Thursday, January 8, 2009

Sonnet To An Asshole

GAY WISDOM for Daily Living...

from White Crane a magazine exploring
Gay wisdom & culture

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January 8

1896 - PAUL VERLAINE, French poet died (b. 1844); Did he or didn't he? We know that Verlaine wrote 18 volumes of verse in alternating moods of sensuality and mysticism, that he wandered all over Europe with that strange and perverse young poet, Arthur Rimbaud, that he was imprisoned for two years after shooting his lover. But did he in fact write a poem that is almost certain never to be taught in French 101 – the so-called "Sonnet to an Asshole"? The chances are that he did. Even in English translation, the poem reflects the musical quality that was Verlaine's hallmark" "Dark and wrinkled like a deep pink,/It breathes, humbly nestled among the moss/Still wet with love…"

1947 – DAVID BOWIE, English musician, born; English singer, songwriter, actor, multi-instrumentali st, producer, arranger, and audio engineer. Active in five decades of rock music and frequently reinventing his music and image, Bowie is widely regarded as an influential innovator, particularly for his work through the 1970s. In recent years, the former enfant terrible of punk has acquitted himself as a competent actor and taken cues from a wide range of fine art, philosophy and literature. He is a film and stage actor, music video director, and visual artist.

Back in the day, however, it was a different story altogether. He was fond of staging a mock blow job of his guitarist Mick Ronson before delighted audiences of shrieking 14 year olds. And then, of course, there were his songs about Lesbians in the army and the one about Queen Bitch, a young dude who "dresses like a queen, but…can kick like a mule" not to mention the one about the stud who "came on so loaded, man, well-hung and snow-white tan." In 1976, the same year Jimmy Carter admitted to Playboy that he had lusted in his heart after women, thereby forever losing the support of the pinch-faced, thin-lipped, blue-rinse set of American patriots, Bowie confided to his Playboy confessor that he was bisexual, as was his then wife, Angela. "Angela and I knew each other," he said, "because we were fucking the same bloke," (record executive Calvin Mark Lee). Though his current bios seem to be scrubbed clean of any reference to his sexual adventurism, it never seemed to hurt his career one bit.

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Sonnet To An Asshole

This is the only poem known to have been composed jointly by Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine. The Parnassien poet Albert Mérat had published a book of sonnets entitled L'Idole, in which each poem extolled a part of his mistress' body– with one omission, which the two young iconoclasts proceeded to rectify. This sonnet appeared in the Album Zutique, a book of scabrous parodies by the Parisian literary circle who called themselves Les Zutistes.

Dark and wrinkled like a violet carnation,
It sighs, humbly nestling in the moss still moist from love
That follows the descent of sweet white cheeks
Down to their edge.

Filaments like tears of milk
Have wept beneath the cruel south wind
That drives them back across the little clots of russet clay,
And disappeared there where the slope has called them.

My Dream has often kissed its opening;
My Soul, that envies mortal intercourse
Has chosen this to be its wild and musky nest of sobs.

It is the swooning olive and the sweet cajoling flute
The tube through which celestial creamy pralines tumble down
Female Promised Land rimmed round with dew!


Sonnet du Trou du Cul

Obscur et froncé comme un oeillet violet
Il respire, humblement tapi parmi la mousse
Humide encor d'amour qui suit la fuite douce
Des Fesses blanches jusqu'au coeur de son ourlet.

Des filaments pareils à des larmes de lait
Ont pleuré, sous le vent cruel qui les repousse,
À travers de petits caillots de marne rousse
Pour s'aller perdre où la pente les appelait.

Mon Rêve s'aboucha souvent à sa ventouse ;
Mon âme, du coït matériel jalouse,
En fit son larmier fauve et son nid de sanglots.

C'est l'olive pâmée, et la flûte caline,
C'est le tube où descend la céleste praline :
Chanaan féminin dans les moiteurs enclos !

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Gay Wisdom for Daily Living...

from White Crane
a magazine exploring
Gay wisdom & culture

Share this with your friends...

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Anonymous said...

Although Irin had a powerful gift, she had not honed it to sorcerer level. Like him, Hyle was naked save for the robe that had seen better days. Why worry him? That was the logical thought. Then she opened her eyes. Her gifts were not of the same caliber, as they were divinely enhanced. She and Radin dined with Hyle and Gala in their rooms. Her sound roused the couple lying before her. Would he think she was taunting him now? The entire time youve lived among us, Ive been jealous of you. He smiled at her glare, the red simmering behind the hazel of his eyes. Ive taken enough for tonight. She saw Brevin give Tykir a withering look. No more prompting was necessary. Hadnt he seen that Tykir just took her pussy? Dangerously serious behind his smile, he dragged his gaze back up to meet hers. Now that he was here, she was unsure how to begin. Again, she easily pictured it. His bold words cut through a world of insecurity. Touching another had never been like this.

Anonymous said...

His lips parted ever so slightly, and she heard a soft sigh of breath expel. As he did so, he saw the men on the ground moving toward each other. He nodded, slid an arm about Irins shoulders, and led his truemate from the room. She even stood, with the vague intention of leaving the balcony. She wanted to lash out at Nialdlye, but that was wrong.
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Anonymous said...

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I’m writing
with carnations at my side.
On one pinked, ruby rim
I press my lips.
Its musky scent
I sniff in gentle sips.
Have I some rule
of tact or taste defied?
The intimate
is earned through modesty.
Who breaks
a strict taboo or sacred rite?
One person’s dread’s
another one’s delight.
Will you explore
forbidden realms with me
with blushing cheeks
on tablecloth or sheet?
I seek to taste and feed
illicit bliss.
Forgive me
if I’m forward, indiscreet.
Please don’t deny me.
You will be remiss to bar me
from the privilege
just to kiss the puckered bud
you’re pressing to your seat.