Guest article by Madhu, author of the book of poems, Make Me Some Love To Eat, (if you need quick pickup lines during your next date - now you got them 🙂

 

One of my friends recently told me that he came home with a girl from a random party and after a brief conversation, the icebreaking into lovemaking was through one of my poems:

 

He was the chai

she was the kulladh,

he would be done

she would still be wet.

 

Well, why not?

Some love poems are written to connect people or to kindle a spark of love. Verses dripping with love, sensuality and dolor stimulate the same orgasm as wading through melted chocolate or bathing in wine.

Lovemaking and poetry are inseparability entwined. In fact, on good days, lovemaking is poetry.

There are times when a bare verse is sexier than an unclothed body. In the whole of the universe, only limited poetry is available in words.

When hands claw shoulders, feet held down by the stretch of feet, lips are devoured by lips, tongue wrestles tongue, teeth grind, happiness arises from beyond the depth of crevices and the length of devices, hearts race with hearts amidst the stars – lovemaking and poetry are two sides of the same damru.

Every night a world goes to make love. So many poems are born; most go unnoticed.

So bad we wanted to make love

and so good we did

that all coolants failed to soothe the heat.

Is this an ocean of sweat we are drowning in

or are we melting into a homogenous,

sacrosanct Universe-X?

 

I think I would be turned on if my partner told me:

 

When I first touch you

I don’t want to touch you

I want to run my fingers

over your skin

feel your warmth on my fingertips.

Before I touch you

before I burn.

 

Lovemaking isn’t merely sex; it’s a universe brought down to copulate.

There are times when in the process of lovemaking, a partner may have a passing thought of someone they had made more passionate love with, just like a reader may remember a great poem while reading a mediocre one.

Poetry is adultery. Adultery is an aphrodisiac. Aphrodite is the goddess of love and beauty. So is poetry.

Poetry is mountainous. Mountain is cold. Cold is winter. Winter is a perception under warm blankets, under intoxication, behind closed doors and windows and in deep sleep.

Hold your lover’s hand, sneak into a random colony park at midnight, catch a frozen bench, kiss gently, feel her warm spine with frozen fingers, struggle for inadequate breathes, hold her tight and do to her what spring does to cherry trees. The watchman will most probably skip his midnight rounds; he is reading Chayavadi Bacchan.

(Image credit: New Statesman)