How Dirty Is That Auden Poem That Was Too Dirty for the ‘Times Book Review’?

Courtesy of Scribner

The highlight of this weekend’s New York Times Book Review is Dan Chiasson’s highly entertaining review of The Best American Erotic Poems, a new anthology of humpy verse edited by David Lehman. After calling John Updike’s “Fellatio” “perhaps the worst poem ever written on any subject,” Chiasson gleefully quotes the poem: “It is beautiful to think / that each of these clean secretaries / at night, to please her lover, takes / a fountain into her mouth.” But Chiasson teases us with his description of the dirtiest poem in the anthology, W.H. Auden’s “The Platonic Blow,” which Chiasson can only call “is the dirtiest verse written since Rochester — I can’t even talk about it here.”

So how dirty is it, really?

It is really, really, really, really dirty. Like a Penthouse Forum letter, except in lively verse, and with no women. It’s sort of great, and also sort of cheesy and awful, and also occasionally hilarious. (“‘Shall I rim you?’ I whispered. He shifted his limbs in assent.”) We feel compelled to reprint the entire thing, just because we never had any idea that W.H. Auden wrote an unbelievably filthy poem about an anonymous blow job.

According to the editor’s note, Auden wrote the poem in 1948, and copies were circulated among friends and fans for years, before Ed Sanders (of the Fugs) printed an unauthorized version in 1965. Auden publicly denied authorship, which is why we can reprint this without permission and with impunity (as does the anthology, which doesn’t include Auden’s poem on its copyright page). Enjoy!

Hot or Not [NYTBR]

Related: Vulture’s extensive coverage of poetry!

Related: Vulture’s much more extensive coverage of wangs!

ockquote>The Platonic Blow

W. H. Auden

It was a spring day, a day for a lay, when the air

Smelled like a locker-room, a day to blow or get blown;

Returning from lunch I turned my corner and there

On a near-by stoop I saw him standing alone.

I glanced as I advanced. The clean white T-shirt outlined

A forceful torso, the light-blue denims divulged

Much. I observed the snug curves where they hugged the behind,

I watched the crotch where the cloth intriguingly bulged.

Our eyes met. I felt sick. My knees turned weak.

I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to say.

In a blur I heard words, myself like a stranger speak

“Will you come to my room?” Then a husky voice, “O.K.”

I produced some beer and we talked. Like a little boy

He told me his story. Present address: next door.

Half Polish, half Irish. The youngest. From Illinois.

Profession: mechanic. Name: Bud. Age: twenty-four.

He put down his glass and stretched his bare arms along

The back of my sofa. The afternoon sunlight struck

The blond hairs on the wrist near my head. His chin was strong.

His mouth sucky. I could hardly believe my luck.

And here he was sitting beside me, legs apart.

I could bear it no longer. I touched the inside of his thigh.

His reply was to move closer. I trembled, my heart

Thumped and jumped as my fingers went to his fly.

I opened a gap in the flap. I went in there.

I sought for a slit in the gripper shorts that had charge

Of the basket I asked for. I came to warm flesh then to hair.

I went on. I found what I hoped. I groped. It was large.

He responded to my fondling in a charming, disarming way:

Without a word he unbuckled his belt while I felt.

And lolled back, stretching his legs. His pants fell away.

Carefully drawing it out, I beheld what I held.

The circumcised head was a work of mastercraft

With perfectly beveled rim of unusual weight

And the friendliest red. Even relaxed, the shaft

Was of noble dimensions with the wrinkles that indicate

Singular powers of extension. For a second or two,

It lay there inert, then suddenly stirred in my hand,

Then paused as if frightened or doubtful of what to do.

And then with a violent jerk began to expand.

By soundless bounds it extended and distended, by quick

Great leaps it rose, it flushed, it rushed to its full size.

Nearly nine inches long and three inches thick,

A royal column, ineffably solemn and wise.

I tested its length and strength with a manual squeeze.

I bunched my fingers and twirled them about the knob.

I stroked it from top to bottom. I got on my knees.

I lowered my head. I opened my mouth for the job.

But he pushed me gently away. He bent down. He unlaced

His shoes. He removed his socks. Stood up. Shed

His pants altogether. Muscles in arms and waist

Rippled as he whipped his T-shirt over his head.

I scanned his tan, enjoyed the contrast of brown

Trunk against white shorts taut around small

Hips. With a dig and a wriggle he peeled them down.

I tore off my clothes. He faced me, smiling. I saw all.

The gorgeous organ stood stiffly and straightly out

With a slight flare upwards. At each beat of his heart it threw

An odd little nod my way. From the slot of the spout

Exuded a drop of transparent viscous goo.

The lair of hair was fair, the grove of a young man,

A tangle of curls and whorls, luxuriant but couth.

Except for a spur of golden hairs that fan

To the neat navel, the rest of the belly was smooth.

Well hung, slung from the fork of the muscular legs,

The firm vase of his sperm, like a bulging pear,

Cradling its handsome glands, two herculean eggs,

Swung as he came towards me, shameless, bare.

We aligned mouths. We entwined. All act was clutch,

All fact contact, the attack and the interlock

Of tongues, the charms of arms. I shook at the touch

Of his fresh flesh, I rocked at the shock of his cock.

Straddling my legs a little I inserted his divine

Person between and closed on it tight as I could.

The upright warmth of his belly lay all along mine.

Nude, glued together for a minute, we stood.

I stroked the lobes of his ears, the back of his head

And the broad shoulders. I took bold hold of the compact

Globes of his bottom. We tottered. He fell on the bed.

Lips parted, eyes closed, he lay there, ripe for the act.

Mad to be had, to be felt and smelled. My lips

Explored the adorable masculine tits. My eyes

Assessed the chest. I caressed the athletic hips

And the slim limbs. I approved the grooves of the thighs.

I hugged, I snuggled into an armpit. I sniffed

The subtle whiff of its tuft. I lapped up the taste

Of its hot hollow. My fingers began to drift

On a trek of inspection, a leisurely tour of the waist.

Downward in narrowing circles they playfully strayed.

Encroached on his privates like poachers, approached the prick,

But teasingly swerved, retreated from meeting. It betrayed

Its pleading need by a pretty imploring kick.

“Shall I rim you?” I whispered. He shifted his limbs in assent.

Turned on his side and opened his legs, let me pass

To the dark parts behind. I kissed as I went

The great thick cord that ran back from his balls to his arse.

Prying the buttocks aside, I nosed my way in

Down the shaggy slopes. I came to the puckered goal.

It was quick to my licking. He pressed his crotch to my chin.

His thighs squirmed as my tongue wormed in his hole.

His sensations yearned for consummation. He untucked

His legs and lay panting, hot as a teen-age boy.

Naked, enlarged, charged, aching to get sucked,

Clawing the sheet, all his pores open to joy.

I inspected his erection. I surveyed his parts with a stare

From scrotum level. Sighting along the underside

Of his cock, I looked through the forest of pubic hair

To the range of the chest beyond rising lofty and wide.

I admired the texture, the delicate wrinkles and the neat

Sutures of the capacious bag. I adored the grace

Of the male genitalia. I raised the delicious meat

Up to my mouth, brought the face of its hard-on to my face.

Slipping my lips round the Byzantine dome of the head,

With the tip of my tongue I caressed the sensitive groove.

He thrilled to the trill. “That’s lovely!” he hoarsely said.

“Go on! Go on!” Very slowly I started to move.

Gently, intently, I slid to the massive base

Of his tower of power, paused there a moment down

In the warm moist thicket, then began to retrace

Inch by inch the smooth way to the throbbing crown.

Indwelling excitements swelled at delights to come

As I descended and ascended those thick distended walls.

I grasped his root between left forefinger and thumb

And with my right hand tickled his heavy voluminous balls.

I plunged with a rhythmical lunge steady and slow,

And at every stroke made a corkscrew roll with my tongue.

His soul reeled in the feeling. He whimpered “Oh!”

As I tongued and squeezed and rolled and tickled and swung.

Then I pressed on the spot where the groin is joined to the cock,

Slipped a finger into his arse and massaged him from inside.

The secret sluices of his juices began to unlock.

He melted into what he felt. “O Jesus!” he cried.

Waves of immeasurable pleasures mounted his member in quick

Spasms. I lay still in the notch of his crotch inhaling his sweat.

His ring convulsed round my finger. Into me, rich and thick,

His hot spunk spouted in gouts, spurted in jet after jet.

How Dirty Is That Auden Poem That Was Too Dirty for the ‘Times Book Review’?