Oscar Wilde

My Sociology teacher was talking about how society reacted to homosexuality before the 1900's and he started talking about this guy: Oscar Wilde. He lived amongst the upper class in Ireland and England and did many great things as it says on his biography. The interesting thing about him was his deviance of gay relations with Alfred Douglas and his sexual liking for boys. The reason being he was one of the only upper class men of his time to be open about his particular sexuality. Honestly, I'm not too fond of talking openly about homosexuality, but what made me so interested in him was his poetry. I looked on a poetry website and there was recorded 88 of his poems; some of them under 15 lines short while others go on for pages and pages. Even though his poetry comes from a different time and understanding from what I know, one of his poems struck right through to my heart in understanding. Oscar wrote this long poem that gave me an impression it was about intimate love between man and a boy. It opened my eyes to understand how passionately he adored and loved without means of lust. It hasn't changed my view on the topic though, it amazed me how much I could appreciate what he was saying. Here's an extract from one of his long poems.

Pantha - Oscar Wilde

This hot hard flame with which our bodies burn
Will make some meadow blaze with daffodil,
Ay! and those argent breasts of thine will turn
To water-lilies; the brown fields men till
Will be more fruitful for our love to-night,
Nothing is lost in nature, all things live in DeathÂ’s despite.

The boyÂ’s first kiss, the hyacinthÂ’s first bell,
The manÂ’s last passion, and the last red spear
That from the lily leaps, the asphodel
Which will not let its blossoms blow for fear
Of too much beauty, and the timid shame
Of the young bridegroom at his lover’s eyes,—these with the same

One sacrament are consecrate, the earth
Not we alone hath passions hymeneal,
The yellow buttercups that shake for mirth
At daybreak know a pleasure not less real
Than we do, when in some fresh-blossoming wood,
We draw the spring into our hearts, and feel that life is good.

So when men bury us beneath the yew
Thy crimson-stained mouth a rose will be,
And thy soft eyes lush bluebells dimmed with dew,
And when the white narcissus wantonly
Kisses the wind its playmate some faint joy
Will thrill our dust, and we will be again fond maid and boy.

And thus without lifeÂ’s conscious torturing pain
In some sweet flower we will feel the sun,
And from the linnetÂ’s throat will sing again,
And as two gorgeous-mailed snakes will run
Over our graves, or as two tigers creep
Through the hot jungle where the yellow-eyed huge lions sleep

And give them battle! How my heart leaps up
To think of that grand living after death
In beast and bird and flower, when this cup,
Being filled too full of spirit, bursts for breath,
And with the pale leaves of some autumn day
The soul earthÂ’s earliest conqueror becomes earthÂ’s last great prey.