K Balachandran Apr 2013

Night,
dark, soft, alluring,
spinner of dreams I want to be lost in,
is a kindhearted courtesan,
who never demanded anything
for all her loving, that to me
was like a swim in the pool
of "Ananda"* I was searching for.

I climbed her door steps
with the silent footfalls of a cat,
all these years for solace,
when the fair lass ,
regaled by my songs evening after evening,
scoffed and taunted,
when I fell wounded
in duels of life, I was forced to fight
to keep my honor intact.

Once,
seeing me left in the lurch,
blood soaked and badly wounded
she led my tired legs
to her house of magic and secret treasure hunts,
blessed me with oblivion, till I woke up.
Her mansion became
arena of silent dances of wounded memories,
till sun appeared above misty mountains
cheering me up with new promises,
but my thoughts never left her.
I spent my darkest hours
in her house,
thrilled by dreams she induced,
in which under moonbeams
princesses gathered,
bubbling fine wine brimmed
in sparkling glasses,
I felt the most loved man
within her tender arms.
I would wait for the night, my sullied lover,
to arrive with her hands of breeze,
to tousle my hair and caress my face.
Night  took away my pains,
her lasciviousness is the only drink,
that makes me ask for more.
She is not only mine,
as a courtesan, she needs to entertain
whoever seeks her,
But when I am with her,
she is all mine.

*"Ananda"(Happiness):Ancient Indian sages recognized Ananda as the goal of human life, which ranges from simple pleasures to ultimate bliss, brought about by the union with cosmic consciousness
termed as "Brahmanandam"
K Balachandran Mar 2016

Night appears in an avatar
of a sweet chaperon,
coming with a lovely dark gown
to dress the shy, blushing evening
cajoling her for a slow make over,
she implies, it's better letting
the will of darkness prevail.

Now she is a perfect charmer
night, lets her long dark tresses
loose, that flows in waves
down through her back and
caresses her rotund proud buttocks,
adding to her silent grandeur,
till the next spectacular day breaks.

Night is an ace  temptress
with full moon at her side
as an irresistible  magical charm
to sway even nature, catch
the sea in her net,
of attraction and makes it  dance,
bewitching night makes
the stars in her coiffure gleam.

Night is an agile courtesan,
having royal patronage,
eyeing you wistfully,
hellbent upon her this day's conquest,
her amatory skills one can tell
will be kinky,she is classy nevertheless.
In her boudoir, women are salacious,
hungry men too dance to her tunes,
what you gain after a spirited
amorous duel, is the gift of dark eyed night.

Perig3e Jan 2011

I look to you to be a courtesan,
and not just in the bedroom arts,
there is great depth in this craft and calling,
how to conduct the delicate tête à tête,
stirring envy without rancor,
there is politics to master,
who is in and who is out,
and whose nose grows longer with every joust 'n bout,
the arts, must of course be mastered,
music, poetry, and painting
you must teach yourself beyond the basics
while leaving it to those that profess it their profession,
and there is the necessity of fashion
in polite manners, dress, and current bob 'n coif
so all eyes will rise when down the stairs you descend,
and then there's men,
study me, my dear, and to them, "amen."

K Balachandran May 2014

A castaway in the island of failed loves, my heart
moved in jungle pathways, lived alone in caves,
I sold it to a courtesan who courted it steadfast
never had I felt such an ease in my days dark.
Love is a clandestine merchandise in market places
by lovers, men and women of charm and magic
mixing power and allure, when the price is just right.

The street of our evenings was full of laughter,
my love life there saw many sunny seasons.
We walked hand in hand and my sweetheart was eager
to please me as my heart was full of  love's languor
the meaning of love was still obscure for me and her,
though we thought it was nothing but love, that
kept throbbing in our every vein, it really mattered.

To the tune of Blue Danube, we would wildly waltz,
the sad thought it brought, made me weep inside.
if the world is so wicked let's die together,
and I see her dance away totally inebriated
footsteps sounded near, we lost  true interest
pain was chasing us, all the way from behind,
we were disillusioned, love slowly got drifted
gently  dissipated breaking our hearts.

As I cross the corner of the street alone,
with my heart bleeding, often the girl for the day in tow,
I feel the pang of a heart, seeking my love waiting
the courtesan who kept watching me, her glassy eyes moist,
all these days of wandering, eventually our eyes met.

I sold my heart to the lonely courtesan, she wept, received it.

I set my watch for half past nine
and arranged to meet my
courtesan,
my lover, my demimondaine,
my demirep, my queen of the night,
my inamoratas,
my mistress.... My my, is that the time
I can't be late for my concubine

Хейли Apr 2014

Detrimental to these planes,
this blade is like a courtesan to these veins. Her love is slow and hard because the pressure is in her hand.

JLB Jan 2012

Power pulsating between my legs
Irrational intrigue  between my ears
Alacrity asunder between my ribs
-Heretical human blender-
Serving up cleverly crafted cocktails
I am
Spouting sureness from between my lips
I am
Stirring in sweet sultriness
Soliciting sour sabotage
Submerging you in salty squeamishness
-Colloquial courtesan, curtly castrating consumers-
Inebriating you equally with inevitable irrationality
Welcome to my "Reader’s Digest"
Prepared especially for you with my psychologically indigestible

Elizabeth Mayo Dec 2012

your mother
was a girl with ashes in her eyes and gold in her nostrils
a chain delicate as autumn leading from ear to the centre
of her heart, of the place where our priest's holy incense found its sole purpose.

I just assumed that she
was a wild wanton that ran through the ashes and dust of the
streets of the market at dust, and she loved and did not love
and not loving made it easier to lay on the tabernacle of a sacred courtesan.

we don't have those anymore
they drove them out screaming, naked, heads shaven
as barren and scorched as the desert in their dying breaths
and Maryam, we don't have those anymore,
the word is not courtesan but whore.

but I took it on faith out of love for you
when you told me with fire in your eyes that your mother
saw the face of God in between the sheets of paper
as a maiden pure, the Egyptian lotus in her secret sweetness only God knew,
Psyche drawing back the veil of Isis, looking at the face of her star-birthing lover.

to love you was to look at the sun
and be burned, enflamed, seared into agony and nothingness
and yet to be clothed in the flesh of the sun anew
and when I wore nothing but the star-strewn gold dusk of my skin
I wore the sacred mantle of a courtesan.

Arjumand Oct 2012

As the urge
for recognition
increases,
everything you do
begins to lose
meaning,
its sole purpose
being
to derive
gratification
from praise.
You no longer
write for yourself
but,
for the world,
like the courtesan
that dances
only to please
her patrons.
Pressure bears down
on you,
creativity
begins to pull away.
Benchmarks
and standards
restrict you.
You need
constant reminders
that there are
no rules,
that everything
can be challenged,
that it was
inquisition, which
wrought great changes
in the world,
that you are
the master
of yourself
and everyone else
can go
take a hike!

K Balachandran Sep 2013

A dark, sensuous, blithe, night
seduction is her sole intent,
beating in tune with the heart of
a lover, an adventurer, a crazy poet,
a beggar, a courtesan, a clown or a priest,
     prompts each one to do what to them please,
     to the manner born, unconcerned  of darkness and light,
     her knitted quilt thrown over their heartbeats rhythmic.
Sleep is the best refuge  for the uninspired, lonely, sick,
love, sex, any number of intriguing options she offers for her lovers,
and when the clock of night is torn open by the impatient sun
and day arrives with vengeance to reclaim its land,
with daggers of  sadness stuck to heart, bleeding
they move, like shadows doddering in the path of life.

Arik Fletcher Feb 2010

courtesan and slave to greed;
hallowed host to wicked deed;
ripping hearts from souls in need;
implanting each with evil seed;

stolen hope and dreams combine;
tortured souls by cold design;
marked by this immortal sign;
angelic life in quick decline;

sedated shells of emptiness;
secluded in deceptive bliss;
insulting glimpse of happiness;
neglected all but by its kiss.

Nekatu Poetry © Arik Fletcher
A Lopez Sep 2015

Im not your courtesan
Im not your Hon.
Im not your paramour
Im not a cheat or dumb.
Im not your's
You arent mine.
Call me whatever
Thats OK trust me im fine.
Im not your playwhore
Or your little concubine.
Im angelina lopez señor
Sorry, not your type.

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