5 Sexy Poems To Spice Up Date Night

sexy poems

Want to make things interesting? Get your poet on.

Let's keep things spicy in the bedroom by brining in some sexy poems. These five erotic poems are sure to titillate and delight your honey. Read one to him or her as you get ready for bed, or send one to them at work to prepare them for a night of passion. Whatever you choose to do, do it ardently.

To A Dark Moses, Lucille Clifton

You are the one
I am lit for.

Come with your rod
that twists
and is a serpent.

I am the bush.
I am burning
I am not consumed.


Sea Poppies, H.D.

Amber husk
fluted with gold,
fruit on the sand
marked with a rich grain,

spilled near the shrub-pines
to bleach on the boulders:

your stalk has caught root
among wet pebbles
and drift flung by the sea
and grated shells
and split conch-shells.

Beautiful, wide-spread,
fire upon leaf,
what meadow yields
so fragrant a leaf
as your bright leaf?


Arrival, William Carlos Williams

And yet one arrives somehow,
finds himself loosening the hooks of
her dress
in a strange bedroom—
feels the autumn
dropping its silk and linen leaves
about her ankles.
The tawdry veined body emerges
twisted upon itself
like a winter wind . . . !


Wild Nights – Wild Nights! Emily Dickinson

Wild nights - Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile - the winds -
To a Heart in port -
Done with the Compass -
Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden -
Ah - the Sea!
Might I but moor - tonight -
In thee!


After Making Love In Winter, Sharon Olds

At first I cannot even have a sheet on me,

anything at all is painful,
a plate of
iron laid down on my nerves,
I lie there in the
air as if flying rapidly without moving,
slowly I cool off—hot,

warm, cool, cold, icy,
till the
skin all over my body is ice

except at those points our bodies touch like

blooms of fire. Around the door

loose in its frame, and around the transom, the

light from the hall burns in straight lines and

casts up narrow beams on the ceiling, a
figure throwing up its arms for joy.

In the mirror, the angles of the room are calm, it is the

hour when you can see that the angle itself is blessed,

and the dark globes of the chandelier,

suspended in the mirror, are motionless—I can

feel my ovaries deep in my body, I

gaze at the silvery bulbs, maybe I am

looking at my ovaries, it is

clear everything I look at is real

and good. We have come to the end of questions,

you run your palm, warm, large,

dry, back along my face over and

over, over and over, like God

putting the finishing touches on, before
sending me down to be born.


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