Sex Poems

           I got asked last week why I never interned with Randall House. I admit—this is [at times] a regret of mine. I would have loved to be “pruned” the way several of my fellow English majors were pruned. When I am being incredibly self-deprecating, I consider what my life would have been like had I built my writing portfolio and resume instead of putting it off until the last minute. 

          This is not to say I have not been dedicated. I have written every day for...approximately fifteen years. That sounds like an exaggeration. Let me take a moment to assure you that it is not. This is what I do. This is the thing I do not know how to undo, or stop doing. It is how I process the world. I am a word junkie. 

          So what then, is my excuse for never applying myself by pursuing such an opportunity?

           “I just…uh…my writing wouldn’t really…uh…fit Randall House—you know?”

  “I just don’t want to commit to a name whose expectations are radically different than my own.”

           In other words: Sex poems. 

           I have entire anthologies of sex poems.
           The bulk of my work is:
           Sex Poems.

           The only person I have ever told about these works is my muse: Kevin Dale Lundy. To which he responded: 

           “Of course you would. It’s like mind screwing!”

           He went on to expound on the newly coined terminology: “Word Porn.”

           This made me blush for several reasons. 

           I have recently been inspired to be honest about my fascination with “doing it.” At thirteen I began writing racy letters to no one and hiding them in my sock drawers. *Lundy, I feel you smirking [understandably so]; my long line of therapists would also find some humor in the irony that saturates my life.

            Spoiler alert:

                    I am an physical intimacy phobe. 

                    I am terrified. 

              

               I jokingly once theorized: 
              “Perhaps it is because I’ve made something up in my head far better than 'it' will ever be. I mean, after all…I do that all the time with romantic relationships. Why would sex be any different?”  
 I have always put intimacy on a pedestal. At 23, I am still terrified of destroying that pedestal. 

               From a christian perspective: rightfully so. My high regard for physical "business" is something to be applauded—especially at 23.

               But…from a christian perspective: What about my writing?

               What does that mean about me?

               Let me take a moment to defend myself from any backlash that might come my way with this disclaimer: I am in no way an erotic writer [or anything of that nature]. My work is not [eloquent synonym for “trashy”] enough to belong near the centerfolds in anyone’s local Pleasure Palace. 

               In my opinion: That makes it more dangerous. It is: Passionate, bold, tragic, euphoric...real.

           

               I believe my gifts come from the Lord and should be used to glorify God. That is the reason why I have hid my work from the world. Humiliating, isn't it? Sex poems?

               Alternatively, I refuse to take the heat for something [I feel] comes naturally to me. It also does not help that I go to a christian private school where everything I post is monitored [consider my expulsion for this post: "Pending"]. After all, the “sex “word is not something we talk about. 

               I recently have gotten into some of Chris Bernstorf’s love poetry. 
               I have to listen to them alone: 
               The words melt in my mouth. 

               

               It is comforting to find I am not the only christian poet that is inspired by intimacy. There has to be a place for that somewhere. This is the point in the conversation where people like Lundy interject with: 

              “Song of Solomon! Holla!” 

               
               On the real: I have heard so many context arguments for Song of Songs that I cannot take this stance with confidence. 

               I can hear my conservative professors now: 

              “Come on Jade. No-brainer! You can’t write sex poems. Inappropriate! This is a given.”

               To which I respond: 
           “Guys, something in myself just doesn’t agree. 
      And I don't think its my constant need to push the envelope.”

               Let’s talk [insert lyrical joke here]. 

               

               I want opinions. I have yet to form my own. 

               

               Eloquent closing statement:

               Poets are romantics: Categorically, spiritually, and relationally. It is not a matter of rose colored glasses. It is a matter of eyes that see as opposed to eyes that do not see. Enamored at the magic in the world, it only makes sense that visionaries would be so intrigued by the most powerful connection two people can experience. Poets outside the faith such as Sexton [“The Sex Poet,”] could communicate my case far better than I can: Sex poems are great! But what about poets inside the faith? What are our parameters?

                “Randall house would never publish sex poems.”