PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

[her reply to Sir Thomas Wyatt's poem,

'The Lover Showeth How He Is Forsaken . . .']

Into our chamber just last night, barefoot

and naked, I walked; and at once, I put

on just a pair of stockings, rather sheer

like morning mist, except around each heel,

opaque and soft, the same around the toes.

(No ordinary lout's insouciant prose

can find the words to tell how stockings feel

on me, and on my poet's upturned face---

across his glistened lips or at his nose,

or cradled in his arm's gentle embrace.)

Transcending ordinary time and space,

love seems like a dimension without measure

a foretaste of eternal 'now' and 'here',

our private penetralia of pleasure.

(The way we please each other bears no shame.

Our satisfactions, as they are, embed

in licit coverlets for we are wed:

no gossip and no perverse prude to fear.)

Then, as desire's epitome drew near . . .

my silk-sheathed feet enjoying his ardent kisses. . .

with racing breath and gentlest moan, we came

together to the pinnacle of blisses.

Starard

[jlc]