Jonathan Spencer's Tales of Ordinary Wisdom
Politics, Poetry, Psychology, Rants and Recipes
Erotica
Erotica
In my search for an understanding of the erotic I turned as a first resort to poetry, buying a book of sensual and erotic verse down through the ages and then found the poem in a book elsewhere, but the question of what we find erotic must also be framed by our past and our experiences.
To me this poem says something of the erotic, and the erotic is about connections and communications, the erotic is personal, and vulnerable, the erotic plays with our senses and talks of pleasure and sensuality, the erotic has soul and takes into account the soul of another. It can also be fleeting, and move from the shallow to the deep, at the end it can also be ephemeral and float away.
Pornography, the most successful industry of the 20/21st century beside arms, speaks of goals and relys on the anonymity of us all. I am reminded of PHilip K Dick, (never lauded in his own time and now his books turned into blockbuster films by the very corporations he mocked) in The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch whose Martian frontierspeople are sold a drug “Can-D” which when they take allows them to project into a dolls house world, the dolls and dollshouse bought from the government, this dolls house world is inhabited by the perfect “Perky-Pat” and her partner who live in a glossy successful world filled with consumer goodies and perfect sex, far removed from the dust filled hovels of these forced frontiers people.
This is the world of pornography where we give up identity and as a friend reminded me lacks a relationship to the moral and the legal.
Pornography is a distortion of the shared eroticism of real people, and it is like a drug because it used to both put us to sleep in terms of our ability to relate to others and also appears to stimulate or at least enhance the fantasies of those who already see the other (whether man or woman) as lacking true identity and it therefore appears to them to permit acts of violence and indecency.
This beautiful poem sums up an earthed or connected fantasy, that on the one hand is real people whose feed are in the mud but on the other takes them to heights where they cry out like the gods.
Last Gods by Galway Kinnell
She sits naked on a rock
a few yards out in the water.
He stands on the shore,
also naked, picking blueberries.
She calls. He turns. She opens
her legs showing him her great beauty,
and smiles, a bow of lips
seeming to tie together
the ends of the earth.
Splashing her image
to pieces, he wades out
and stands before her, sunk
to the anklebones in leaf-muck
and bottom-slime — the intimacy
of the visible world. He puts
a berry in its shirt of mist
into her mouth.
She swallows it. He puts in another.
She swallows it. Over the lake
two swallows whim, juke, jink,
and when one snatches
an insect they both whirl up
and exult. He is swollen
not with ichor but with blood.
She takes him and sucks him
more swollen. He kneels, open
the dark vertical smile
linking heaven with the underneath
and licks her smoothest flesh more smooth.
On top of the rock they join.
Somewhere a frog moans, a crow screams.
The hair on their bodies
startles up. They cry
in the tongue of the last gods,
who refused to go,
chose death, and shuddered
in joy and shattered pieces,
bequeathing their cries
into the human mouth.
Now in the lake
two faces float, looking up
at a great maternal pine whose branches
open in all directions
explaining everything.
“”
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