When I write of it
That I tend to hesitate
Still; so intimate,
But one of beauty
Is not an object of shame:
The human body.
Tag Archives: Literature
Sonnet II: Unleashed
For this I want, though seldom would disclose;
Or hesitate to vaunt, or to posses.
Regarding friendship’s trial, I might obsess
Beyond consideration, while the throes
Wherewith I drown myself… so rapt, bestows
Determination bound. But not unless
Desired, desire’s object might profess.
Admired and familiar, this repose
I name: delightful, wickedness. Revere
This touch I frame as art, or I implore,
Or even further; know this would appear
Unleashed, to go where one cannot ignore.
Severe and certain, certainly sincere,
Mine own to this explore, but not endear.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Sonnet I: Mirror
To feel my hand upon a shape, a form
I find familiar in its drape: though known,
It overwhelms my hand by touch alone,
Though sight and sound and scent and savour warm
Me to its thrill, its pleasurable norm,
And call me to its side. And I alone
May know I should confide in that I own,
And hence am owned by that which I transform.
I feel it know at once, as once I know
The day such stark perfection will arrive.
I know reflexively, almost as though
The figure in the mirror comes alive
And reaches out with anything but this:
A touch of any kind, except a kiss.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Sonnet VIII: By Any Other Name
For I, thy gifts supernal might suppose,
Thy daggered figure, cut, as by a blade,
Enough impending, chilling to impose,
Enough avowed, to make the world afraid;
Enough, without the whisper of a roar,
To quail, as judgement sharp would juxtapose;
Enough, when it were seen, enough before,
To pale when it has been, that next arose.
Enough to chill, undaunted though profess,
Might they; When they behold their fear, deplore;
Enough, this fearsome scrutiny to lessen
Say, that judgement least, is judgement more:
This naked cut, no man would dare to dress,
None adorn, none to aid, and none to bless.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Sonnet VII: Helpless
So dark within this place, what is this grey
Like velvet fire that would my hand subdue?
Can this–such sweetest pliancy as may
Command my strength to helplessness–be true?
What should I from this helplessness construe
That further took my senses night from day?
Though ne’er would I this mastery through
Any means demand, excepting I obey.
I take what is demanded and delay,
As valiantly I must, what is my due;
And all this tempest, bid me on its way,
Is great in all it promiseth anew.
Much more thou knew’st than wouldst thou ever say;
Thy sweetness grew that burned my will away.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Sonnet VI: Landscape
When I have seen this place–this loveliness
That sweeps with valley as with rolling hill.
With meadowland and velvet can it bless
My hand, unfettered form, or lips but still.
Yet each would know that restless, is this place,
As Earth; as sweet, as wanton, and as cruel;
For what it gives it also takes, its face
With joyfulness, intense with warm or cooling
Passion is this vexing earth, not restful
Knowing never what it feels nor wants
And seldom what would serve its beauty best.
Not once can it be stilled; see how it daunts:
Yet even if I willed myself as much
To seek another clime, I would thee touch.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Sonnet V: Whatever Thy Perfection Doth Require
I close my longing eyes; envisage thee;
Reflection manifesting not my hands;
Imprisoned lightning, countenanced with fire;
Shot through, withal, mine every wish commands’.
Extremity, thy tapered waist’s degree;
Impossible perhaps, if not sublime;
And yet, sublime, thy perfect form–admire
This hourglass that so-confoundeth time.
Nor could reflected shadowing foresee
Such helplessness within, as now I feel;
Restrained, regarding mine embraced desire
Ensnaring; captor, caught without appeal;
This weal of metaphor thy warder barred;
Imprisonment inspired such a guard.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
David Emeron: Sonnets 