Whoever said poetry was boring?

First Attempt

She was pretty much undressed
And big brazen trees
Thrust their leaves against the panes,
To snoop - so close, that close.

She sat in my chair,
Half-naked now, and clasped her hands;
Her little feet - so fine, that fine -
All astir on the floor: pure pleasure.

A shaft of light, the colour
Of wax, played truant
On her smiling mouth (I watched)
And then on her breast - a midge on a rose.

I kissed her pretty ankles.
She gave a sudden laugh, pealing
And sweet, in bright trills.
A laugh like faceted glass.

The little feet took cover
In her skirts. 'That's far enough.'
- But even so, she'd let it go -
Her laughter made a poor reproach.

Her helpless eyes beat under my kisses
- A gentle application of the lips.
She threw back that hopeless head
Of hers: 'Well, honestly, Monsieur!'

And then: 'You really have a nerve...'
A kiss on her breast was how I handled
That. Which raised a laugh -
The kind that says, I'm on for it.

She was pretty much undressed
And big brazen trees
Thrust their leaves against the panes,
Snooping - so close, that close.


'Excerpt from Selected Poems and Letters - Arthur Rimbaud'





Well - I'd like to see my lit teacher's face when I show her that next teachers' day!