It hurts everywhere

By Emily Dickinson

I wonder if They bore it long – 
Or did it just begin –
I could not tell the Date of Mine –
It feels so old a pain – 

I wonder if it hurts to live –
And if They have to try –
And whether – could They choose between –
It would not be – to die –

I note that Some – gone patient long –
At length, renew their smile –
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil –

I wonder if when Years have piled –
Some Thousands – on the Harm –
That hurt them early – such a lapse
Could give them any Balm –

Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve –
Enlightened to a larger Pain –
In Contrast with the Love –

The Grieved – are many – I am told –
There is the various Cause –
Death – is but one – and comes but once –
And only nails the eyes –

There’s Grief of Want – and grief of Cold –
A sort they call “Despair” –
There’s Banishment from native Eyes –
In sight of Native Air –

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All women on women: love and sex 3/4. #ValentinesDay “Her sweet weight on my Heart a Night”

My breasts are like martinis

[…]

When I have a migraine and she reaches for me, I say
Josey, my breasts are like martinis. She nods, solemn:
People should keep their goddamn hands off yours. How
could we tell these jokes to the bartender? We can’t. He’ll never know.
I say it after scrubbing the kitchen cabinets, and she gets it:
dirty and wet. Walking in the wind, Josey says My breasts
are like martinis
 and I hail a cab, know she means shaking, ice cold.

Jill McDonough, Stanford University.

Her sweet weight on my Heart a Night 

Her sweet weight on my Heart a Night
Had scarcely deigned to lie –
When, stirring, for Beliefs delight,
My bride had slipped away – If `twas a Dream – made solid – just
The Heaven to confirm –
Or if Myself were dreamed of Her –
The power to presume – With Him remain – who unto Me –
Gave – even as to All –
A Fiction superseding Faith –
By so much – as `twas real –

Emily Dickinson.

Breasts, beautiful breasts. 2/2

The Olympic Girl by John Betjeman.
[…]
Oh! would I were her racket press’d
With hard excitement to her breast
And swished into the sunlit air
Arm-high above her tousled hair,
[…]
And when the match is over, I
Would flop beside you, hear you sigh;
And then with what supreme caress,
You’d tuck me up into my press.
Fair tigress of the tennis courts,
So short in sleeve and strong in shorts,


Her foot sparkled like silver
splashing bath water
on her golden apple breasts,
grown heavy with their milk […]

.
~Rufinus, 2nd century BCE

My breasts are like martinis

[…]

When I have a migraine and she reaches for me, I say
Josey, my breasts are like martinis. She nods, solemn:
People should keep their goddamn hands off yours. How
could we tell these jokes to the bartender? We can’t. He’ll never know.
I say it after scrubbing the kitchen cabinets, and she gets it:
dirty and wet. Walking in the wind, Josey says My breasts
are like martinis
 and I hail a cab, know she means shaking, ice cold.

Jill McDonough, Stanford University.

Her sweet weight on my Heart a Night 

Her sweet weight on my Heart a Night 
Had scarcely deigned to lie –
When, stirring, for Beliefs delight,
My bride had slipped away – If `twas a Dream – made solid – just
The Heaven to confirm – 
Or if Myself were dreamed of Her – 
The power to presume – With Him remain – who unto Me –
Gave – even as to All –
A Fiction superseding Faith –
By so much – as `twas real –

Emily Dickinson.

Your two breasts are like two fawns

Your two breasts are like two fawns,
like twin fawns of a gazelle
that browse among the lilies.

Song of Solomon 4:5 (1)

Have ye beheld (with much delight)
A red rose peeping through a white?
Or else a cherry (double graced)
Within a lily? Centre placed?
Or ever marked the pretty beam
A strawberry shows half drowned in cream?
Or seen rich rubies blushing through
A pure smooth pearl, and orient too?
So like to this, nay all the rest,
Is each neat niplet of her breast.
.
Her breast is fit for pearls by Emily Dickinson
.
Her breast is fit for pearls,
But I was not a “Diver”—
Her brow is fit for thrones
But I have not a crest.
Her heart is fit for home—
I—a Sparrow—build there
Sweet of twigs and twine
My perennial nest.
.
.
The first part of this post about beautiful breasts is at:
.
.

Have You Got a Brook in your Little Heart.

Image

Image

 

Beautiful.

Have You Got a Brook in your Little Heart.

Have you got a brook in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so?

And nobody knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there;
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there.

Then look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the hills,
And the bridges often go.

And later, in August it may be,
When the meadows parching lie,
Beware, lest this little brook of life
Some burning noon go dry.

Emily Dickinson.

Dickinson on sleeplessness.

Dickinson on sleeplessness.

Will there really be a morning?
Is there such a thing as day?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like water-lilies?
Has it feathers like a bird?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard?

Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor!
Oh, some wise man from the skies!
Please to tell a little pilgrim
Where the place called morning lies!

The skies can’t keep their secret!

The skies can’t keep their secret!
They tell it to the hills —
The hills just tell the orchards —
And they the daffodils!

A bird, by chance, that goes that way
Soft overheard the whole.
If I should bribe the little bird,
Who knows but she would tell?

I think I won’t, however,
It’s finer not to know;
If summer were an axiom,
What sorcery had snow?

So keep your secret, Father!
I would not, if I could,
Know what the sapphire fellows do,
In your new-fashioned world!

Emily Dickinson

Aside

Lovely spring poem by Emily Dickinson.

VI. THE ROBIN.

The robin is the one
That interrupts the morn
With hurried, few, express reports
When March is scarcely on.

The robin is the one
That overflows the noon
With her cherubic quantity,
An April but begun.

The robin is the one
That speechless from her nest
Submits that home and certainty
And sanctity are best.