distill
Through love’s alembic, and with chemic skill
From the mixed mass one sovereign balm derive,
Then bring that great elixir to thy hive.
Now in more subtle wreaths I will entwine
My sinewy thighs, my legs and arms with thine;
Thou like a sea of milk shalt lie displayed,
Whilst I the smooth, calm ocean invade
With such a tempest, as when Jove of old
Fell down on Danaë in a storm of gold;
Yet my tall pine shall in the Cyprian strait
Ride safe at anchor, and unlade her freight;
My rudder, with thy bold hand, like a tried
And skillful pilot, thou shall steer, and guide
My bark into love’s channel, where it shall
Dance, as the bounding waves do rise or fall.
Then shall thy circling arms embrace and clip
My willing body, and thy balmy lip
Bathe me in juice of kisses, whose perfume
Like a religious incense shall consume,
And send up holy vapors to those powers
That bless our loves, and crown our sportful hours,
That with such halcyon calmness fix our souls
In steadfast pace, as no affright controls.
There no rude sounds shake us with sudden starts;
No jealous ears, when we unrip our hearts,
Suck our discourse in; no observing spies
This blush, that glance traduce; no envious eyes
Watch our close meetings; nor are we betrayed
To rivals by the bribéd chambermaid.
No wedlock bonds unwreathe our twisted loves;
We seek no midnight arbor, no dark groves
To hide our kisses: there the hated name
Of husband, wife, lust, modest, chaste, or shame,
Are vain and empty words, whose very sound
Was never heard in the Elysian ground.
All things are lawful there that may delight
Nature or unrestrainéd appetite;
Like and enjoy, to will and act is one:
We only sin when Love’s rites are not done . . .
Come then, my Celia, we’ll no more forbear
To taste our joys, struck with a panic fear,
But will dispose from his imperious sway
This proud usurper, and walk free as they,
With necks unyoked; nor is it just that he
Should fetter your soft sex with chastity,
Which Nature made unapt for abstinence;
When yet this false imposter can dispense
With human justice and with sacred right,
And, maugre both their laws, command me fight
With rivals, or with emulous loves, that dare
Equal with thine their mistress’ eyes or hair.
If thou complain of wrong, and call my sword
To carve out thy revenge, upon that word
He bids me fight and kill, or else he brands
With marks of infamy my coward hands,
And yet religion bids from bloodshed fly,
And damns me for that act. Then tell my why
This goblin Honor, which the word adores,
Should make men atheists, and not women whores.
from Serve It Forth
M. F. K. FISHER
How gentle can a touch be? How delicate? Fine questions, in my opinion, for though I’ve heard that eros can be delivered in boxes and blows, it can also be communicated through spiderweb tracings of skin on skin. Euphues, the title character of England’s most popular book of the sixteenth century, expressed a desire to “dine with the Epicures and fast with the Stoics.” This is my sentiment regarding most things: embrace both ends of the spectrum, straddle every divide, be yourself and not-yourself as best you can. And so with touching, to know force and control, yet to manage delicacy and precision. To touch or be touched with pure certainty in a way that negotiates the razor-line limen between contact and noncontact: that, to me, is sexy as hell.
It’s hard not to think of delicacy and eroticism when reading the prose of M. F. K. Fisher. The preeminent American food writer treats her topic as Melville did whales: till it expands to include the very universe. With a Ginsu wit worthy of Dorothy Parker, Fisher writes of snails and spuds, soufflés and schnapps. She also manages, in deft flicks of her pen, to pillory first her taste-blind countrymen, then her back-biting adopted French neighbors, and, finally, everyone in between. And still more enticingly, there is a saffron tinge of sexuality that runs through her work and infuses
Through love’s alembic, and with chemic skill
From the mixed mass one sovereign balm derive,
Then bring that great elixir to thy hive.
Now in more subtle wreaths I will entwine
My sinewy thighs, my legs and arms with thine;
Thou like a sea of milk shalt lie displayed,
Whilst I the smooth, calm ocean invade
With such a tempest, as when Jove of old
Fell down on Danaë in a storm of gold;
Yet my tall pine shall in the Cyprian strait
Ride safe at anchor, and unlade her freight;
My rudder, with thy bold hand, like a tried
And skillful pilot, thou shall steer, and guide
My bark into love’s channel, where it shall
Dance, as the bounding waves do rise or fall.
Then shall thy circling arms embrace and clip
My willing body, and thy balmy lip
Bathe me in juice of kisses, whose perfume
Like a religious incense shall consume,
And send up holy vapors to those powers
That bless our loves, and crown our sportful hours,
That with such halcyon calmness fix our souls
In steadfast pace, as no affright controls.
There no rude sounds shake us with sudden starts;
No jealous ears, when we unrip our hearts,
Suck our discourse in; no observing spies
This blush, that glance traduce; no envious eyes
Watch our close meetings; nor are we betrayed
To rivals by the bribéd chambermaid.
No wedlock bonds unwreathe our twisted loves;
We seek no midnight arbor, no dark groves
To hide our kisses: there the hated name
Of husband, wife, lust, modest, chaste, or shame,
Are vain and empty words, whose very sound
Was never heard in the Elysian ground.
All things are lawful there that may delight
Nature or unrestrainéd appetite;
Like and enjoy, to will and act is one:
We only sin when Love’s rites are not done . . .
Come then, my Celia, we’ll no more forbear
To taste our joys, struck with a panic fear,
But will dispose from his imperious sway
This proud usurper, and walk free as they,
With necks unyoked; nor is it just that he
Should fetter your soft sex with chastity,
Which Nature made unapt for abstinence;
When yet this false imposter can dispense
With human justice and with sacred right,
And, maugre both their laws, command me fight
With rivals, or with emulous loves, that dare
Equal with thine their mistress’ eyes or hair.
If thou complain of wrong, and call my sword
To carve out thy revenge, upon that word
He bids me fight and kill, or else he brands
With marks of infamy my coward hands,
And yet religion bids from bloodshed fly,
And damns me for that act. Then tell my why
This goblin Honor, which the word adores,
Should make men atheists, and not women whores.
from Serve It Forth
M. F. K. FISHER
How gentle can a touch be? How delicate? Fine questions, in my opinion, for though I’ve heard that eros can be delivered in boxes and blows, it can also be communicated through spiderweb tracings of skin on skin. Euphues, the title character of England’s most popular book of the sixteenth century, expressed a desire to “dine with the Epicures and fast with the Stoics.” This is my sentiment regarding most things: embrace both ends of the spectrum, straddle every divide, be yourself and not-yourself as best you can. And so with touching, to know force and control, yet to manage delicacy and precision. To touch or be touched with pure certainty in a way that negotiates the razor-line limen between contact and noncontact: that, to me, is sexy as hell.
It’s hard not to think of delicacy and eroticism when reading the prose of M. F. K. Fisher. The preeminent American food writer treats her topic as Melville did whales: till it expands to include the very universe. With a Ginsu wit worthy of Dorothy Parker, Fisher writes of snails and spuds, soufflés and schnapps. She also manages, in deft flicks of her pen, to pillory first her taste-blind countrymen, then her back-biting adopted French neighbors, and, finally, everyone in between. And still more enticingly, there is a saffron tinge of sexuality that runs through her work and infuses
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