Erotic Prose for Season’s Woes

Amongst my collection of books safely stacked in storage is a treasure I had forgotten I owned. For a bibliophile, books just pile up, half read, partly scanned, fully highlighted and some devoured like peppermint candy canes that blow freshness into the soul. Then there are those that call for special occasions, when the seasons transition from one world to another and when breaks in daily chaos stop time.

My poetry section is small as I opt to rarely purchase them for anticipated lack of time. To sit and read poetry requires the solitude motherhood does not offer but I intently stopped all of my thoughts when I came upon a special 1857 poetry book. I had purchased it years ago for my bookstore in my old life and had forgotten it existed. I’m so pleased it hadn’t sold. Now, it’s mine.

James Thomson’s , The Seasons, is a work of art, a poetic tribute to the seasons that replenish awareness in Mother Nature and the world that concretes her soul. It is as much poetry as it is philosophy, but then, aren’t those similar enough to almost say they’re the same? I haven’t found the time to read it yet but I’ve bought the tea that will keep me company. Now, all that I need is a husband willing to kidnap the kids and leave me in solitude for several hours.

I have, however, taken a peek being the curious woman I am. It must fall somewhere in the female genetic makeup of being over consumed with the distinct immoral desire to rampage through a new boyfriend’s closet in search for that one item – unknown to us – that will prove his fallacy (See Sex and the City). However, in this case, I don’t need moral questions and open the pages to the season we’ve entered.

“First approach of Winter…Rain…Wind…Snow…a man perishing among them; whence reflections on the wants and miseries of human life...A winter evening described as spent by philosophers…Frost…concluding with moral reflections on a future state.”

Thomson forgot “exploring the erotic lure of poetry…Fleece….Hot Chocolate…Fire…reminiscing on lovemaking while enslaved by a blizzard’s bliss.” My erotic story, Winter Nights in Colorado explores the passions that heat across a fire, skin on skin, man and woman, trapped in desire, as does my latest, Walnut Kisses in Love Letters but that explores the autumn season. However, it hasn’t been erotic storytelling that has captivated me this year as much as it has been the eloquent whispers of poetry.

And now at the onset of Winter’s approach, I feel lost in a daze as though my head became stuck in a cloud of passion. I cannot think. I cannot do. I simply sit with my pen in hand and dream of prose. For a poet there is nothing more captivating than the rapture of alphabet music.

Poetry is personal like the delicate erogenous zones that lay hidden on each and every individual body. For those caressed by the verbal imagery a poem offers, every word strokes with different intensity and in special places that speak to the listener alone. This is especially the case with erotic poetry.

Poetry shouldn’t be read out loud but rather whispered silently in the reader’s mind, (* exception: the lover’s ear ) because it has a unique language that is understood from the personal tones and melodies it offers the reader rather than the way the writer intends it. Though, placement of words, commas, spaces, stanza, etc., all contribute to the expectation or hope that the poem will be read the way it was intended, this does not always succeed. When my husband reads my poetry it seems so corny I want to hide under the table but when I read it, it doesn’t and I often wonder if another’s view of my words expresses the same feeling I am captivated by.

But, when season’s chaos slaps me down with reality, I like to bundle in a fleece blanket, open the window to breathe in the chilled air and create. Inspiration, I have learned, does not seek out its master. Inspiration is the master and it is the master who seeks out its slave. I have become enslaved to the inspirational master that toils with my mind, ignites my senses and teases me with ABC strings.

I have so many more important things to do but when poetry ignites the soul, there is nothing else I’d rather engage in than to become a syllabary composer.

Poets are creators of a different musical beat - of language collected of letters rather than sound that mirror the notes we are so accustomed to. Poetry pulls individual pearls from a string and unscrambles the logical, adds a bit of color, emotion and prose then transforms words into musical pictures stemmed from the lyrical. But I have found yet one more element to complete the poetic package: the photographic lyrics that speak to all the senses, the mind of woman and that of man, words of feeling and image of sacred sin.

Daily duties are swept under rugs and hidden in drawers, away from the presence of reality that permeates my doors. And, I do not care that dishes await washing, laundry sits crinkled before folding and floors need Snow White sweeping. They can wait. Inspiration does not hide when a direct connection is made and when the understanding and respect for it begin. Instead, it bursts through like the light under the crack of a door, waiting for its grand entrance. The relationship with inspiration is that of a master and slave: one gives, the other receives but in turn, they offer the other exactly what is desired.

Poetry has become a mental dance I waltz to unless of course, I choose a sexy tango and inspiration is one key on the key ring of satisfaction; now I just need to choose the door I wish to open and the sins I long to explore.

Namaste and Happy Holidays,
Tatiana von Tauber
www.vontauber.com