DISCLAIMER: This is an unauthorized work of fiction using characters that are (c) & TM by Marvel Comics Group. No profit is being made on this poem, so I'll invoke The Marvel Readers' Bill of Rights (for the full text see "Stan's Soapbox" in some of the May 1998 comics, e.g. GENERATION X #38):
"8. The right to practice scripting and drawing our Marvel characters for your own pleasure and amusement."
The story is (c) Tilman Stieve (Menshevik@aol.com). You can download this and copy it for your entertainment, but don't sell it for profit, or Marvel will set their lawyers on you. Please do not archive this on your website without informing me first.
Trish -- A Rapture belongs to my series, the Tales of the Twilight Menshevik, where it fits both into the main timeline (and thus to its continuation into the future, the Days of Future Twilight) and that of Twilight Yet to Come, as a poem written by Hank McCoy for his wife, Trish Tilby.
You can find the Tales archived on "Fonts of Wisdom," "Down-Home Charm," "MissyRedX: The Average Website" and "Stacy's Fan-Fiction Page."
WARNING: This poem contains sexual references and descriptions. If you are too young to read them I must ask you to wait until you're old enough. If such descriptions bother you, you should perhaps consider reading something else.

Trish -- A Rapture
by Tilman Stieve
a.k.a. the Menshevik

You claim that you're no Aphrodite
In face or bod, but that's not true
And in my view it would be mighty
Unseemly not to worship you
And your delightful body's features
Because, most beautiful of creatures,
There's no denying that we know
We both enjoy the praises so
(One giving them, the other taking),
So settle down and lend an ear,
And I shall try to let you hear
In words that will prevent mistaking
Just what it is about your shape
That makes your humble servant gape.

One saying that applies to you well
Is that all good things come in small
Wee packages, my precious jewel:
You cannot be described as tall
Or curvily exaggerated --
Your contours are more understated,
Your body's build is rather slight
And your slim bones inside it light.
I'll list the parts with your permission,
For though your beauty is much more
Than its components' sum, the chore
Of its complete and fair cognition
Forever would be incomplete
And I could not present this treat.

I'll start with your black tresses
And then continue down from there...
You don't indulge in great excesses
Of fancy coifing with your hair,
You wear it cropped with jagged angles,
So short it can't fall into tangles,
And sometimes in a pretty bob --
Both styles are suited to your job.
Your hair's soft luster entrances,
Like jet it glistens in the light
Of sunny noon, while late at night
Whenever we go out to dances,
I cannot wait to feel it brush
Against my cheek so soft, so lush.

Now let us focus our attention
Onto your dainty pair of ears;
Short hair enhances their dimension
And shows your conchae have few peers.
These days ears are not appreciated,
As charms they have become quite dated
Since medieval times, I guess,
But I do like yours nonetheless.
How nice of you that on occasion
You let me nibble them a bit.
I'll also say that when you sit
With me and wear your South-East Asian
Gold ear-drops they will draw my gaze
To your fair ears like tractor rays.

But then you turn around to face me
And mesmerize me with a glance --
I can't hold still till you embrace me,
Your eyes just put me in a trance.
They hit me like electric flashes
When they peek through their pretty lashes.
Their irises are deepest blue,
No sapphire has a fairer hue,
This precious stone is also harder
And colder than your loving look
Which can enthrall me like a book
But does much more to raise my ardor.
Beneath those darkly arching brows
Your eyes desire in me arouse.

Though I would dearly love to linger
On your bright eyes I must progress
To where you're pointing with your finger,
The next part of your loveliness,
I mean your nose, right in the middle
Of your fair face, that upturned little
Pink organ of your sense of smell.
Your nose has often served you well
For sniffing out a hot new story
And sampling glasses of fine wine
When you and I go out to dine.
Within your facial inventory
Your pretty nose need not be shy
For it's most pleasing to the eye.

Next to the guardians of the portal
Below your nose, those lips so round,
Their sight would make me want to chortle,
But why make such a joyful sound
When we could draw more satisfaction
From some intensive kissing action?
Their size and texture are just right,
And lip-gloss suits them in soft light,
But when you do without cosmetic
Enhancements, show them unadorned,
Then too your lips cannot be scorned
For they fulfill just all aesthetic
Demands, I cherish them so much,
Your lips so gentle to my touch.

Beyond your rosy lips, my darling,
And by your perfect cheeks obscured,
But visible when you are snarling
Are your white teeth. Rest you assured
That though compared to mine they're tiny
And though your canines aren't as spiny
As my more formidable set
They suit you really well, my pet.
Besides your teeth there's tongue and muscles
To taste and chew what you just ate
And help you to enunciate
So you can join in verbal tussles
And do things at the end of day --
Just what these are I dare not say.

Your jaw-line shows you're energetic,
As does your chin which though it's small
Is quite pronounced and thus magnetic.
Ten fingers want to touch it, crawl
Along the lower jawbone's edges
Up past your cheekbones to the hedges
Of your dark hair and to the place
On top where they will interlace
(Regrettably they'll then dishevel
The well-kept order of your strands),
While underneath my clumsy hands
My palms will feel your heart-beat revel
Through tender veins ... I'd love to trace
Just every line of your sweet face,

Next slide a hand down to your shoulder
Along the back of your slim neck.
If I were just a little bolder
Then I would place a glowing peck
Somewhere on your neck's sloping pillar,
But I'll just look and breathe much stiller
To better listen to your voice,
The mezzo in which I rejoice,
Which from your larynx comes so mellow.
Your throat produces pleasant tones,
Even compared to your low drones
My own poor voice is like a bellow,
Too raucous for your beauty, dear,
Still with your leave I'll persevere.

From neck and throat down through the hollow
Beside your collarbones we go
On to your arms, and them we'll follow
Until we reach your hands. You know
How your Hank's brain becomes befuddled
When he inside those arms is cuddled --
Those tanned, surprisingly strong limbs
Whose hug subjects him to your whims.
Then there's your slender hands and digits
That nimbly dance across the keys
Of that dumb notebook on your knees
While Henry in the background fidgets
Until the job's done and you can
Employ them now to pet your man.

You raise your hands and spread them over
Your bosom, showing that your breasts
Are proper handfuls, and moreover
They only, as your spouse attests,
Appear so small in his huge clutches.
He's in awed wonder when he touches
Your demiglobes and when he sees
Their milky whiteness in the squeeze
Between his fingers blue and furry
That feel their warm resilient flesh.
I love to see them wildly thresh
Upon your chest when we both hurry
Towards the peak and from above
You give expression to your love.

Atop each breast a sweet confection,
A rosy bud that's ringed in pink,
Completes the picture of perfection.
How prettily they rise and sink
With every in- and exhalation,
Another source of fascination
Is how your nipples will stand straight
At a light brush, they palpitate
Against my lips, thrilling me madly.
There's just one snag: they're also meant
To give our offspring nourishment,
But I have come to suffer gladly
That some months I must wait and smile
Because you feed our honeychile.

Your upper body's frontal glories
Should not make us forget your back;
Compared to yonder promontories
It's rather flat when you go slack,
Its satin skin is damned attractive,
And when its muscles become active
They turn it into gentle dales
And hills or surging waves in gales.
In winter white-skinned, tanned in summer
It tapers sweetly to your waist,
Symmetrically and to my taste,
Elatedly I'll be your strummer,
Your body shall be my guitar,
To use an image quite bizarre.

Returning to your front, your belly
Is where the next part we begin:
Well-muscled tension, not soft jelly
Vibrates beneath its silky skin,
Its ripplings at your every shiver
Bewitch me and set me aquiver,
While when exploring your physique
I like to stop there, press my cheek
On your firm stomach, I'm a glutton
For your sweet smell and body heat
That fill my senses, and the neat
Way your little belly-button
Adds focus to that even plain
Where you let me lay down my mane.

South of your navel, in the dingle
Below your belly's slope there lies
Your special place, and I'm atingle
About what's there between your thighs,
Concealed beneath a curly cover,
Where you share joy with your lover,
Where sable fur can mix with blue
Whenever I make love to you.
Then I am humbled contemplating
That here is also where my wife
Delivers children into life
In labor that's excruciating --
Few things could be compared on Earth
To this great miracle of birth.

Returning to a lighter matter
We now go on to your behind
(And now the ending of my chatter
Comes within sight, then we'll unwind).
Some tasteless men might want it bigger
But then it wouldn't fit your figure
As it would fit into the pants
Of Opal, Bobby's ex, perchance.
No sir, the compact demi-peaches
Of your behind meets with my wish,
Yes you're my callipygous Trish,
It doesn't take a brain like Nietzsche's
To realize how firmly fair,
How well-shaped is your derrière.

Your legs at last, that firmly carry
Your body's weight from place to place,
Support it where you stand and tarry,
Yes their shape too is full of grace,
Their surface in- and outwards curving
From thigh to knee to calf, then swerving
Across the ankles to small feet
That look superb enough to eat.
When I consider the temptation
These slender visions of delight
Can radiate to all in sight
It really is a consolation
That normally one cannot see
Your gams when you are on TV.

I tried to make a systematic
Enumeration of just what
Distinguishes your so emphatic
Allure in my opinion, but
I'll have to leave it uncompleted
My self-set task left me defeated:
So many splendid elements
That all combine in opulence,
Defying my attempts to capture
In words your beauty as a whole,
As a gestalt, so please console
Yourself with my words on the rapture
I feel when I can be with you
And take as heard the residue.

So much for your external splendor
That instantaneously goes
To my subconscious raising tender
Emotions, stoking tepid glows
To raging fires of lustful passion;
But it's not only in this fashion
That you appeal to me, my queen,
There's other things that can't be seen
Without the aid of heart and reason:
Your soul, your spirit and your mind,
Your quirks, your self-doubts -- that's the kind
Of stuff I took a longish season
Just to begin to comprehend
With you as lover and my friend.

Notes: The form of used here is called the Onegin stanza (Oneginstrophe) in the dictionary of literary terms I used, maybe that is also how it is known in English. Alexander Pushkin wrote his verse-novel Evgeni Onegin in such stanzas, which were also used by Lermontov. Each stanza consists of 14 iambic tetrameters with an unchanging, but mixed rhyme pattern, which also alternates between one and two-syllable rhymes (which the aforementioned dictionary calls masculine and feminine respectively, do they also say that in English?). It rather lends itself to Hank's chatty discourse.
Another influence on this poem is even older, the erotic poetry of Anacreontic and Metaphysical poets of the late 17th and early 18th century. Their baroque floridity should appeal to verbose Hank with his penchant for unusual, picturesque and sesquipedalian words. Of course there are differences, as in some respects the older poems were heavily conventionalized in the kind of metaphors they used (lips and nipples always compared to rubies, cherries and corals, you get the idea) and the individuality of the person writing it and that of the addressee did not always really come through.
There is another poem by Hank for Trish: To My Dark-Haired Lady.

Beast (Henry McCoy), Iceman (Bobby Drake), Opal Tanaka and Trish Tilby are (c) and TM Marvel Comics. Josephine McCoy is (c) Tilman Stieve.

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