Re: Has poetry ever got you laid?

davidsands_at_yahoo.com (david rutkowski) wrote in message news:<4ddee74e.0407061526.4da95974_at_posting.google.com>...
> johnmcwilliams69_at_hotmail.com (John McWilliams) wrote in message news:<26f67acb.0407041858.6125ced_at_posting.google.com>...
> > Did the reading aloud of poetry to a female ever tip the balance in
> > your favor for a a roll in the hay? It has only happened to me once.
>
> I don't think poetry, per se, has ever gotten anyone laid. Women are
> often attracted to men who appear sensitive, and even a guy who can't
> write his way out of a five cent condom probably looks pretty
> sensitive when reading publicly. Poets no doubt do make pretty good
> lovers. We don't have cell phones going off with the latest quotes on
> stocks we're watching. We aren't afraid of commitment (at least for a
> week). And we've actually thought about women's bodies -- quietly,
> shamelessly -- and sex provides a way to prove or disprove theories
> about, say, whether constellations rearranged themselves when a woman
> comes in the clearing of a woods.
>
> Seriously, though, after about a hundred times, you begin to wonder is
> it's you or just the "I slept with a poet" t-shirt they really want.

I was with a poet
who once postured
his sixteen points above
the headboard. He said
to me, And you can say you've been with a poet.

I shifted under the sheets,
stretched and yawned toward the half-lit moon, sure. whatever. you too.

The Song of Wandering Aengus
William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.     

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done, The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

www.bartleby.com/146/9.html Received on Wed Jul 07 2004 - 16:04:54 CDT