Cherie Byrd www.kissingschool.com has a wonderful Kissing School in Seattle and has published the book Kissing School, Seven Lessons on Love, Lips, and Life Force ( I attended this class in April and would highly recommend it!)
Cherie writes: “Lessons may be necessary, but remember that loving is essentially an art form and that your practice will largely be shaped by your willingness to be creative with what you are experiencing… There is so much untapped potential: the naked promise in a glance, the electricity in a touch, the delicious merging of a kiss.”
Ojalá!
Elisabet
How She Felt
by Samuel Sullivan Cox
How she felt when first he kissed her – like a tub of roses swimming in honey, cologne, nutmeg and blackberries.
Mi novio sent me the first lines of this poem today. I had read it for the first time about a year ago y me encanto. I loved to be reminded. There is no written mention of wine, but we can imagine a taste of wine that would go along with such a a poem. What wine would you choose? Elisabet
Wild Geese
Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine
Meanwile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
Sandra Cisneros
Dark wine reminds me of you,
The burgundies and cabernets.
The tang and thrum and hiss
That spiral like Egyptian silk,
Blood bit from a lip, black
Smoke from a cigarette.
Nights that swell like cork.
This night. A thousand.
Under a single lamplight.
In public or alone.
Very late or very early.
When I write my poems.
Something of you still taut
Still tugs still pulls,
A rope that trembled
Hummed between us.
Hummed, love, didn’t it.
Love, how it hummed.
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