"odalisque" poems
There are three versions of this poem. only one of them is available on the internet. This first version is from the New Yorker in a 1941 issue. It is the earliest version and the one that is quoted all over the internet.
To My Valentine
by Ogden Nash (1902-1971)
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.
I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.
As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oaths,
That's how you're loved by me.
The next version is the lyric of a song from the Broadway musical "One Touch of Venus" (1943) by Ogden Nash, J S Perelman and Kurt Weill. Nash wrote this lyric. It is not on the internet that I could find. I got it from the sheet music.
HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.
As a sailor's sweetheart hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a wife detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than a hangnail hurts.
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a grapefruit squirts.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a bride would resent a blessed event,
That's how you are loved by me.
More than a waitress hates to wait ,
Or a lioness hates the zoo,
Or a batter dislikes those called third strikes,
That's how much I love you.
As much as a lifeguard hates to swim,
Or a writer hates to read,
As Hays office frowns on low cut gowns,
That's how much you I need.
I love you more than a hive can itch,
And more than a chilblain chills.
I yearn for you in an ivy clad igloo,
As a liver yearns for pills.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a dachshund abhors revolving doors,
That's how you are loved by me.
The third is from the book "Marriage Lines: notes of a student husband" It was published in 1964 and contains a revised version of the poem with a much different ending. This too is not on the internet. I got it from the book.
TO MY VALENTINE
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or an odalisque hates the Sultan's mates,
That's how much I love you.
I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.
As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you truer than a toper loves a brewer,
And more than a hangnail irks.
I love you more than a bronco bucks,
Or a Yale man cheers the Blue.
Ask not what is this thing called love;
It's what I'm in with you.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
first line lips are false as a beach next mcarthur’s in chicago next the big blond takes the elevator down next pearl on the lip next shalimar stirs the canine **** all right I like that let’s start a new one do it what what do you have don’t **** up wheres the apostrophe ******* you’re cruel now back now whack it again whack it again I want it to go back whack it press it whack it okay new line
i want elevator i want uh i want don’t ask the bellboy for the time just take the elevator to what? to notions? to the lingerie shop? ah **** you grandma new line
all right one more time okay **** the gin-socked tongue that’s “soaked” period once again the elevator down paint the pretty tie (cough cough) thai next big buick big *** like fish put a ? after fish take it back take it back you ***** okay that’s not bad you do all right ah **** song of india in the desert at night put “” marks around song of india & desert song in capital letters hit shalimar then cadillac red lips then **** like a seashell with a gin-soaked tongue start new line
all right does mcarthur stick his socks in the bathtune at night that’s bathtub the dog howls at the moon buries it in the backyard snakes lose their skin cocoa butter slick water on the brain of the big dark blond song of india **** **** **** big fish *** big v8 you ***** keep up with me painted rocks like a pretty tie fast car long legs and a broken heel now dead no not dead yet um estee lauder goes down on price-waterhouse in a swedish bath bellboy watching this is his reflection in the mirror no silver one-sided next line
big blond trampled by elephants with wrinkled knees starch is not chic all gone shalimar stirs the k-9 **** sequined *** in the moonlight cadillac red lips hungry dog eats tail becomes himself bad dog play dead okay what do you suggest bad doggie bad comma bad comma hungry dog go for the tongue you dumb ***** keep going new line
what do cactuses(i) have??? fronds fur what are their things called new line
dog hates gin go for the breast stupid ***** good dog dry dog poor dog pour blond water of life **** yellow a thai like painted rocks period next
i want head down legs up i want sequined *** only ****** level damp dampened dampest ***** panorama **** **** **** blue blue down there feminine azure with clouds too got it odalisque in blue period have mercy on me no no new ******* line what are you filling that thing up with okay stop it for now
4.6k
On the southwest side of Capri
we found a little unknown grotto
where no people were and we
entered it completely
and let our bodies lose all
their loneliness.
All the fish in us
had escaped for a minute.
The real fish did not mind.
We did not disturb their personal life.
We calmly trailed over them
and under them, shedding
air bubbles, little white
balloons that drifted up
into the sun by the boat
where the Italian boatman slept
with his hat over his face.
Water so clear you could
read a book through it.
Water so buoyant you could
float on your elbow.
I lay on it as on a divan.
I lay on it just like
Matisse's Red Odalisque.
Water was my strange flower,
one must picture a woman
without a toga or a scarf
on a couch as deep as a tomb.
The walls of that grotto
were everycolor blue and
you said, "Look! Your eyes
are seacolor. Look! Your eyes
are skycolor." And my eyes
shut down as if they were
suddenly ashamed.
4.3k
~
*Lift the veil from a grayscale morning. Vividly imagistic. An odalisque no more.
Her shape beneath the gown is a foreign land, a series of quiet revelations. Its pattern manifests as pinpricks of light perforating the shirred fabric of his heart.
The preponderance of dream in her eyes becomes a call and response evoking purely imaginary spaces. The contained chemistry is beautifully insular, monochromatic.
And there her lips. Into claustrophobic kiss. This lower register of love comes in unadorned, subtle colorings like the darkest part of night.
One thousand shades of gray.
One single light of white.
And everything merges in the night.*
~
Nov 24, 2023
Nov 24, 2023 at 11:47 AM UTC
stunted
short
visionary dwarf
****** level
too much too much
***** panorama
cut the crap
lay on your back
change of venue
blue blue
dark clouds too
****** of black cotton
100% ******
feminine products need not apply
c’mon
but wait
no more ****
but where’s our precious depths
lost our thoughts
consciousness raised
to new depths
then lost
as if ******* weren’t enough
but hey
look
just drop it
no asking for a hand now the clap is extinct
****** fungus a dinosaur
what we’ve all been working for, right
the liberated ****
without love
without guilt
sure, but meantime it’ll **** you
homicidal inundation
or better yet
you’ll go blind looking for it
2k
this time something feels different
this time i'm an angry toucan spitting eager saliva & i want you to rip my plastic beak off & whisper secrets into my slippery face
this time i'm an open book & i want you to place your fingertips on my soft worn pages & read me between the lines forever
i want you to be a magnifying glass mirror to show me my inconsistencies made of stretched wool fibers and hemp and wood held together by shiny clots of ink oil and glue
this time i'm an open door numb with apprehension & i want you to surge into the threshold of my bare bones like a molecular flash flood burglary polishing my darkest stained corners with spiraling velocity
this time i'm an oak sapling planted in your backyard spinning & dazzling in the sunlight & i want you to water me daily so i can grow
with you to unbelievable heights & suddenly sprout flowers from my sinewy arms
this time i'm a babbling brook cascading over slick brown rocks on a lush hillside & i want you to stir the moon like the wind & listen appreciate my serene grace
because this time i need someone whose lips
can be a tissue to the tears on my soft cheeks
before they turn cold & calloused
i need someone to sink their teeth into my
shoulders & collarbone to wake me
from this superfluous daydream
i need someone who beds naturally
into the ribcage nest of my plaid flannel shirt
i need someone who will dance with me
across an empty landscape into
something bigger & deeper
than just the starless sky above us
i need someone who wants to learn
the overlapping language of my eyes & hands
someone who will lounge with me
like an odalisque on the birth-bed of aphrodite
drenched in the shivers of the moon canopy
someone who can blur the lines
between my cerebrum & theirs
so that we become a stitched together
quilt of soft memories in our imagination
someone who has been in a trainwreck before
& knows precisely where to kiss
to make it all better
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
~~<○>~~
odalisque
orchids langish
in the
steam bath
of the
hothouse
~~<○>~~
[10W]
Catherine Jarvis
Jul 26, 2020
Jul 26, 2020 at 2:17 AM UTC
I ripped out of the old tavern
Into the torn indigo overcoat
And traveled under the porticoes of a billion fantastic stars
To celebrate this marvelous November night.
In the labyrinth of bricks and stones
I hum and whistle the Irish song
Like a singer before the orchestra, my multitudes.
How exquisite—Avec un plaisir de génie—is my peripatetic existence!
Lungs full of air, and I see the Muse in me.
My treasured newsboy cap from a thrift shop spins on my hand,
And my feet bubbles off the floor like soda pops.
I pray my gratitude to the one above the altar
For my indomitable freedom. Amen.
A pocket change rolling, bikes uninhabited, and lampposts perpetual.
A rolled cigarette wantonly leaned between my sticky lips.
Autumnal dews wetted my forehead like spiriting wine.
And while, scarf blowing, boots tattered,
I raised my odalisque eyes heavenward
The world pixelated above my moist eyes
Like a seabed of jewelry stars
Apr 30, 2021
Apr 30, 2021 at 1:03 PM UTC
Suddenly, all those sad Decemberists songs
we sang on our beds, your car, the bus
to Heathrow, apply to us.
Well, except that one
about the chimney sweep whose love is dead
and the barrow boy whose love is gone
the Yankee soldier whose love is torn from him by war
the Odalisque whose lover is drowned
the double spy who trades a tryst in the
greenery for documents, and microfilm too.
We are not the star-crossed William and Margaret
whose hazardous love provoked a cruel Queen,
their fates tangled in the roots of the Taiga.
We never made it to Grace Cathedral Hill
to watch the city lights in the cold New Year night.
I was more brine and **** and vinegar
than you knew.
I'll let you know if they ever write a song
for ill-timed confessions and bitten back words
and the way love can run out
like an empty tank of gas
halfway to the sea.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 4:56 AM UTC
Rain! Timpany sounds
on the roof and from the gutters
call me to my front porch.
Such music! Like little
silver hammers striking
the drumhead summer-baked
desert floor. Magical music
murmuring to my muse.
Petrichor, after an extended
dry spell, lingers. Nestling in
my nostrils. How could two
chemical reactions create
such delicious desert desiring?
Duplicity of dust and drought
with a wet, wondrous wealth
of water! Whew... hoo!
My eager eyes behold emerald
instead of dull khaki, brown
and olive hues, odalisque
forms of the prickly pear
will become plump in their
passionate love of
precipitation! Ahhhh...!!
What a joy to behold
the crystal curtain once more!
Small beads of moisture
form on my forehead
and fingers. Fascinating
to feel the hairs on my arms
stand up with the
electricity of negative ions...
Every sense is smothered
with summer storm extract...
ECSTASY!!!
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 3:19 AM UTC
Paint left, humidity purgatory,
Sticky but practically peeled off, while
Water and lime, the kind you hear about
On infomercials promising to rid
You of Built Up **** is trapped between the
Panes they said they replaced but I don’t know.
Clothes piled with invisible coatings of
Dust from the floor last swept ten years ago,
And sweat from leaving the AC off
(Because saving a few bucks is worth it),
And sweat in stained dresses when you touched me,
And sweat in damp briefs when I touched myself.
Paper stacks, three years, busy work
And scholastic articles I should
Have read, say I will, but won’t pick up,
And verses I wrote that go nowhere but
Here and to a real poet, happily
Trapped at an average liberal arts college.
So instead of dressing or cleaning I
Call you, naked, a fattened odalisque,
Silent for hours, my thin mouth, a suture.
A fit black girl cut across the dog park,
She saw my bare shoulders, sloped pudgy pale,
We gazed in the other’s faces, but now
I can’t think what she wore, and she knows
I’m just sad, still: a ghost in the windows.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
~_Midnight. Heaven is
bathing, the window open.
Just a kiss away._
—Jane Miller, "American Odalisque", _The Gift of Tongues_
__He, the moon, and I__
written March 2nd, 2021
My love and I
look up at our night skies
during this midnight time we share
our eyes looking at
the same stars
in our heavens so far apart
the moon baths us
in its gentle light
embracing both of us
I am envious of the moon
touching my love
when I can not
so I ask the moon
to kiss him for me
lovers are we
he, the moon, and I.
Mar 3, 2021
Mar 3, 2021 at 5:26 PM UTC
He was a fine broth of a man
And I loved dallying with him
In afternoons of sun and breeze
My lovely one-man harem.
Such a delightful odalisque,
I suspended thoughts of time.
I greedily took up my guitar
And seduced him with rhyme.
As we fed each other sweets
And made coffee by the jug
We laughed and smoked ***
Together naked on the rug.
We told each other stories
Of places we had been
And astounding miracles
Each of us had seen.
We talked of **** dancers
And clever men of magic
And how the loss of innocence
Was not altogether tragic
Because we got to learn
And could use it to grow
And understand the secrets
We recently did not know.
He taught me how to love,
This man of many stories.
I learned to welcome mystery
And search in it for glory.
He showed me how to look
And see people as unique
And not some mass idea.
I grew up from that peek.
That simple time of learning
And laughing with a man
Who had the gift of sharing
The way to understand.
He took me from my childhood
And showed me how to live.
He gave me a gentle heart.
The best thing one can give.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
Say I was a sea captain in that life.
Say I sailed a barkentine, the Eloise,
on the Azores run out of Lisbão.
I was a sea captain in that life.
I sailed a barkentine, the Eloise,
on the Azores run out of Lisbão.
I found a green disc under my bunk
and instantly knew its use.
You have taken my books.
You're no sea captain.
The color you paint your toenails
is that of weathered brass.
The salt on your neck
and in your navel tastes
vaguely impure, like spray - delicious.
Say I was a sea captain.
Say I had a dinghy named 'Alouette.'
I was a sea captain.
I had a dinghy the crew called 'Woody.'
She sang when the wind stroked her ribs
and the spars rattled. Never mind.
Never mind the night breezes off Mosquito Island,
the roll of the berth as we lay
at anchor in North Sound
plotting our run to Anegada
so you could see Pomato Point
and what the chart called 'numerous coral heads.'
That morning, with Fallen Jerusalem
to port, you said four prayers, one each
to your gods and a last one to Sunday,
which you had neglected for years.
The swell in Drake's Channel is rising.
It will rise all through the night,
and if we are not too drunk on this fine black ***
we will rise with it.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC
She holds herself like a sacred kiss
Silent, cool in the ether
Turning ever so elegantly
In a Firmament of whirling starsoup
I am just a girl, lost in my own time
Pale haunter of underwater gardens
Cthonic dreamer of a far darker poetry
Needing night to tend my visions
Under the care of a gentle mistress
La Luna, beloved milky soothsayer
And I, an uncanny odalisque
Quite in love with the Moon
She draws me in...I run
Run to the tall stone fountain and the waiting ghosts
Run with lifted arms to catch their songs
Run like the mindlessly besotted
Run like a shooting ribbon arrow
She draws me in...and I leap
Leap from the edge of the grass in tumbledown bliss
Leap from the edge of hope, wishing
Somersault through the impossible
Leap into my Lady’s white eye
Weaving cobwebs from labyrinths into wings
Laced inside my corsetry harness, l
Climb upon a diamond, star-bellied cloud
In tune with the Moon’s sibilant call
Pianos are playing in the key of longing as
I step into space, out into the air
Trusting my forever home
In the arms of my bella donna Moon
Asleep in her like a swooning dove
Dreams, keys in the lock of fate
Moonsong in my veins
And the green Earth is far away..
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 1:56 AM UTC
Willing slaves are obsessed by freedom,
and envy free men's riches;
Loathe to steer their own course,
yet they curse their masters wishes.
Beneath their oppressor's dominance
they beg for their own choice,
but, lest they acquire freedom
even they hear not their voice.
Willing slaves merit their abasement,
as an odalisque securer still
than the terror of sovereignty
and the burdens of free will.
These willing helots, shall they ever tire
of their ruler's amnesty,
and shed their dark age chains of fear
to decide their own destiny?
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 3:44 AM UTC
Marbre de Paros.
Un jour, au doux rêveur qui l'aime,
En train de montrer ses trésors,
Elle voulut lire un poème,
Le poème de son beau corps.
D'abord, superbe et triomphante
Elle vint en grand apparat,
Traînant avec des airs d'infante
Un flot de velours nacarat :
Telle qu'au rebord de sa loge
Elle brille aux Italiens,
Ecoutant passer son éloge
Dans les chants des musiciens.
Ensuite, en sa verve d'artiste,
Laissant tomber l'épais velours,
Dans un nuage de batiste
Elle ébaucha ses fiers contours.
Glissant de l'épaule à la hanche,
La chemise aux plis nonchalants,
Comme une tourterelle blanche
Vint s'abattre sur ses pieds blancs.
Pour Apelle ou pour Cléoméne,
Elle semblait, marbre de chair,
En Vénus Anadyomène
Poser nue au bord de la mer.
De grosses perles de Venise
Roulaient au lieu de gouttes d'eau,
Grains laiteux qu'un rayon irise,
Sur le frais satin de sa peau.
Oh ! quelles ravissantes choses,
Dans sa divine nudité,
Avec les strophes de ses poses,
Chantait cet hymne de beauté !
Comme les flots baisant le sable
Sous la lune aux tremblants rayons,
Sa grâce était intarissable
En molles ondulations.
Mais bientôt, lasse d'art antique,
De Phidias et de Vénus,
Dans une autre stance plastique
Elle groupe ses charmes nus.
Sur un tapis de Cachemire,
C'est la sultane du sérail,
Riant au miroir qui l'admire
Avec un rire de corail ;
La Géorgienne indolente,
Avec son souple narguilhé,
Etalant sa hanche opulente,
Un pied sous l'autre replié.
Et comme l'odalisque d'Ingres,
De ses reins cambrant les rondeurs,
En dépit des vertus malingres,
En dépit des maigres pudeurs !
Paresseuse odalisque, arrière !
Voici le tableau dans son jour,
Le diamant dans sa lumière ;
Voici la beauté dans l'amour !
Sa tête penche et se renverse ;
Haletante, dressant les seins,
Aux bras du rêve qui la berce,
Elle tombe sur ses coussins.
Ses paupières battent des ailes
Sur leurs globes d'argent bruni,
Et l'on voit monter ses prunelles
Dans la nacre de l'infini.
D'un linceul de point d'Angleterre
Que l'on recouvre sa beauté :
L'extase l'a prise à la terre ;
Elle est morte de volupté !
Que les violettes de Parme,
Au lieu des tristes fleurs des morts
Où chaque perle est une larme,
Pleurent en bouquets sur son corps !
Et que mollement on la pose
Sur son lit, tombeau blanc et doux,
Où le poète, à la nuit close,
Ira prier à deux genoux.
667
Willing slaves are obsessed by freedom,
and envy free men's riches;
Loathe to steer their own course,
yet they curse their masters wishes.
Beneath their oppressor's dominance
they beg for their own choice,
but, lest they acquire freedom
even they hear not their voice.
Willing slaves merit their abasement,
as an odalisque securer still
than the terror of sovereignty
and the burdens of free will.
These willing helots, shall they ever tire
of their ruler's amnesty,
and shed their dark age chains of fear
to decide their own destiny?
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 2:43 AM UTC
I know this b/c I was told by a palace eunich
who bore silent witness for centuries; he & his odalisque
wife who tends the sacred flame & bears prophecies
from the gods when they are not too urgent;
otherwise Prometheus passes them off to Hermes
who then informs Dionysus;
but when Medusa goes below his belt & discovers
she has been secretly married in Vegas or Hades;
her shade honeymooning in ***** which resembled old Beirut in those days; as if twere her own mirror’s image
she shopped for big colorful hats & wore them
to ceremonial parades but not wanting to be caught out
changed her name to Kali going by the moniker
mother of destruction; sounds cool right? Shiva didn’t know
what she got up to when she was out of his sight
but he was too busy wreaking havoc of his own;
her jewelry damningly strange; skulls & bones of men
she'd turned to stone; Medusa cleaned up nice &
calling herself Parvati stepped out w/ Hermes &
went slumming in the Neoplatonic bars along the coast
in her bikini; shocking Shakti tan the envy of every
Mediterranean maiden; every matronly Roman **** talking
about that gorgeous black girl on the beach
whose skin sparkled like night; Medusa laughing
up the sleeve of her striped cover up; is she a Jew,
they asked, or the reincarnation of Cleopatra;
surely the latter, let’s ask the witch of Endor
but Samuel isn’t saying; let’s ask ************ Apollo
but he isn’t saying, spitting in Cyclop’s eye;
Hermes isn’t saying & even Hera is yesterday’s news
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 1:20 PM UTC
how cursory the mind of a saint goes
from caring to devil's tasks
the poet basks in words of fleshlike tone
while the preacher tomes of sin
on a pulpit robed in black
with a winged angel under his foot
a barefoot tinge
of an odalisque
a mosque cringes the divine temple sways
as the condemned say
thou shalt not
and traffic goes on by past faster
than a
wink a touch of an eyelid
to the cheek
of a doll
sacred water
sheds a teardrop
down her thigh
and god blesses
those who sign
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 2:47 AM UTC
*she is LuNa
she called him
Mr hypnotic
maybe because
he practiced the subtle art of conversational hypnosis
or perhaps he was a night dragon
blink-less staring into her soul
as if she where naked
and her thighs were cradled in his amorous arms
she ached to be his love slave
on her knees, she wept
a mosaic of desires
her toes adorned with inlaid rings
her tongue in flames
wanting him thick in her mouth
her ******* heaving
like a black sea
******* sticky hot
her *****
a cracked ***
leaking buttery ooze
a mindless baby doll
in a chaotic embrace
he
all mad mans grasp
she would be his butter cup and blood buffet
to be buried
feet over her head
and spread wide
seized fingers entwined
a rose of ruin
fuckarella
a dark hazel with a wandering ******
her soul
on a ferris-wheel
from heaven to hell
a ****** odyssey
endearments and bites
a blood soaked mouth
lapping up his wet crotch fruit
raving red rage burning
she
eaten and licked like blood cherries impaled
used abused
and forever
gratefully amused
beaten
sweeter than a *** at a ***** movie
waiting desolate for her demonic lover
odalisque in love*
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 12:59 PM UTC