Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

I have written before of the opening ceremony that begins our time together.  He always asks me how I’m feeling, and I usually say “I’m fine,” or “Very happy to be here,” but it always assails me how mediocre my answer is, at best, and inadequate in the extreme, at worst.

Yesterday, in a burst of combined pre-session inspiration, emotion and an unexpected pocket of free time, I wrote a letter to Purrrrvert, and printed it out. At that crucial moment, when he asked me that customary question, I reached behind me for the folded piece of paper, and handed it to him.

He has told me that he fell in love with me initially because of my words. He calls me his Cunning Linguist (among other creative and adorable terms of endearment), and he loves when I write for him. But nothing prepared me for the clear and honest reaction that streamed between us as our eyes met, once he raised them from reading.

The eyes are the windows to the soul. I saw straight into his, and he into mine.

And I cried, for sheer joy.

When I am with you, you always ask me how I feel.

How I feel to be with you?

How do I find the words to cage the butterflies of feeling that well up inside me at the thought of being with you?

How much more so their siblings, glitter-coating me when no longer is it a matter of thought, but a warm and soft reality?

An accurate description is never something I can accomplish as I stand before you – naked both in body and soul. This is the time when I am focused only on being. The words come later.

Now is later. Now I describe.

I feel transported from the daily grind to an island of oblivion. Population: 2.

1. Purrrrvert

2. Pink Tabby.

No one else lives here; in fact none but us exist. This is our world.

So how do I feel?

There is no one emotion to encompasses the bubble of joy that encases me. It’s so much more than “happy”. I feel:












Read Full Post »

My darling Purrrrrrrvert,

In honour of your birthday, I wrote you a poem (see below).

While my skill at creating poetry does not compare with Pablo Neruda, or Carol Ann Duffy, or Robert Frost or (ha, I wish) the wonderful Thomas Stearns Eliot, or any of the others we have discussed and love so much, it was, at least, written from the heart.

More than this, I cannot do.

Feliz cumpleaños. Ti amore querido,

Su gato de tabby rosado x

Time is an illusion
Lunchtime doubly so
Birthdays come but once a year
And very quickly go
It’s really not so easy
To put into a rhyme
How very much you mean to me
And do it all in time
To show you on your birthday
That very special day
That from within the cosmos
Your soul came here to stay
Such perceived insignificance
Or so some may have said
Brought thundering and mighty fruit
To bear upon my head
I don’t think I can find the words
To say how much I care
To adequately describe here
Your brilliance and your flair
Your wide and varied knowledge bank
Your sparkling blue eyes
Your evil mean and rotten ways
That take me by surprise
And make me grin so broadly
And make you purr with joy
How you can turn me in a snap
From tabby to fucktoy
Your warm and comforting embrace
Your softly dappled skin
That look that comes into your eyes
When I make your head spin
The expert way you tie me and
Restrain me to the bed
The joyous and exultant groan
Whene’er I give you head
How I love to submit to you
Be at your call and beck
How much I love my collar
When fastened round my neck
The feel of leather on my skin
Or whisk or spoon or smurf
I sing a song of love to you
On this day of your birth

(With apologies to Douglas Adams for shamelessly stealing his words as my opening lines. 🙂 )

Read Full Post »

I am not a person who succumbs to sentimentality often.

Not that my consciousness cannot be tweaked by a sweet thought, or a kind word. Not that I do not have a deep appreciation of art and how it variously moves me, in one or any of its forms.

But sentimentality — of the artificial, uniformly packaged and bound variety, such as that perpetuated across the globe on Valentines day — leaves me colder than the mouldy piece of cheese at the back of my refrigerator.

I make a point of not participating in any calendar-scheduled romantic events, partly because for many years i was not in love and it made me feel excluded, worthless and inadequate, and partly because being of Jewish German, Polish and Lithuanian origin, i have a genetic tendency to be stubborn, argumentative and “just-so” about these things. Why should I necessarily demonstrate my love for another on *this* date?

Moreover, does doing so on this date make it more special, or does it detract from every other day of the year, and the love that should be going on 24*7? As if this date superseded any other, or precluded myself or my lover from doing so publicly at any other time.

It seemed false and manufactured, two of my worst fears when it comes to feelings between my heart and another. The fear being, of course, that said feelings were not genuine; that they had been summoned specifically in order to display how another heart felt for mine as a public, almost staged gesture. Which would prove me right, or rather, would prove Captain Paranoia right. I carry him with me, he sits happily and persistently on my shoulder, swinging his feet in the breeze and whispering mean and cruel nothings into my ear.

“He doesn’t really love you. He never did. He’s just doing what’s expected of him in order to keep the gossipmongers down, or to make himself feel better. It’s about him, and the rest of the world, not you. Never you. You’re not worthy enough of the attention from another — and why would he or anyone else be able to truly love one such as you?”

Have you ever noticed how Captain Paranoia has a Santa Claus-like quality in that he manages to affect many people all over the world, all at the same time? No? Just me then. OK.


When love is shown me spontaneously, particularly in light of the above, I accept it with no strings attached, and no second-guessing. It takes more than a single occurrence for me to be able to return the love as love per se, but i can and do reciprocate as honestly and genuinely as I can.

My Dom and my lover — the same man, in the event that this is the first piece of Elegant Smut you’re reading — sent me a poem today.

This is not an unusual event. We often exchange poetry, since we both share a love for language and especially the beautifully intricate way in which a poet uses imagery to suggest feelings, emotions, notions, ideas, pictures and sensibilities. Imagery that belies the fact that, were they to be communicated using plain speech, they simply would not have the same effect.

Either way, today, I choose to share this poem with you, with all due credit to the original poet and translator. The beauty of receiving the poem today, February 14th, the traditional celebratory date for the various Valentines who existed, but not as a “Valentine”, is very special for me. Much like everything he says, does or sends to me. Much like everything he is. Intended with love,  but not because he has to.

Thank you, my dear. Today you touched my heart, although have no fear, it was not for the first time.

El Alfarero (The Potter), by Pablo Neruda

Your whole body holds
a goblet or gentle sweetness destined for

When I let my hand climb,
in each place I find a dove
that was looking for me, as if
my love, they had made you out of clay
for my very own potter’s hands.

Your knees, your breasts,
your waist
are missing in me, like in the hollow
of a thirsting earth
where they relinquished
a form,
and together
we are complete like one single river,
like one single grain of sand.

—Translated and © Mark Eisner 2004, from City Lights’ The Essential Neruda

Read Full Post »