I’m not sure I understand what John Wilmot
Is getting at when he says: There’s something
Generous in mere lust.
Or, am I?
He could simply mean generosity of the milieu.
To be singularly possessed by it
The ground on which we walk
The sounds about our heads, and air
Become suddenly heady, interactive,
You feel the energy stirring slowly from outside of you
A sensuality that permeates the skin, settles on your nostrils
Encourages reckless behaviour.
Maybe Wilmot is talking about inhibition.
Without question this lives in the mind
Which is dark
Whereas emotions are open, bright, and so
The side of the neck, the small of one’s back, and mouth.
They are the blood-warm zones,
As in the tropics
Where days come quickly, and
The heat is hungry, urgent.
Poetry is kind of a sexy vocation:
It calls for mining of the soul
And disgorging its contents
— like lust, perhaps.
Of clarity and light we always want more
But we would never find these
Until effort spills them into the darkness of the head
And we get to peak
Through the sheer lust for life