From: marek@moose.cs.indiana.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: sonata... / Marek "love as a drug", "sex as need", Re: Need - A Poem
Date: 20 Dec 92 21:47:50 GMT
Organization: Indiana University, Bloomington

[poem follows]

In article <BzJtvp.8wz@undergrad.math.waterloo.edu>
gdnikoli@undergrad.math.waterloo.edu (Greg Nikolic) writes:
> petersm@jacobs.CS.ORST.EDU (Marguerite Petersen) writes:
>>In light of recent postings Re:referring to the act of sex as fucking I  
>>was inspired to write the following.  It contains neither flowery allusion
>>nor the word fuck, but I think you will get the message nonetheless. :-)
>>			I am the answer
>>			to your need
>>			and I am willing
>>			to answer your need
>  [rest of enrapturing poem left out]
>
>  Finally! A good, sold, erotic poem, from a woman no less. Well written.
>If you have any sequels in mind post them please.

I was promising myself not to comment on Marg's poem, i.e. let it be,
let it be, in the spirit of John Lennon and Merry Berry, but you, Dear
Greg, supplied the drop that runneth the chalice over.  I apologize
for any bruises this may cause; the tone will be polite and lite. :)

Marg's poem uses the "sex as need" metaphor which I find unsatisfying, and
on reflection, even Marg should find confining.  Is sex heroin?  do you really
want to feel compelled or do you want to fuck of your free desire?  Do you
want to be in control of your life or do you want your life to control you?
Your need sounds like being in heat or rut and, well, needing it.  It is one
thing to be overcome by desire and quite another to need money, or need
oxygen, or need to urinate.  Anyone who seriously says "I need to get laid"
has heard too many pop songs or is overstating their requirements.

This leads us to suspect sentimentality in a poem that has one lover
assure the other that the need is detected and a need will be met.
Marie and I satirized one rap commentator's reference to me as Marie's
"primary care-giver" in a poem I re-posted recently pretty much on
these grounds.  Even femnists fall into the trap of this metaphor,
which I find funny though unfortunate.  This is related, semiotically,
to the "love is a drug" metaphor which we hear on the radio as well,
in part because there are no adequate images for expressing strong
sexual desire directly.

Love is not a drug.  Love is a state of mind, which means it is
mediated by neurotransmitters.  A drug would be something that
interferes with your neurotransmitters, like caffeine.  Caffeine is a
drug.  I wish more people would talk in their poems about coffee and
their need for it and about meeting their lovers' need for it, and
about coffee being a drug.

Greg seems to think that a good erotic poem should avoid obscenity
(whatever that is), vulgarity, pornography and upsetting language, but
he seems perfectly contented with masked metaphors that silently guide
into mentalities that are neither honest nor thoughtful.  Do you want to
live a life with love as a drug?  Sex as a need?  Doesn't needing someone
sexually come many steps closer to objectifying women (babe, I need you)
than speaking frankly with clear mind (let's fuck)?

Your honor, I have no further questions.  :)

				-- Marek


		sonata in c. minor (in four movements)
		-------------------------------------------------------------
		
		_sconsolatamente  --  forlornly_
		
		why must my affection
		for you engender
		lucidity in you?
		why not affection?
		
		the reasons of age and circumstance
		leave me abandoned and utterly blue
		like a bruised pomegranate
		just as irreparable.
		
		the best you could do now
		is to split me open, bite off and
		chew
		before i grow moldy,
		soft and sentimental.
		
		anyway...
		
		there is curiosity
		festering in your eyes.
		
		do you really suppose
		i would squander it
		in lust?
		why do you think
		you know what we are all about?
		
		i don't really know you.
		i don't say i know you.
		but i want to know you.  must i not?
		
		the demands i make
		on your innocence
		would scarcely strain a patient nun.
		so i love you.
		i can love many.  i can love one.
		
		i want to listen to you be.
		i want to listen to many.
		i want to listen to the one.
		
		the many are out of reach.  so is the one.
		must you be?
		
		there is pungent medicine
		or poison
		or something very ordinary
		and dear
		like sweet dark cherries or ancient dust
		or untold travels
		in your burning gray blue stare.
		
		and what of it if i wanted
		to sink in there
		and listen to you be,
		to listen ensnared?
		
		with affection
		kept firmly on a leash
		kept well out of your hair
		could i bruise you or bite you?
		
		
		_dolcemente  --  softly/sweetly_
		
		i could tell you of you
		seen obliquely
		admired in short takes
		for undeserved details:
		the glistening saliva on your front teeth
		the flowing hues in your contrary eyes
		the pastel textures of your ordinary shirts
		the unsightly bruises on your reckless legs
		even the stupid staple in your child's finger
		and, naturally, the heaven of hair, all the time
		and everywhere
		
		as well as
		
		your crisp silliness
		your trickling laughter
		your vicious punches (never thrown at me!)
		your sly affection (never thrown at me...)
		
		yes, i could tell you all this.
		but if i did, i would bleed massively.
		so, instead
		i'll just feed you
		more lines.
		
		
		_permanente  --  forever_
		
		i have a feeling that's gnawing on my
		crazy head bone, somewhere:
		think of her as your little sister
		instead of a waiting watershed,
		instead of a girl sanctifying your bed,
		warm as a pealing bell
		under your amazed hand.
		
		instead, she belongs out there
		autonomous, ambulatory, attired
		running in a field
		with a pitchfork,
		chasing you most sincerely,
		if you're lucky enough
		to get her undivided attention. 
		
		
		_chiaramente  --  clearly_
		
		my loyalties' ambiguity is killing me.
		but no more than your living body.
		and certainly no more than your sobriety.
		
		i wanted your company
		to burn my way permanently
		into your smile, into indelible kinship.
		you are so right
		to keep us apart:
		never trust anyone thirty
		not with this kind of poetry.
		
		it's too late to fill a different slate.
		i cannot undo my honesty
		neither would you want me to.
		
		but if it is not too late
		to fake a purely platonic friendship
		(for i will always crave your hair and soak in your sparkle)
		then, just maybe,
		i won't again scream out of tune
		of c. minor
		
		a very very very fine key.
		
		will you please
		again
		feel free
		to play unperturbed?
		
		and do
		
		take two?
		take three?
		
		echoes of kimberly
		bleed into this poem
		unintendedly.
		
		drive safe.  drive friendly.
		drive me crazy.
		

				Marek Wojciech Lugowski
				14-15 July 1989
				Dallas