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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.

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Emanuel Xavier | |

IT RAINED THE DAY THEY BURIED TITO PUENTE

 It rained the day they buried Tito Puente
The eyes of drug dealers following me
as I walked through the streets
past shivering prostitutes
women of every sex
young boys full of piss
and lampposts like ghosts in the night
past Jimmy the hustler boy 
with the really big dick 
cracked out on the sidewalk
wrapped in a blanket donated by the trick
that also gave him genital herpes 
and Fruit Loops for breakfast
past the hospital where Tio Cesar 
got his intestines taken out
in exchange for a plastic bag 
where he now shits and pisses
the 40’s he consumed for 50 years
past 3 of the thugs 
who sexually assaulted those women 
at Central Park 
during the Puerto Rican Day parade 
lost in their machismo, 
marijuana and Mira mami’s
‘cause boricuas do it better


Tito’s rambunctious and unruly rhythms never touched them 
never inspired them to rise above the ghetto 
and, like La Bruja said, “Ghet Over It!”
his timbales never echoed 
in the salsa of their souls
though they had probably danced 
to his cha-cha-cha
they never listened to the message 
between the beats
urging them to follow their hearts

On a train back to Brooklyn
feeling dispossessed and dreamless
I look up to read one of those 
Poetry In Motion ads
sharing a car with somebody sleeping
realizing 
that inspiration is everywhere these days
& though the Mambo King’s body 
may be six-feet under
his laughter and legend will live forever

The next morning 
I heard the crow crowing, “Oye Como Va”
his song was the sunlight in my universe
& I could feel Tito’s smile 
shining down on me


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


More great poems below...

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 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 Erin Belieu | |

For Catherine: Juana Infanta of Navarre

 Ferdinand was systematic when
he drove his daughter mad.
With a Casanova's careful art, he moved slowly, stole only one child at a time through tunnels specially dug behind the walls of her royal chamber, then paid the Duenna well to remember nothing but his appreciation.
Imagine how quietly the servants must have worked, loosening the dirt, the muffled ring of pick-ends against the castle stone.
The Duenna, one eye gauging the drugged girl's sleep, each night handing over another light parcel, another small body vanished through the mouth of a hole.
Once you were a daughter, too, then a wife and now the mother of a baby with a Spanish name.
Paloma, you call her, little dove; she sleeps in a room beyond you.
Your husband, too, works late, drinks too much at night, comes home lit, wanting sex and dinner.
You feign sleep, shrunk in the corner of the queen-sized bed.
You've confessed, you can't feel things when they touch you; take Prozac for depression, Ativan for the buzz.
Drunk, you call your father who doesn't want to claim a ha!fsand-niggergrandkid.
He says he never loved your mother.
No one remembers Juana; almost everything's forgotten in time, and if I tell her story, it's only when guessing what she loved, what she dreamed about, the lost details of a life that barely survives history.
God and Latin, I suppose, what she loved.
And dreams of mice pouring out from a hole.
The Duenna, in spite of her black, widow's veil, leaning to kiss her, saying Juana, don't listen.
.
.


by A R Ammons | |

Called Into Play

 Fall fell: so that's it for the leaf poetry:
some flurries have whitened the edges of roads

and lawns: time for that, the snow stuff: &
turkeys and old St.
Nick: where am I going to find something to write about I haven't already written away: I will have to stop short, look down, look up, look close, think, think, think: but in what range should I think: should I figure colors and outlines, given forms, say mailboxes, or should I try to plumb what is behind what and what behind that, deep down where the surface has lost its semblance: or should I think personally, such as, this week seems to have been crafted in hell: what: is something going on: something besides this diddledeediddle everyday matter-of-fact: I could draw up an ancient memory which would wipe this whole presence away: or I could fill out my dreams with high syntheses turned into concrete visionary forms: Lucre could lust for Luster: bad angels could roar out of perdition and kill the AIDS vaccine not quite perfected yet: the gods could get down on each other; the big gods could fly in from nebulae unknown: but I'm only me: I have 4 interests--money, poetry, sex, death: I guess I can jostle those.
.
.
.


by A R Ammons | |

Their Sex Life

 One failure on
Top of another


by Petrarch | |

MADRIGALE II.

[Pg 57]

MADRIGALE II.

Perchè al viso d' Amor portava insegna.

A LOVE JOURNEY—DANGER IN THE PATH—HE TURNS BACK.

Bright in whose face Love's conquering ensign stream'd,
A foreign fair so won me, young and vain,
That of her sex all others worthless seem'd:
Her as I follow'd o'er the verdant plain,
I heard a loud voice speaking from afar,
"How lost in these lone woods his footsteps are!"
Then paused I, and, beneath the tall beech shade,
All wrapt in thought, around me well survey'd,
Till, seeing how much danger block'd my way,
Homeward I turn'd me though at noon of day.
Macgregor.


by Petrarch | |

SONNET CCIX.

SONNET CCIX.

Parrà forse ad alcun, che 'n lodar quella.

HE INVITES THOSE TO WHOM HIS PRAISES SEEM EXCESSIVE TO BEHOLD THE OBJECT OF THEM.

Haply my style to some may seem too free
In praise of her who holds my being's chain,
Queen of her sex describing her to reign,
Wise, winning, good, fair, noble, chaste to be:
To me it seems not so; I fear that she
My lays as low and trifling may disdain,
Worthy a higher and a better strain;
—Who thinks not with me let him come and see.
Then will he say, She whom his wishes seek
Is one indeed whose grace and worth might tire
The muses of all lands and either lyre.
But mortal tongue for state divine is weak,
And may not soar; by flattery and force,
As Fate not choice ordains, Love rules its course.
Macgregor.


by Petrarch | |

SONNET XLIX.

SONNET XLIX.

Se voi poteste per turbati segni.

HE ENTREATS LAURA NOT TO HATE THE HEART FROM WHICH SHE CAN NEVER BE ABSENT.

If, but by angry and disdainful sign,
By the averted head and downcast sight,
By readiness beyond thy sex for flight,
Deaf to all pure and worthy prayers of mine,
Thou canst, by these or other arts of thine,
'Scape from my breast—where Love on slip so slight
Grafts every day new boughs—of such despite
A fitting cause I then might well divine:
For gentle plant in arid soil to be
Seems little suited: so it better were,
And this e'en nature dictates, thence to stir.
But since thy destiny prohibits thee
Elsewhere to dwell, be this at least thy care
Not always to sojourn in hatred there.
Macgregor.


by Alec Derwent (A D) Hope | |

Morning Coffee

 Reading the menu at the morning service: 
- Iced Venusberg perhaps, or buttered bum - 
Orders the usual sex-ersatz, and, nervous, 
Glances around - Will she or won't she come? 

The congregation dissected into pews 
Gulping their strip teas in the luminous cavern 
Agape's sacamental berry stews; 
The nickel-plated light and clatter of heaven 

Receive him, temporary Tantalus 
Into the Lookingglassland's firescape.
Suckled on Jungfraumilch his eyes discuss, The werwolf twins, their mock Sabellian rape.
This is their time to reap the standing scorn, Blonde Rumina's crop.
Beneath her leafless tree Ripe-rumped she lolls and clasps the plenteous horn.
Cool customers who defy his Trinity Feel none the less, and thrill, ur-vater Fear Caged in the son.
For, though this ghost behave Experienced daughters recognize King Leer: Lot also had his daughters in a cave.
Full sail the proud three-decker sandwiches With the eye-fumbled priestesses repass; On their swan lake the enchanted icecreams freeze, The amorous fountain prickles in the glass And at the introit of this mass emotion She comes, she comes, a balanced pillar of blood, Guides through the desert, divides the sterile ocean, Brings sceptic Didymus his berserk food, Sits deftly, folding elegant thighs, and takes Her time.
She skins her little leather hands, Conscious that wavering towards her like tame snakes The polyp eyes converge.
.
.
.
The prophet stands Dreading the answer from her burning bush: This unconsuming flame, the outlaw's blow, Plague, exodus, Sinai, ruptured stones that gush, God's telegram: Dare Now! Let this people go!


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 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 Adrienne Rich | |

Two Songs

 1.
Sex, as they harshly call it, I fell into this morning at ten o'clock, a drizzling hour of traffic and wet newspapers.
I thought of him who yesterday clearly didn't turn me to a hot field ready for plowing, and longing for that young man pierced me to the roots bathing every vein, etc.
All day he appears to me touchingly desirable, a prize one could wreck one's peace for.
I'd call it love if love didn't take so many years but lust too is a jewel a sweet flower and what pure happiness to know all our high-toned questions breed in a lively animal.
2.
That "old last act"! And yet sometimes all seems post coitum triste and I a mere bystander.
Somebody else is going off, getting shot to the moon.
Or a moon-race! Split seconds after my opposite number lands I make it-- we lie fainting together at a crater-edge heavy as mercury in our moonsuits till he speaks-- in a different language yet one I've picked up through cultural exchanges.
.
.
we murmur the first moonwords: Spasibo.
Thanks.
O.
K.


by John Wilmot | |

A Song Of A Young Lady To Her Ancient Lover

 Ancient Person, for whom I
All the flattering youth defy,
Long be it e'er thou grow old,
Aching, shaking, crazy cold;
But still continue as thou art,
Ancient Person of my heart.
On thy withered lips and dry, Which like barren furrows lie, Brooding kisses I will pour, Shall thy youthful heart restore, Such kind show'rs in autumn fall, And a second spring recall; Nor from thee will ever part, Ancient Person of my heart.
Thy nobler parts, which but to name In our sex would be counted shame, By ages frozen grasp possest, From their ice shall be released, And, soothed by my reviving hand, In former warmth and vigour stand.
All a lover's wish can reach, For thy joy my love shall teach; And for thy pleasure shall improve All that art can add to love.
Yet still I love thee without art, Ancient Person of my heart.


by Robert William Service | |

My Dog

 'Twas in a pub just off the Strand
When I was in my cups,
There passed a bloke with in his hand
Two tiny puling pups;
And one was on me with a bound,
Seeking to lick my face,
And so I bought him for a pound
And took him to my place.
Three acres by the shore I own, A hut, a pint wood; And there for fifteen years alone He shared my solitude.
It was his own, his only world, And when with hunting spent, Each night beside my bed he curled, And slept in sheer content.
My dog is dead.
Though lone I be I'll never have another; For with his master-worship he Was closer than a brother.
My foot is frail and I am old, Yet how my heart can pity Pups straining on a short leash-hold And pent up in the city.
From all thought of self above, And purged of sex emotion, I know no form of living love So deep as dogs devotion.
I have no hope at all of heaven, I've lived in sin and strife; But thank God! I at least have given One dog a happy life.


by Robert William Service | |

Erico

 Oh darling Eric, why did you
For my fond affection sue,
And then with surgeons artful aid
Transform yourself into a maid?
So now in petticoats you go
And people call you Erico.
Sometimes I wonder if they can Change me in turn into a man; Then after all we might get wed And frolic on a feather bed: Although I do not see how we Could ever have a family.
Oh dear! Oh dear! It's so complex.
Why must they meddle with our sex.
My Eric was a handsome 'he,' But now he--oh excuse me--she Informs me that I must forget I was his blond Elizabet.
Alas! These scientists of Sweden I curse, who've robbed me of my Eden; Who with their weird hormones inhuman Can make a man into a woman.
Alas, poor Eric! .
.
.
Erico I wish you were in Jerico.


by Barry Tebb | |

A HOPE FOR POETRY: REMEMBERING THE SIXTIES

 There was a hope for poetry in the sixties

And for education and society, teachers free

To do as they wanted: I could and did teach

Poetry and art all day and little else -

That was my way.
I threw rainbows against the classroom walls, Gold and silver dragons in the corridors and Halls; the children’s eyes were full of stars; I taught the alphabet in Greek and spoke of Peace and war in Vietnam, of birth and sex and Death and immortality - the essences of lyric poetry; Richards and Ogden on ‘The Meaning of Meaning’, Schopenhauer on sadness, Nietzsche and Lawrence on Civilisation and Plato on the Theory of Forms; I read aloud ‘The Rainbow’ and the children drew The waterfall with Gudrun bathing, I showed Them Gauguin and Fra Angelico in gold and a film On painting from life, and the nude girls Bothered no-one.
It was the Sixties - Art was life and life was art and in the Staff-room we talked of poetry and politics And passionately I argued with John.
a clinical Psychologist, on Freud and Jung; Anne, at forty One, wanted to be sterilised and amazingly asked My advice but that was how it was then: Dianne Went off to join weekly rep at Brighton, Dave Clark had given up law to teach a ‘D’ stream in the Inner city.
I was more lucky and had the brightest Children - Sheila Pritchard my genius child-poet with Her roguish eye and high bright voice, drawing skulls In Avernus and burning white chrysanthemums, teasing me With her long legs and gold salmon-flecked eyes.
It was a surprise when I made it into Penguin Books; Michael Horovitz busy then as now and madly idealistic As me; getting ready for the Albert Hall jamboree, The rainbow bomb of peace and poetry.


by Dylan Thomas | |

Then Was My Neophyte

 Then was my neophyte,
Child in white blood bent on its knees
Under the bell of rocks,
Ducked in the twelve, disciple seas
The winder of the water-clocks
Calls a green day and night.
My sea hermaphrodite, Snail of man in His ship of fires That burn the bitten decks, Knew all His horrible desires The climber of the water sex Calls the green rock of light.
Who in these labyrinths, This tidethread and the lane of scales, Twine in a moon-blown shell, Escapes to the flat cities' sails Furled on the fishes' house and hell, Nor falls to His green myths? Stretch the salt photographs, The landscape grief, love in His oils Mirror from man to whale That the green child see like a grail Through veil and fin and fire and coil Time on the canvas paths.
He films my vanity.
Shot in the wind, by tilted arcs, Over the water come Children from homes and children's parks Who speak on a finger and thumb, And the masked, headless boy.
His reels and mystery The winder of the clockwise scene Wound like a ball of lakes Then threw on that tide-hoisted screen Love's image till my heartbone breaks By a dramatic sea.
Who kills my history? The year-hedged row is lame with flint, Blunt scythe and water blade.
'Who could snap off the shapeless print From your to-morrow-treading shade With oracle for eye?' Time kills me terribly.
'Time shall not murder you,' He said, 'Nor the green nought be hurt; Who could hack out your unsucked heart, O green and unborn and undead?' I saw time murder me.


by Isaac Watts | |

Hymn 34 part 2

 None excluded from hope.
Rom.
1:16; 1 Cor.
1:24.
Jesus, thy blessings are not few, Nor is thy gospel weak; Thy grace can melt the stubborn Jew, And bow th' aspiring Greek.
Wide as the reach of Satan's rage Doth thy salvation flow; 'Tis not confined to sex or age, The lofty or the low.
While grace is offered to the prince, The poor may take their share; No mortal has a just pretence To perish in despair Be wise, ye men of strength and wit, Nor boast your native powers; But to his sovereign grace submit, And glory shall be yours.
Come, all ye vilest sinners, come, He'll form your souls anew; His gospel and his heart have room For rebels such as you.
His doctrine is almighty love; There's virtue in his name To turn the raven to a dove, The lion to a lamb.