In the Gold Room – A Harmony: Oscar Wilde


Here’s one of Wilde’s exquisite poems. He knew for sure how to excite the senses.

Her ivory hands on the ivory keys
Strayed in a fitful fantasy,
Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees
Rustle their pale-leaves listlessly,
Or the drifting foam of a restless sea
When the waves show their teeth in the flying breeze.

Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold
Like the delicate gossamer tangles spun
On the burnished disk of the marigold,
Or the sunflower turning to meet the sun
When the gloom of the dark blue night is done,
And the spear of the lily is aureoled.

And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine
Burned like the ruby fire set
In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,
Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,
Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet
With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.

No credit taken for the image used.


To my other half


i have swallowed the stars
in my tropical mouths of nostalgia,
coping the insanity, wireless tracks
with sweat and ink
ink and tears.
a blush of my cheeks
and seizure occurs
between our wild sheets
our vermilion warmth.

i sniff the old papers
to give me paper cuts,
threading a crisp jawline
point of felicity
& elision of this
moon dust heart,
i walk spherical
fetching your wet lips
wet mouth and language of Gods
i pronounce you my dalliance
& my nails clutter
in your toxin scent.


#NaPoWriMo- 22

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Pablo Neruda: Every Day You Play



One of my favourite poems by the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda. I love the playfullness and the sensuality of it.

Every day you play with the light of the universe
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a bunch of flowers, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody, since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed….

You are here. Oh you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Curl round me as though you were frightened.
Even so, a strange shadow once ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the grey light unwind in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body
Until I even believe that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses

I want
to do with you what spring does with cherry trees.



Kiss me where my carotid
meets my clavicle, leave
cherry blossoms scattered
across my flesh, dot the
highways of my neck. Bend
me like words. Arch me more
than a metaphor. Make me
your masterpiece. Please.


via Masterpiece

Things I will Preserve

There are things that I want to protect. Like the oxydised carbon,
like your mouth and my ferocious voice.
My earth shaped body: heaven resist into my temple mind,
like your inundate doses of love prayers to me.
Your sun kissed pavements, mosaic dreams.
Your vintage lullaby’s while I am a mess.
The sunsets that we adored while we clicked our moist tongues
There are things I want to count time and again.
The hush oceanic fingerprints you carved onto my bosom
The silence that we sank into,the eruptions of sordid lust and galaxies revolving
If I had a red box, I will preserve your words, pictures, stained teacups,
the old mahogany chair on which we did crosswords together
That old whiskey smelling blankets I hid
after you were gone,
I want to count it again and again.
Your white shirts piling on my naval,
like a tropical meadow of white roses
The cold layers of evening when I drank and danced
You kissed me like a new born baby’s skin,
My abhorrence divided right here,
Till my skin melted,aroused and melted again in yours,
I will count that further and further.

via Things I will Preserve

Book Review: The Song of Songs


Set me as a signet upon thy heart, as a signet upon thy arm!
For strong as death is love, hard as Sheol is passion. The flames of
it are flames of fire: a flame of Jehovah.
Great waters are not able to quench love, and floods drown it

Poetry will forever be that child—both ever-youthful and ancient—that playfully slips into the cracks of the centuries and laughingly says, ”I’m wordy silence and silent words.” The Song of Songs proves that, indeed, good poetry has always the ability to move the reader regardless of the era of its composition.

Good poetry immerses the reader not merely in a world where beautiful words abound, but in a world brimming with eternal, human truths cocooned in the sacred veil of mysticism.

The Song of Songs reads not only as one of the finest examples of poetic creation but, also, as one of the most exquisite erotic compositions ever conceived. With stunning imagery and resourceful, vibrant language, it offers a unique celebration of passion and sexual love between two lovers. The reader is exposed to the voices of two lovers who praise each other and yearn for each other’s physical presence.

The two lovers rejoice in their profound desire for each other, expressing their sexual intimacy with a burning holiness that paints their union with a mystical spirituality. Thus, this part of the Ketuvim is rendered a text of unparalleled literary value.