Popaganda's Lina Rokou chooses 20 erotic poems to devote them to the object of your desire.
"I am humbly bent, gold, and I think nothing more than how to fuck you endlessly one night. And I can't write you otherwise. " This is an excerpt from a letter from George Seferis to Maro. I remembered it yesterday that was the birth anniversary of the great Nobel laureate poet. And I really like the way Seferis expresses his longing for his beloved; simple, concentrated, no rotation, without shame and with this shocking "I can't write you otherwise". When the poets crave, the words are dripped by bullshit, eroticism and tenderness. All together, up. On this occasion I searched for some erotic poems that move me and when I read them I hear my heart crack. It goes without saying that a lot was left out. It will follow, at some point, a second part. So let's start with Seferi who already made us so simple and shocking together.
Failing, by George Seferis
It was no more love for us to come back and brought us a lowered eyelid very distant smile marble, loser in the morning grass grass, strange shell that our souls were persistently explained.
Our love was no more crowded in the things that we have explained to us why we do not want to die so passionate.
And if we were held by the Lagons and if we embraced all our strength other neck if we mingled our breath with the man's breath if we closed our eyes, it was not a deeper haunting to be kept in the flight.
Your body and I, by Yannis Varveris
We have a lot of traveling body and we have a body imagined and an Imagine can imagine.
My body and I have your dream body in stops you never imagined.
You have no place now, you are asking for me and in your body.
Dream, by Maria Polydouri
Flowers I was gathering for you on the mountain I was walking around. Hile of thorns each one like 'I was in pain.
To pass the northern north of the frozen and my gift we kept a longing guarded
In my warm embrace. All I was looking at Makri. The longing in my heart and in my eyes the tear.
In my desire I did not see the night I cried without hope that it did not bring it alone.
A mingles and next to her, by Nikephoros Brettakos
A mingles and next to her, you. But when did you bloom? I stand in the window and look at you and cry.
So much joy in the can.
My God, my God, all the Skiri Sterna of I am.
When I bite you by Federico Garcia Lorca
When I bite you, your blood comes to my mouth; and then it disappears into your blue veins.
Translation: Agathi Dimitroukas
Song, by Helen Vakalo
Like a bunch of grapes holding me two hands they fucking a mug of red wine a big glossy shell shells your hands sail
In the lukewarm summer guarantees in Psili Ammoudiana are sunbathing
Two Saliags that came out of the morning cool orchard.
First love, by Boris Vian
When a man loves a woman, he first gets on his knees, she sinks to her skirt, and her pants not to destroy the fabric on the fabric she gets the fabric. Tail of 'to be white mouse' dyed in the blood and softly pulls the thread to reach the tambax.
Translation: Antonis Fostieris and Thanassis Th. Niarchos
Paper the moon of Nikos Gatsos
The sea will bring the stars of the golden golds of your aurers caress your hair, kiss your hand.
Paper the moon, a fake beach, if you believed with a little bit it would be true.
Without your own love, time goes by. Like your own love the world is younger.
Paper the moon, a fake beach, if you believed with a little bit it would be true.
Winter Grapes, by Andrea Empirikos
They took her toys and her lover. So he leaned his head and shortly to die. In her thirteen roots as her fourteen years, she shattered the fleeting calamity. No one spoke. No one ran to protect against over -sharks that had already seen her as the nose looks like a diamond of an enchanted country. And so this story was forgotten, as it is every time he is forgotten by the ransom of his astropente in the woods.
The sadness of love, by John Kontou
I listen to you with all the resources you run in foreign cities, with paper clothing, a noise of the sea.
I return to the closed circuit of my life. In the channel silence.
Mattered movements: A chair moves for no reason, a bed rolls on the street. On the wall the same -magical picture is displayed - I cannot distinguish the hunter -
You sleep with mouth full of secrets and rains.
Love, by Myrtiotissa
Love to 'make it so make me a crazy companion, which is an evening, lighted to shoot? Once again we come such gifts tenderly?
But whatever 'yes, I crave it, and welcome the wicked one of you;
A hemisphere in hair, of Charles Bodlair
Let me breathe a long time, a lot, the myrrh of your hair, to dip my whole face like a man bathed in the waters of a source, shaking them with my hands like a scarf, dismantling memories in the air. If you knew everything I see, everything I feel, everything I hear through your hair. My soul sails on Moscow as it sails on music. Your hair closes a universal dream full of masts and sails, large seas with warm winds pushing meles in the measles, where the interval reigns deeper and blue, where the atmosphere pulses aromatic along with leaves with fruit and human skin. In your hair sea, my eye sees a harbor swollen with melancholy, robust men of every place, sailing of all sorts, erasing their most complex, subtle architecture in the background of a vast sky dominated by endless heat. Inside your hair caresses I regain the raw hours of slow hours on a lump in the cabin of a nice boat, bored by the subtle rocking of the harbor water, between pots and pitchers with cool water.
In the sparkling fireplace of your hair, I breathe the smell of smoke with opium and sugar. In the night of your hair I see the infinity of the tropical blue.
Inside the low sandy beaches of your hair, I get rid of the widespread smells of the calf, the tar, and the cocoal.
Let me bite a long time, a lot, your black, heavy braids. As I crisp your hair, elastic and revolutionary, I wish I chew the memories.
Translation: Nikos Spania
Minimum Chronicle of Love, by Yannis Ritsos
They were in a hurry to kiss. They entered the house. They were locked. The two chairs left them in the garden. As long as the birds were familiar with their chairs, they made them for their rooms. When it was evening, all the sheets were swallowed, hitting their tongues in pleasure. The two chairs were still waiting for two small scaffolding lip of a green loneliness in front of the moon.
Heart epic, CC Cavafy
After all, I think, she is in the mirror of your eyes, the light of your eyes reflect. Stand, my light, and I still haven't told you half the pushing my heart and my lips rush to my lips.
Don't talk if you want, do not with the charming of love and worship. It is coming to be nearby, to tell you that I want you, to touch you, the Drosyatou Breakfast you breathe to breathe; and although they are linked to you, to see you alone!
In the Matsis Hadjilazarou (excerpt)
As if it were a beach last night your body Muta's hands two little tender crabs.
The most hedonistic touch has the grape in the morning, as it is cool and covered with the faint thinner. I grab your belly, with my three fingers, and I am born again the image of the coolness of the vine.
And I drank through your lips, by Napoleon Lapathiotis
And the beads were red was white the bed, and it all blurred, all your sweet eye,
And your hands were knitted around my body around, and drank through your lips, sweet faint like myrrh,
And they were dried out of the lips of souvenir words like the myrrh, and our bed was white as purple as purple ...
So my love in grassy so love me in mildly in the nonsense hugs' Named cardiojustmies
And from your honey she was crowned body and the math the beads were red was white the bed
Stack, by Jason Ioannides
The beloved mule of the wheat greenery sprouts milk.
Her skin, a meadow of daisies.
As she closes her eyes I see.
I kept a stick on her stick.
I tremble in the face of mocke I touch its form.
I don't have a face.
You reign, Thomas Gorpa
In a low light that does not know the pride you know you know it. In a gentle abandonment, your smile, a fresh leaf that plays with a small north. And as you lift your hands and shouts a living in the beauty of your armpits, your armpits.
Erotic letter, by Sylvia Plath
It is not easy to express the change you made. If I am now alive, I was dead then, though, like a stone, it didn't bother me, to stay in my position following the habit it is not that you just pushed me an inch, no - you left me,
It wasn't that. Let's say I fell asleep: A shudder between black rocks like a black rock of white in winter - as my neighbors, I can't enjoy the millions of perfectly sculpted mammaggs that light up every moment to melt my cheek from basalt. They were crying, angels mourning over nature, but they did not convince me. Those tears were frozen. Each dead head had an ice cloak.
And I kept sleeping like a bent finger. The first thing I saw was fresh air and the trapped drops that went up as angry as spirits. Many stones were lying down and unexpressed around. I didn't know what to assume. Eleba, with glass - scales, and unfolded myself from myself, like liquids between birds and stems. I met you right away.
Tree and stone shone, without shadows. My stature became clear like glass. I started to bump like a Martian branch: a arm and a leg, a arm, a foot. From a stone in a cloud, so I lifted it. It's a gift.
Translation: Katerina Iliopoulou, Eleni Iliopoulou
Love and War, by Vladimir Mayakovsky (excerpt)
Every hair, golden, I fill it with caresses, what winds, from the south we did this buried heart? Your eyes bloom glare!
Performance: Giannis Ritsos
