Sunday, 18 April 2010

Poetic Sex

I think I should regret sleeping with a poet.
Risk seeing my immortalisation in verse -
or worse, the act of love itself described.
All that cleaving, splitting, spearing,
prancing about with his rampant lance.
Petals, rosebuds, blooming flowers -
a fruit basket of ripe metaphors -
when really it was only sex.

He might notice the varicose vein
on the back of my knee, my uneven breasts,
the ropey scar above my pubic bone, the arse
that lost the battle with gravity.

His tongue would trace the silver
snail tracks of stretched skin,
cursive writing, legacy of pregnancy.
Reading my stories with observant eyes,
tasting secrets with his lips, licking
the words right out of my mouth -

I'd be plagiarised.

Would my thighs be pale and trembling,
like semi-set blancmange?
Or merely warm and welcoming?
Could my neck inspire?

Far better to sleep with plumbers
who appreciate the pipe-work.
Electricians know an on-off switch
and can make sparks fly.
The upholsterer comes home
to well-padded hipbones, a bolstered chest.
The cartographer finds his way without a map -
but isn't afraid to ask directions.
The potter, joiner, the mechanic -
 all are clever with their hands.

But the poet, the tender, cruel poet with his gift for words
I'll leave for all the other more courageous girls.


  1. I'm wondering if this was inspired by one of your recent Friday trips to Albania? Either way (so to speak) it's a fine piece of writing, and a strong clue as to where the courageous girls have gone.

    WV is a real word today! salting

  2. I liked this an awful lot, Moptop. Very good writing and very clever. Having experienced an unfortunate but inevitable coup de vieux recently, I could also relate to it.

  3. I'm so pleased you're posting more of your poetry here. We love your funny stuff, but love your poems too! Hurrah!

  4. This is wonderful. And I love the way you extend it at the end to other professions. Each of these could become a new poem.

  5. Magnificent! I often ponder the plight of the muse as yet another poet espouses their delights on stage for the edification of all.

    But beside that, this is very tight. Well written with wicked and slightly vulnerable imagery. Love the penultimate stanza with its list of options.


  6. Martin - it's the only poem that ever came fully formed. I'd read 5 full collections by Sharon Olds and had sat through a poetry Open Mic where a middle-aged man had licked the microphone whilst he described some rather outré fantasies.(In verse, of course. He hadn't just wandered in off the street.) The next morning - Voilá! - there was the poem.

    Deborah - thank you as ever. It works well in performance - makes people laugh. I read it out in a queue at a garden centre once. (A career highlight.)

    Bébé - Thank you, sweetpea. Your poetic output shames me. (I won't even mention the spreadsheets ...)

    Fran - You've given me an idea for another poem. Thank you.

    Cam - Thanks ever so. Yes, that poor muse takes quite a battering at times ...