived into the brook
With ring and ripple.
Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some vanished in the distance.

I love the imagery here, and Rosetti's rhythm, which flies all over the place, is a real joy. Judith also offered a poem by Emily Dickenson:

Wild Nights--Wild Nights!
by Emily Dickenson

Wild nights--wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
our luxury!

Futile the winds
To heart in port--
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart!

Rowing in Eden--
As the sea!
Might I moor, tonight,
In thee!

Personally, I'm not a huge fan of Emily Dickenson. It's hard for me to get excited about her poems when I imagine her knocking around her house, all alone. Plus, she uses WAY too many dashes. On the bright side, though, most of her poems can be sung aloud to the tune of Gilligan's Island. If you don't believe me, check this one out:

There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry -
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll -
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human soul.



Ramo offered this original piece. In return, I am including another picture of Joseph Fiennes.

Poems and Poems
All sparkling gems
But there is a stud among them
Joseph Fiennes is his name
May he tear apart his shirt
And show us all that covers his heart.
Then we can go further down
And discover the hidden crown!

Anyway, Cranky here had good intention
The evil Me is doing contravention.

Misanthropster offered a poem by "John Lillison, England's Greatest One-Armed Poet," which Steve Martin used to such effect in his movies:

O pointy birds, o pointy pointy,
Anoint my head, anointy-nointy.

Somebody has gotten so excited about this little poem that he created this.

"Lillison" also wrote this one:
In Dillman's Grove, our love did die,
And now in ground shall ever lie.
None could e'er replace her visage,
Until your face brought thoughts of kissage.

Once again, this post is running a little long, so I'll leave you with a creepy one. When I was a kid, my parents bought me a book of poems for children. This one was my favorite. I didn't realize that it was about necrophilia until much later.

Annabel Lee
by Edgar Allen Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;--
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
She was a child and I was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
I and my Annabel Lee--
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
Chilling my Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me:--
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of a cloud, chilling
And killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we--
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:--

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea--
In her tomb by the side of the sea.

Top Pick-Up Poems, Part II

I was surprised by the responses to Top Pick-Up Poems, Part I. Apparently, everybody's got a favorite or two. In the interests of democracy, and because I really like talking about seductive poetry, I decided to post some of your responses, as well as your favorites. If I didn't include yours, or if you still have a favorite that you want to write about, never fear: this isn't the last Pick Up Poems post!

Misanthropster brought up Shakespeare's Sonnet 130:

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

This isn't really a seduction poem; personally, thought, I prefer this kind of love. This is the one that notices the warts, the foul morning breath, and the oddly-shaped toes, and still cares. It doesn't just accept the flaws, but revels in them. Maybe it's not seductive, but it's seriously beautiful.

Besides, Shakespeare kicks ass!

Odat offered this one (complete with apologies!):

My First Time

The sky was dark
the moon was high
all alone just her and I
Her hair so soft
her eyes so blue
I knew just what she wanted to do
Her skin so soft
her legs so fine
I ran my fingers down her spine
I didn't know how
but I tried my best
to place my hand on her breast
I remember my fear
my fast beating heart
but slowly she spread her legs apart
And when she did
I felt no shame
as all at once the white stuff came
At last it was finished
it's all over now,
my first time...milking a cow.


Once, when I was teaching a creative writing class, a student read a poem that she had written. It was incredibly intense, building to a conclusion that left us all breathless. When she was finished, I mopped off my brow and looked around at the class. Many of them were flushed and appeared either embarrassed or aroused. Smiling, I said something like "Well, I guess we all know what that one was about. Did it accomplish its purpose?" Once I broke the silence, the whole class got involved in a very interesting discussion about this girl's exploration of sexuality, her depiction of an orgasm, and so forth. It was an amazingly productive discussion, and we all felt really good about ourselves until it was the girl's turn to discuss her poem. Looking around at us, she kind of tilted her head and said "actually, it was about basketball."

Pawlie Kokonuts enjoyed Donne's "The Flea," and suggested that we take a peek at Elegy 20: To His Mistress Going to Bed":

COME, madam, come, all rest my powers defy ;
Until I labour, I in labour lie.
The foe ofttimes, having the foe in sight,
Is tired with standing, though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glittering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breast-plate, which you wear,
That th' eyes of busy fools may be stopp'd there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
Tells me from you that now it is bed-time.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown going off such beauteous state reveals,
As when from flowery meads th' hill's shadow steals.
Off with your wiry coronet, and show
The hairy diadems which on you do grow.
Off with your hose and shoes ; then softly tread
In this love's hallow'd temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes heaven's angels used to be
Revealed to men ; thou, angel, bring'st with thee
A heaven-like Mahomet's paradise ; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know
By this these angels from an evil sprite ;
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.

Licence my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O, my America, my new-found land,
My kingdom, safest when with one man mann'd,
My mine of precious stones, my empery ;
How am I blest in thus discovering thee !
To enter in these bonds, is to be free ;
Then, where my hand is set, my soul shall be.

Full nakedness ! All joys are due to thee ;
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be
To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
Are like Atlanta's ball cast in men's views ;
That, when a fool's eye lighteth on a gem,
His earthly soul might court that, not them.
Like pictures, or like books' gay coverings made
For laymen, are all women thus array'd.
Themselves are only mystic books, which we
—Whom their imputed grace will dignify—
Must see reveal'd. Then, since that I may know,
As liberally as to thy midwife show
Thyself ; cast all, yea, this white linen hence ;
There is no penance due to innocence :
To teach thee, I am naked first ; why then,
What needst thou have more covering than a man?

I was blown away to discover that the lines "O, my America, my new-found land," are often used for patriotic purpose. Best of all, the lines before "O, my America" set it up so beautifully: "Licence my roving hands, and let them go/Before, behind, between, above, below." Kinda makes our relationship to the land seem a little too...uh...playful.

Looking over at the little blue dot, I'm noticing that this post is running a little long, so I'm going to hold off on Byron (Glamourpuss' favorite) and "Goblin Market," which Judith suggested. They will, however, be appearing in Top Pick-Up Poems, Part III, presumably with a few other suggestions.

I'm going to leave you with this one, by E.E. Cummings. It is, of course, about a car. Get your brain out of the gutter!


she being Brand

-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having

thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.

K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her

up,slipped the
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell)next
minute i was back in neutral tried and

again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my

lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity

avenue i touched the accelerator and give
her the juice,good

(it

was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on

the
internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
brakes Bothatonce and

brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.

stand-
;Still)

The Cavalier Poets (Top Pick-Up Poems of the Seventeenth Century)

A while back, when I posted on Richard Brautigan, Pickled Olives noted that his poetry wasn't very seductive. I, of course, started thinking about poetic seduction, and who would be on my personal mix tape of great poetic seducers.

The problem is that seducing someone with poetry is cheesy. It's hard to imagine a situation in which it would come off well. In fact, the only way that I could imagine it working would be if one were to "ironically" rattle off a few lines of a good, seductive poem. Of course, the gentleman in question would then have to look off in the distance in an incredibly deep, "I am way too multilayered for you" kind of way. Maybe that would work.

Still, what poems would he use? Personally, my vote is for one of the Cavalier or Metaphysical poets. Everyone who's seen Dead Poets Society is familiar with Robert Herrick's "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time" and Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress." My personal vote, however, goes to John Donne for "The Flea:"

MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is ;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;
And this, alas! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
'Tis true; then learn how false fears be ;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.


Seriously, what could be cooler than this poem? Donne is using a bloodsucking parasite to convince a girl to have sex with him. Best of all, he makes a really convincing argument. In some ways, this poem strikes me as a Jackass-type dare. It's easy to imagine Donne hanging out at a local alehouse with a few of his buddies, talking about the most bizarre way to hit on a girl. They're listing improbable things to use--the pox, unclean clothes, an outhouse--when one of them hits on the idea of a flea. Donne, the wild man (this is before he found religion) looks around the table and says, with studied nonchalance, "I could do it." A couple of weeks later, he shows up with this beautiful poem. And everybody buys him a round.

Of course, we don't know if he ever field tested it...

Ben Jonson was another great seduction poet; in fact, he's considered the father of the Cavalier poet tradition. Ironically, he has fallen by the wayside in terms of popularity. Check out his "Song to Celia":

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

Now, I'm not sure, but I'd be willing to bet that this one would do the trick. It might not even seem cheesy if one were to recite it aloud to the right woman at the right time.

I wonder what has happened to the art of seduction. I once read about how moles reproduce. Apparently, the females mark their tunnels to demonstrate their readiness. Shortly thereafter, the males find them and they commence a hurried, fumbling copulation in the dark, after which they go their separate ways.

Sounds familiar.