Henry Savage.

Armida : poems of le frottement voluptueux de deux intestins online

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' le frottement voluptueux de deux intestins"





(Being a brief review of the work of most other modern poets.)

So much of bone the modern poet moans
Sensing, perhaps, his work won't make old bones.

A subtler use for bone and keeps it fresh
Is to insert it now and then in flesh.


If we were lying where gorse was blooming and ring-doves cooing

Imagine. Chloe, a mossy glade deep in the woods for loving made:

Squirrels on leafy boughs their games pursuing;

And all Nature her very utmost doing

To make clear the way of a man with a maid

Chloe! if we were there and the sunbeams playing
About your hair, would there come a moment when
Towards the heart of the rose we would soon be straying,
Forgetting all our cares?

Would we wander then

In Eden regained, enraptured, silent, and staying
Breathless awhile until we moved closer together
And our lips met?

Ah, Chloe, it would be so!
And a first caress, lighter than any feather,
Would ever more eager, ever more ardent grow
Until, pursuing an even sweeter bliss,
Your tongue found mine in the rapturous, honeyed kiss
That has no equal; where, touching only or twined,
They are one in their bed of dew, and the one glow
Pervades lover and lover until they find
The very heart of the rose where all is joined.


My images to mind
Are quaint and frivolous
The curve of Kate's behind,
Ostriches on a bus.

Vainly my critic soul
Calls for the noble stroke,
Curves must remain the goal,
Life must remain a joke!


Who once has tasted pleasure
Will sorrow beyond measure
That he, one day, must pass away

Where pleasure is no more.
Shall we, then, seek in Sorrow
A brighter, better morrow?
Ah, well-a-day and lack-a-day,

Sorrow's a sorry whore!


Do you remember an orchard, Kate,

And a damson tree?

The memory suddenly comes, and I linger

With warmth on a time when with thumb and forefinger

I put the ripe fruit in your mouth and retrieved it with mine

Kate, wasn't it fine,

That moment we snatched together from fate!

You can't but remember the orchard, Kate,

And the damson tree,

And me.


"You're getting on," she said, "and I so young!
In some few years our love may end in rue."

"'' Heart," he retorted, " that indeed is true,
But, like all truth that ever yet has stung
Poor human kind, he laughs at it who knows
That some may live for centuries in a day
Where others snore their mortal years away
And never know the secret of the rose."

Whereat they sought and found beatitude
While she in rapture cried, " Again ! Again !
Six lovers could not satisfy my blood !"-
Falling asleep with those presumptuous words!

And so he left her for fresh morning rain
And joyous carolling of many birds.


'To what do you attribute your extraordinary longevity, gran'fer?'

" For long," said the sage, " I had bats in the belf,

Velvet-winged and completely ahuri,
Which fluttered about till I thought to myself,

Man dieu, que je ha'is ces chauve-sourisl

"Visions, no doubt! or illusions and such,

Though they none the less troubled me direly,

But a day came along when by grace of a Dutch
Cleopatra they vanished entirely.

"The moral? When next the winged animal hurts,

Don't trouble yourself over much,
Or dream of Greek Helens beyond your deserts

Be a realist! trust to the Dutch!"


" O limed soul that, struggling to be free,
Art more engaged!"

Clear my thought.
And quiet my mind;
Cares are naught
Where was all unkind.
Why so eased
And an eye so bright?
You ask amazed . . .
I have loved to-night!

What's in that fluid
That so perturbs
As if some Druid
With noxious herbs
In a witch's cauldron
A potion brewed
That earth's poor children
Might be subdued?

Spectral tadpole,


What's in your mad poll

That thus you go on?

" The aspick'd truffle,
The amber'd fly,
Have less to ruffle
Theii souls than I.

" They have had their hour,
They are dead to sense;
They know nor power
Nor impotence.
But I, O Zeus !
Who am Life, eheul
To be hemmed in thus
By a seminal glue!

" The cyclonic urge
To be out and free,
To expand and surge
To infinity,

Would be sheer delight!
But for me the doom
Of the grey, ghost light
Of a glutinous tomb!

" I, Sa-ed, the seed,
With incredible ease,
At incredible speed
Through spermatic seas,
Should be tearing, tearing,
To that dim goal
Which would crown my faring,
Fulfil my soul.

" The Will tyrannic
In tiny me,
What force titanic
Shall make it free?
The mushroom has it
That bursts the stone;
To me, alas, it
Remains unknown!

" Limed, limed, I ponder
My solitude,
A Something yonder,
An unknown Good,
Till I cannot bear it,
And one sole thought
Fills my anguished spirit
' Oh, let me out!'

" Thus, all repression,
Restraint, unrest,
Denied expression,
Or turn or twist
In my prison, even,
I know not move.
Life would be heaven
Did men but love!"


As a player lovingly takes the flute, for a moment to linger
Fascinated by touch, so with thumb and forefinger
She takes the flute of the lover and, pressing, thrills, intent
On the contact made by her soft hand and the pliant instrument

She is already enraptured, holding only, not moving,
Though this is no more than a fond prelude to loving.
Ambrosial, sweeter than wild honey, the luring dream
Of intense pleasure, unparalleled yet, supreme.

Thumb and forefinger are moving now, and the reed

Swells to her raptured mind till it seems indeed

That the very magic flute in her holding lies

Whose transcendent chords are the choiring of paradise;

And, flushed and wanton, warm in the ardour of love,

She inclines her head, and her lips luxuriously move

At the thought of further bliss; her dishevelled hair

Brushes the flute as her lips frolic its fair

Firm stem, to her dream as the wild fruit

That the heart loveth, and over the magic flute,

With lips that rove caressing and darting tongue,

She lures the music for which she has yearned so long.

Her breast flowers are erect, and. her secret parts
Twitch and are moist with longing; the tongue darts
As a snake's in a fine frenzy, or wandering lips
Trail the responsive stem, or the mouth grips,
Holding or moving, revealing or hiding quite
The beauty that palely gleams or is lost to sight.
She is all aflame now with voluptuous desire
For the liquid note that only love can inspire.

And it comes, it gushes, a stream of melodious song
Flowing, the while in a final ardour with long
Ecstatic holding, her eager lips close over
The still triumphant stem of the flute her lover
Till it spurts no more its music, and, satisfied,
With a soft light in her eyes, she sinks aside;
And the fluteplayer is still and as still the flute
That droops and dwindles, its honeyed accents mute.


(Lines inscribed to a puritan.)

1 knew a whore of Pimlico
Who, when the hawthorn blossom came,
Would restless wander to and fro
With all her face aflame.

Slave of imperious behests,
Yet mistress of the years,
It was as if her quivering breasts
Dwarfed mightier hemispheres.

I know not what tremendous god
White-heats the hawthorn's snow.
But what's your Nijninovgorod
Compared to Pimlico!


The dusky, raddled women of Arabia
Are, as we know, hot-natured, but there may be a
More northern race with better claims to fame
As artists at the ancient, gay cross-buttock game.

I think I've met them, for an inner sense,
Less prone to error than experience,
Tells me that if you really want what's what
In that same game then Battersea's the spot.

Ugly they may be, and their sallow skins
Tell of an insufficiency of vitamins,
But there's a red-hot fire in their interior
Would make most other women feel inferior.

The connoisseur might find them somewhat crude;
They're not so much lascivious as lewd,
But O what lewdness! Science, I suspect,
Would hand them out top marks in this respect.

They look at you as if their very souls
Were representative of certain holes
Wedged with a springy, gristly matter meant
By Nature to make one perfect implement.

There is a calculation in their eyes
Would make old Euclid sit up in surprise.
Better than any mathematic known
To Einstein is a secret of their own.

When Villon said the Venice girls were fair,
But those of Paris had the finer flair,
He may have known, poor chap, a thing or two,
But little knew what Battersea could do.

Go West! they bid the would-be Don Juan,
But I affirm, Go South, go South, young man,
For south of where Thames waters ebb and flow
They know about it all, they know, they know!


The bloated anaconda lies replete

In languorous coma with distended belly,

Digestive juices turning goat to jelly,

And all's well in the jungle. Is life sweet?

Life to the serpent is supremely so,

His uncouth camel's hump, dissolving slow.

Needs no stomachic powder to fulfil

The turns of snakes or porkers after swill,

And bring the bliss that humans seldom know.

But I, replete with that ambrosial food
Purveyed by Venus and defined as love
(Plain effing to the vulgar devotee),
With a limp penis and no will to shove,
Am not so sure that life is wholly good
Or effing all that it's cracked up to be!



Rigidity I sing! and you, stern Muse, awake
To inspire to what will neither bend nor break.
Pokers reputed stiff we'll leave to clowns,
And adamantine paving-stones to towns.
Such is the super-hardness of my dream
There is no word or image, it would seem,
To tell, convey, or indicate, how hard
It is!

But must the effort, then, be marred
For lack of trying? Let it not be said
There is no leadenness that's not more than lead,
No gold more weighty than was known of Dis,
No abstract heavier than concrete is!

To match this hidden, more than iron, ore is
To think at first of stern unbending Tories,
But Lord! they're bent enough when recognised!
And even Nazis would be much surprised
To know that, far beyond their ideology,
Exists a universe of stark geology
Where their crude ways the natives would regard
As so much myrrh and frankincense ana nard.
Their rubber truncheons toys for tender kids,
And cotton-wool their methods with the Yids.

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments,

As Shakespeare knew, could vie with quarries whence

His rhyme was fashioned; and in that same mine

The precious metal lies with which to line

Each rift with ore, indifferent of fate,

Not to be penetrated but to penetrate,

Such is its subtle force and such its power,

Strong beyond strength it is; erect to tower

Rigid, inexorable, magnificent,

Pregnant with splendid purpose, greatly meant

To stand for the admiration of mankind

The one, true monument of noble mind!


Yet to stay nameless? Ah, but therein lies

The secret of all sacred mysteries

From famed Eleusis onwards ! the profane

Will seek to know the nameless word in vain

That will reveal the obscurity of this rhyme,

That veils the god majestic and sublime

Within the inner fane; no myrtles green

Will crown the scoffers to whom all's obscene;

Maenads will guard the sanctum of true joy

And Hierophantes spurn the hoi polloi.

But to the wise and worthy will be given

The vision of a Rock that towers to heaven

And is rigidity itself that Rock of Ages

From immemorial days adored by sages

Who know the one, true flame, the one, true torch,

That lights great Pan's one universal Church.


Anadyomene, when she swims,
My enchanted spirit snares,

With her long, young, splendid limbs
And her budding breasts like pears.

Anadyomene most appeals

When, slowly at her toilet play,

She part conceals and part reveals
Beauties to take the breath away.

And then, deep down, I know my heart
Though all the loveless world oppose.

Let breath for ever, love, depart,

But hold me close, ah, hold me close !



(" Do piease come to my 'Coming of Age ' party ' - Joy H.)

Coming of Age\ an uninspiring theme!
Coming of Youth's a subject it would seem
More calculated to inspire the Muse
By an unblushful Hippocrene to cruise
Youth with its swift and sudden-spurting stream

But since my Joy invokes another dream,
Age let it be! though, spectre-like and wan,
Euterpe views a stagnant Helicon
And words come trickling slow. Age let it be,
Though all unhelpful and reluctant she.

Coming of Age! and tired Imagination
Sees Anne, worn sister, at her turret station
And the faint murmur: "Will they ever come!

Dust in the distance? Dust beyond the tomb!
Such is the dusty answer!

Or again,

Imagination's eye sees o'er the plain
Only a bog from which, more felt than seen,
Faint wetness oozes, dubious to mean
If, in all truth, it IS or MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN.

Oh, from such Melancholy turn the page
A moment and a brighter theme engage!
Coming of Youth ! when, from the granite rock,
Touched by some Aaron's rod, the magic shock
Sets free that lightning, life-giving stream
Which, whether it be waste nocturnal dream
Or shot to fertile use of quickened sense,
Tells not the mournful tale of Impotence.


But truce to self-deception! Who employs
Himself with spectral and vicarious joys
Is worse off in the end than he who fronts
Truth's awful face, electing for its brunts.
Coming of Age again be then our theme;
Let truth be served! Away, delusive dream!

There is this consolation in weak Age:

It shares no longer Youth's unconscious rage

Though Physics sneer at Forces Veil-nigh spent.

Yet Psyche bids the willing soul Invent.

And where Invention is, the aged Rake

Clutches Priapus' skirts with Hope awake.

Invention frees the Sinner from Time's mesh,
The subtle Word o'ercomes the simple Flesh,
Lights Beauty's eye and blinds it to those ills
Which else would make her shudder; and it fills
The wintry waste with larks and daffodils.

And Beauty gives as much as Beauty takes
When to Invention's spell her sense awakes.

Again! Why after Consummation strive?

Better to travel, surely, than to arrive!

What folly to perpend the end of it

When the Play passes with gay, luring wit

Beguiling Beauty till she swoons content

Not with the way they Came but how they Went

Pan! on your erring child a lenient eye
Cast that he doubted you ! and you who cry
" Si vieillesse pouvait " know that vieillesse can !
Rawness mars Youth, Invention makes the Man



If I had a sword like a satyr's

Pointed, and hairy, and curled,

At last I'd have got to what matters

I'd be right on top of the world!

It isn't the size of it flatters

The women, or if they are hurled

To the deed or more gently ungirl'd,

It's having a sword like a satyr's,

Pointed, and hairy, and curled.



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Online LibraryHenry SavageArmida : poems of le frottement voluptueux de deux intestins → online text (page 1 of 1)