Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Sex Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Sex poems. This is a select list of the best famous Sex poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Sex poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of sex poems.

Search for the best famous Sex poems, articles about Sex poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Sex poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

Go Back

by Philip Larkin | |

Wants

 Beyond all this, the wish to be alone:
However the sky grows dark with invitation-cards
However we follow the printed directions of sex
However the family is photographed under the flag-staff -
Beyond all this, the wish to be alone.
Beneath it all, the desire for oblivion runs: Despite the artful tensions of the calendar, The life insurance, the tabled fertility rites, The costly aversion of the eyes away from death - Beneath it all, the desire for oblivion runs.


by Philip Larkin | |

A Study Of Reading Habits

 When getting my nose in a book
Cured most things short of school,
It was worth ruining my eyes
To know I could still keep cool,
And deal out the old right hook
To dirty dogs twice my size.
Later, with inch-thick specs, Evil was just my lark: Me and my coat and fangs Had ripping times in the dark.
The women I clubbed with sex! I broke them up like meringues.
Don't read much now: the dude Who lets the girl down before The hero arrives, the chap Who's yellow and keeps the store Seem far too familiar.
Get stewed: Books are a load of crap.


by Philip Larkin | |

Money

 Quarterly, is it, money reproaches me: 
 'Why do you let me lie here wastefully? 
I am all you never had of goods and sex,
 You could get them still by writing a few cheques.
' So I look at others, what they do with theirs: They certainly don't keep it upstairs.
By now they've a second house and car and wife: Clearly money has something to do with life - In fact, they've a lot in common, if you enquire: You can't put off being young until you retire, And however you bank your screw, the money you save Won't in the end buy you more than a shave.
I listen to money singing.
It's like looking down From long French windows at a provincial town, The slums, the canal, the churches ornate and mad In the evening sun.
It is intensely sad.


by Philip Larkin | |

Reasons For Attendance

 The trumpet's voice, loud and authoritative,
Draws me a moment to the lighted glass
To watch the dancers - all under twenty-five -
Solemnly on the beat of happiness.
- Or so I fancy, sensing the smoke and sweat, The wonderful feel of girls.
Why be out there ? But then, why be in there? Sex, yes, but what Is sex ? Surely to think the lion's share Of happiness is found by couples - sheer Inaccuracy, as far as I'm concerned.
What calls me is that lifted, rough-tongued bell (Art, if you like) whose individual sound Insists I too am individual.
It speaks; I hear; others may hear as well, But not for me, nor I for them; and so With happiness.
Therefor I stay outside, Believing this, and they maul to and fro, Believing that; and both are satisfied, If no one has misjudged himself.
Or lied.


by David Herbert Lawrence | |

We are Transmitters

 As we live, we are transmitters of life.
And when we fail to transmit life, life fails to flow through us.
That is part of the mystery of sex, it is a flow onwards.
Sexless people transmit nothing.
And if, as we work, we can transmit life into our work, life, still more life, rushes into us to compensate, to be ready and we ripple with life through the days.
Even if it is a woman making an apple dumpling, or a man a stool, if life goes into the pudding, good is the pudding good is the stool, content is the woman, with fresh life rippling in to her, content is the man.
Give, and it shall be given unto you is still the truth about life.
But giving life is not so easy.
It doesn't mean handing it out to some mean fool, or letting the living dead eat you up.
It means kindling the life-quality where it was not, even if it's only in the whiteness of a washed pocket-handkerchief.


by Sir John Suckling | |

Love Turned to Hatred

 I will not love one minute more, I swear!
No, not a minute! Not a sigh or tear
Thou gett'st from me, or one kind look again,
Though thou shouldst court me to 't, and wouldst begin.
I will not think of thee but as men do Of debts and sins; and then I'll curse thee too.
For thy sake woman shall be now to me Less welcome than at midnight ghosts shall be.
I'll hate so perfectly that it shall be Treason to love that man that loves a she.
Nay, I will hate the very good, I swear, That's in thy sex, because it doth lie there, - Their very virtue, grace, discourse, and wit, And all for thee! What, wilt thou love me yet?


by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Stupid

"Stupid people follow guidelines provided by websites and books towards love, you should know that are only how to get a beautiful women, men and sex, not the true love, true love does not need any guidelines.
" Ehsan Sehgal


by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Worthy choice

"Lover is just a lover but the best , great and worthy choice is a good life-mate who includes friendship, love, sex and all responsibilities to care, that is a gift, fruit and the truth of true "love".
Ehsan Sehgal


by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Angelic love

"Love includes sex in it, but sex does not include love, if love is an angelic feeling that is devoted to only related relations as parents, sons, daughters, sisters, brothers humanity and Almighty God.
" Ehsan Sehgal


by A R Ammons | |

Their Sex Life

 One failure on
Top of another


by Tupac Shakur | |

Jada

u r the omega of my heart
the foundation of my conception of love
when i think of what a black woman should be
its u that i first think of

u will never fully understand
how deeply my heart feels 4 u
i worry that we'll grow apart
and i'll end up losing u


u bring me 2 climax without sex
and u do it all with regal grace
u r my heart in human form
a friend i could never replace


by Margaret Atwood | |

Is/Not

 Love is not a profession
genteel or otherwise

sex is not dentistry
the slick filling of aches and cavities

you are not my doctor
you are not my cure,

nobody has that
power, you are merely a fellow/traveller

Give up this medical concern,
buttoned, attentive,

permit yourself anger
and permit me mine

which needs neither
your approval nor your suprise

which does not need to be made legal
which is not against a disease

but agaist you,
which does not need to be understood

or washed or cauterized,
which needs instead

to be said and said.
Permit me the present tense.


by Donald Justice | |

Ode To A Dressmakers Dummy

 Papier-mache body; blue-and-black cotton jersey cover.
Metal stand.
Instructions included.
-- Sears, Roebuck Catalogue O my coy darling, still You wear for me the scent Of those long afternoons we spent, The two of us together, Safe in the attic from the jealous eyes Of household spies And the remote buffooneries of the weather; So high, Our sole remaining neighbor was the sky, Which, often enough, at dusk, Leaning its cloudy shoulders on the sill, Used to regard us with a bored and cynical eye.
How like the terrified, Shy figure of a bride You stood there then, without your clothes, Drawn up into So classic and so strict a pose Almost, it seemed, our little attic grew Dark with the first charmed night of the honeymoon.
Or was it only some obscure Shape of my mother's youth I saw in you, There where the rude shadows of the afternoon Crept up your ankles and you stood Hiding your sex as best you could?-- Prim ghost the evening light shone through.


by Stanley Kunitz | |

After The Last Dynasty

 Reading in Li Po
how "the peach blossom follows the water"
I keep thinking of you
because you were so much like
Chairman Mao,
naturally with the sex 
transposed
and the figure slighter.
Loving you was a kind of Chinese guerilla war.
Thanks to your lightfoot genius no Eighth Route Army kept its lines more fluid, traveled with less baggage so nibbled the advantage.
Even with your small bad heart you made a dance of departures.
In the cold spring rains when last you failed me I had nothing left to spend but a red crayon language on the character of the enemy to break appointments, to fight us not with his strength but with his weakness, to kill us not with his health but with his sickness.
Pet, spitfire, blue-eyed pony, here is a new note I want to pin on your door, though I am ten years late and you are nowhere: Tell me, are you stillmistress of the valley, what trophies drift downriver, why did you keep me waiting?


by Walt Whitman | |

A Hand-Mirror.

 HOLD it up sternly! See this it sends back! (Who is it? Is it you?) 
Outside fair costume—within ashes and filth, 
No more a flashing eye—no more a sonorous voice or springy step; 
Now some slave’s eye, voice, hands, step, 
A drunkard’s breath, unwholesome eater’s face, venerealee’s flesh,
Lungs rotting away piecemeal, stomach sour and cankerous, 
Joints rheumatic, bowels clogged with abomination, 
Blood circulating dark and poisonous streams, 
Words babble, hearing and touch callous, 
No brain, no heart left—no magnetism of sex;
Such, from one look in this looking-glass ere you go hence, 
Such a result so soon—and from such a beginning!


by Walt Whitman | |

Ages and Ages Returning at Intervals.

 AGES and ages, returning at intervals, 
Undestroy’d, wandering immortal, 
Lusty, phallic, with the potent original loins, perfectly sweet, 
I, chanter of Adamic songs, 
Through the new garden, the West, the great cities calling,
Deliriate, thus prelude what is generated, offering these, offering myself, 
Bathing myself, bathing my songs in Sex, 
Offspring of my loins.


by Oliver Goldsmith | |

An Elegy On The Glory Of Her Sex Mrs Mary Blaize

 Good people all, with one accord
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word,— 
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom passed her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor,— Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please With manners wondrous winning; And never followed wicked ways,— Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumbered in her pew,— But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The king himself has followed her,— When she has walked before.
But now her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all; The doctors found, when she was dead,— Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament in sorrow sore, For Kent Street well may say That had she lived a twelvemonth more,— She had not died today.


by Rg Gregory | |

the sex-peace

 the first thing about a man my son
is that he’s not a woman – and don’t
let any woman tell you what a man is
or any kind of man with his own agenda
of what a man is – quite simply
a man is what a man is (crimes and all) 
knowing that my son then find
your own way of being what a man is
and be it in the best way that you can

the first thing about a woman my daughter
is that she’s not a man – and don’t
let any man tell you what a woman is
or any kind of woman with her own agenda
of what a woman is – quite simply
a woman is what a woman is (crimes and all)
knowing that my daughter then find
your own way of being what a woman is
and be it in the best way that you can


by Erica Jong | |

Beast Book Body

 I was sick of being a woman,
sick of the pain,
the irrelevant detail of sex,
my own concavity
uselessly hungering
and emptier whenever it was filled,
and filled finally
by its own emptiness,
seeking the garden of solitude
instead of men.
The white bed in the green garden-- I looked forward to sleeping alone the way some long for a lover.
Even when you arrived, I tried to beat you away with my sadness, my cynical seductions, and my trick of turning a slave into a master.
And all because you made my fingertips ache and my eyes cross in passion that did not know its own name.
Bear, beast, lover of the book of my body, you turned my pages and discovered what was there to be written on the other side.
And now I am blank for you, a tabula rasa ready to be printed with letters in an undiscovered language by the great press of our love.


by Erica Jong | |

Colder

 He was six foot four, and forty-six
and even colder than he thought he was
James Thurber, The Thirteen Clocks

Not that I cared about the other woman.
Those perfumed breasts with hearts of pure rock salt.
Lot's wives- all of them.
I didn't care if they fondled him at parties, eased him in at home between a husband & a child, sucked him dry with vacuum cleaner kisses.
It was the coldness that I minded, though he's warned me.
"I'm cold," He said- (as if that helped any).
But he was colder than he thought he was.
Cold sex.
A woman has to die & be exhumed four times a week to know the meaning of it.
His hips are razors his pelvic bones are knives, even his elbows could cut butter.
Cold flows from his mouth like a cloud of carbon dioxide.
Hie penis is pure dry ice which turns to smoke.
His face hands over my face- An ice carving.
One of these days he'll shatter or he'll melt.