Perhaps when our bodies throb and rub
against each other, they produce a sound
inaudible to us but heard up there, in the clouds and higher,
by those who can no longer hear common sounds . . .
Or, maybe, this is how He wants to check by ear: are we still intact?
No cracks in mortal vessels? And to this end He bangs
men against women?

Vera Pavlova
Trans. Steven Seymour

After Love

October 3, 2019

Afterward, the compromise.
Bodies resume their boundaries.
These legs, for instance, mine.
Your arms take you back in.
Spoons of our fingers, lips
admit their ownership.
The bedding yawns, a door
blows aimlessly ajar
and overhead, a plane
singsongs coming down.
Nothing is changed, except
there was a moment when
the wolf, the mongering wolf
who stands outside the self
lay lightly down, and slept.

Maxine Kumin

sweetest moments

September 21, 2019

We knew sex in the sweetest moments and in the harshest moments too. We pressed our bodies together. We peeled them apart. We exchanged our skins. We talked a little then fell silent.

Nizar Qabbani
Attempt to Assassinate a Love Affair
Trans.Paul Weinfield

It makes sense to begin on the ceiling. To begin pressed against the limits of the room, whether in solitude, asylum, or restraint, beyond which spread the injunctions of the world. I envision a body shot up to the ceiling suddenly imbued with a split perspective: that of the body on the ceiling and that of the body on the ground. Isn’t there always one left? The perspective of mutual confrontation, each body bound to the tension between, the distance, a cube, like a fractured embrace — though maybe the room itself is an invention, walls crumbled, out of bounds. That is where Yanara Friedland begins. She walked, for example — among other borders, traces and ruins, natural and artificially enforced — the former East-West division through Germany. It was summer. The exigencies of life, of survival, and the forces that hang them in the shadows of violence, have inflected the gravity of so many bodies that maybe gravity has reversed, and that people who have been pushed beyond their extent, are the ennoblements of the living, looking back. To look (back) at one’s body from a limit, a place of exile; to attempt to re-member oneself with an imagination forged, by necessity, out of that distance; to look at one’s bodies, held in a fractured embrace, despite, or because of, the collapse of the world. The space between may be the price of existence.

Brandon Shimoda

it tends toward a climax

August 11, 2019

Lovers’ reading of each other’s bodies (of that concentration of mind and body which lovers use to go to bed together) differs from the reading of written pages in that it is not linear. It starts at any point, skips, repeats itself, goes backward, insists, ramifies in simultaneous and divergent messages, converges again, has moments of irritation, turns the page, finds its place, gets lost. A direction can be recognized in it, a route to an end, since it tends toward a climax, and with this end in view it arranges rhythmic phases, metrical scansions, recurrence of motives. But is the climax really the end? Or is the race toward that end opposed by another drive which works in the opposite direction, swimming against moments, recovering time?

Italo Calvino
If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller

remember the kisses

May 19, 2019

I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.

Charles Bukowski

an erotic place

January 17, 2019

I have always felt that the world is an erotic place. As I walk through it my senses are reaching out. And I am drawn to all sorts of things. For me cities are enormous bodies of people’s desires. And as I search for my own desires within them, I slice into time, seeing the moment. That’s the kind of camera work I like.

Daido Moriyama
Interview with Tate gallery

The Touch

January 4, 2018

The trees have kept some lingering sun in their branches,
Veiled like a woman, evoking another time,
The twilight passes, weeping. My fingers climb,
Trembling, provocative, the line of your haunches.

My ingenious fingers wait when they have found
The petal flesh beneath the robe they part.
How curious, complex, the touch, this subtle art –
As the dream of fragrance, the miracle of sound.

I follow slowly the graceful contours of your hips,
The curves of your shoulders, your neck, your unappeased breasts.
In your white voluptuousness my desire rests,
Swooning, refusing itself the kisses of your lips.

Renee Vivien