love in the lower case.

I was at Anthropologie the other night and noticed "Love Poems" by Pablo Neruda set demurely on a table along with delicately-folded intimates and sweetly-sensual fragrances. Hmmm.

Tonight, I fought the urge to write about Mr. Neruda again. But, I remembered another collection that I blushed over before picking up and taking home: "erotic poems" written and illustrated by e.e. cummings.

Here is a favorite:

xx:
you asked me to come:it was raining a little,
and the spring;a clumsy brightness of air
wonderfully stumbled above the square,
little amorous-tadpole people wiggled

battered by stuttering pearl,
                                leaves jiggled
to the jigging fragrance of newness
—and then.  My crazy fingers liked your dress
….your kiss,your kiss was a distinct brittle

flower,and the flesh crisp set
my love-tooth on edge.  So until light
each having each we promised to forget—

wherefore is there nothing left to guess:
the cheap intelligent thighs,the electric trite
thighs;the hair stupidly priceless.

~~~

Did I mention it's illustrated?