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I would the maiden's eye might fall
upon me this:
first with starting pupil, which then grow motionless;
again contracting slowly at the corner with natural
grace;
next opening somewhat, and then finally thinning
in a joyful wave of heavy tears.
-Viryamitra
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Her glances first came hesitant and
sidelong then soft and shy with love;
a while they rested on me motionless,
then slowly turned away.
Her pupils widening behind long
lashes
told of the admiration that she felt.
My heart, poor thing without defense, was captured,
Cut up, swallowed,
and now is lost for aye.
-Bhavabhuti
(725 CE)
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DESIRE
Waiting.
Wanting.
Exercising an unbearable patience.
I yearn for simple things.
To hear your voice.
To see your face,
particularly when it breaks out in that slow,
sensuous, all encompassing smile.
The aroma of your perfume permeating my senses.
Your hand falling gently upon my chest,
sensing the acceleration of my heartbeat,
the catch of breath in my throat,
the sheen of sweat breaking upon my brow.
The sinous way that you glide through a room.
Raw sensuality waiting to be unleashed.
An unquenchable thirst that grows with each passing moment.
Desire that burns unrepentingly.
Passion left unslaked.
An ache from your absence and
the unfinished nature of our meeting.
Frenzied cravings.
A longing to explore, your thoughts, dreams, and desires.
And the slim hope that somehow
I can make some of them come true.
Waiting.
Wanting.
Burning.
Yearning.
Dreaming.
Tormented by the depth of my fervor.
Twisting in the wind and loving it.
Hoping for release.
-Michael Hernandez (2000)
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CHINA
From behind he looks like a man
I once loved, that hangdog slouch
to his jeans, a sweater vest, his neck
thick-veined as a horse cock, a halo
of chopped curls.
He orders coffee and searches
his pockets, first in front, then
from behind, a long finger sliding
into the slitted denim the way that man
slipped his thumb into me one summer
as we lay after love, our freckled
bodies two pale starfish on the sheets.
Semen leaked and pooled in his
palm
as he moved his thumb slowly, not
to excite me, just to affirm
he'd been there.
I have loved other men since,
taken
them into my mouth like a warm vowel,
lain beneath them and watched their irises
float like small worlds in their open eyes.
But this man pressed his thumb
toward the tail of my spine
as if he were entering
China, or a ripe papaya,
so that now
when I think of love
I think of this.
-Dorianne Laux from a
book titled "Awake"
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Erotic
Passion
I do indeed speak without bias;
this is acknowledged as truth among men.
Nothing enthralls us like an ample-hipped woman;
nothing else causes such pain.
O worldly existence, the path
that leads beyond your bounds
would be less treacherous
were it not for the intoxicating glances
waylaying us at every turn
Surely the moon does not rise in
her face,
or a pair of lotuses rest in here eyes,
or fold compose her body's flesh.
Yet, duped by poets' hyperbole,
even a sage,
a pondering man worships the body of woman--
a mere concoction of skin and flesh and bones.
In this vapid, mundane world,
wise men take two courses;
they spend some time with minds
submerged in the fluid elixir of wisdom,
the rest with tender woman
whose breasts and hips enjoy the pleasure
of hiding men's eager hands
in their laps of ample flesh.
Spells cannot cure it, nor drugs
confound it,
nor ritual magic deal it destruction --
passion, like an epileptic fit, attacks man's limbs
to inflict the torment of frenzied derangement.
Heavy rains keep lovers
trapped in their mansions --
in the shivering cold a lord
is embraced by his long-eyed mistress
and winds bearing cool mists
soothe their fatigue after loveplay
Even a dreary day is fair
for men who lie in love's arms.
Cut off all envy, examine the
matter,
tell us decisively, you noble men,
which we ought to attend upon:
the sloping sides of wilderness mountains
or the buttocks of women abounding in passion?
At first she rebuffs me,
then in a mood born of dalliance, passion is roused;
slowly her body falls languid, and composure is shed,
leaving her bold enough to indulge in games of love
played by her limb's abandoned gesture --
a gentlewoman's pleasure is my delight.
-
Bhartrihari
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The Rose Is Not The
Rose
The rose is not the rose unless
thou see;
Without good wine, spring is not spring to me.
Without thy tulip cheek, the
gracious air
Of gardens and of meadows is not fair.
Thy rosy limbs, unless I
embrace,
Lose for my longing eyes full half their grace;
Nor does thy scarlet mouth with
honey drip
Unless I taste its homey, lip to lip.
Vainly the cypress in the zephyr
sways,
Unless the nightingale be there to praise.
Nothing the mind imagines can be
fair,
Except the picture that it makes of her.
rely good wine is good, and green
the end
Of Gardens old -- but not without the Friend.
Hafiz, the metal of this soul is
base;
Stamp not upon it the Beloved's face.
- Hafiz
Sonet 147
My love is as a fever, longing
still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except,
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unreset;
My thoughts and my discourse as mad men's are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed:
For I have sworn thee
fair, and thought thee bright
Who art as black as hell, and dark as night.
- William
Shakespeare
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Lady, send forth in waves your
glances,
and the bright waterlily fades;
let shine the color of your lip
and coral will grow pale.
Disclose a fraction of your
limbs
and gold itself grows black;
lift up your face, and lo,
the sky will bear two moons.
-
Rajas'ekhara (900 CE)
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A word of general application,
when I hear it,
comes to settle on a special object.
They say, "a woman"
and straightaway my mind
runs to that very one whose eyes have charmed me.
- Anonymous
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