Sicilian Youth with Flowers – Wilhelm von Gloeden (1900)
He came in the glow of the noon-tide sun, He came in the dusk when the day was done, He came with the stars; but I saw him not, I saw him not.
But ah, when the sun with his earliest ray Was kissing the tears of the night away, I dreamed of the moisture of warm wet lips Upon my lips.
Then sudden the shades of the night took wing, And I saw that love was a beauteous thing, For I clasped to my breast my curl-crowned king, My sweet boy-king.
John Francis Bloxam writing under his pseudonym of Bertram Lawrence . It appeared in The Chameleon, a one-off literary magazine edited by Bloxam, in December 1894.
Mainly I strive to show by deed and word How great my love for you, how deep and strong; Daily you hear my heart’s one passionate song, And still pass on as though you had not heard; Your slightest smile, your gentlest glance can gird My suppliant life with joy that lingers long, – You touch my hand, and straight a gladsome throng Of hopes are born, and all my soul is stirred.
But ah, you do not understand nor see, And when my looks of my devotion tell You deem it but some pitiful wayward spell; Love comes not my interpreter to be, And in your eyes, because you love not me, My greatest fault is loving you too well!
From Love in Earnest – Sonnets, Ballades and Lyrics by J.G.F. Nicholson (1892)
Ignacio Martínez Moreno, in Uranian Poetry: The Homosocial and Homoerotic Paradox (2020), describes John Gambril (Francis) Nicholson as “a prisoner of his feelings, only able to express them through poetry.” Hopeless Love reveals a form of homoeroticism in which the lightest touch can unleash a flood of feeling—emotions that need not be reciprocated to ignite passion within the poetic voice.
Oh yes, I know this all too well.
I perceive beauty where others see none. I feel a desire that no one else seems able to recognise. He is the pearl concealed within a hard exterior. Through close proximity, a sense of deep familiarity takes hold, awakening attraction and affection that override his less generous qualities.
It is an obsessive infatuation, one in which reciprocation will never arrive—because he refuses, or is simply unable, to see the effect he has on me.
And no matter how hard I try… it is not recognised.
Boys will be boys. Different sorts. Different morals. Not fussed really.
I can do nice boys I can do bad boys I can do polite boys I can do charming boys I can do clever boys I can do rough boys I can do tough boys I can do council boys I can do rich boys I can do student boys I can do clean boys I can do dirty boys I can do skinny boys I can do clean-cut boys I can do athletic boys I can do energetic boys I can do adventurous boys I can do sensitive boys I can do confident boys I can do caring boys I can do unconventional boys But I can’t do golden boys
“Bambino carissimo: – Will you come and stay with me in Florence? A revederci carino.”
Players I send thee cigarettes for thy delight. Smoke my belov’d and think awhile of one Who thinks and dreams of thee from sun to sun Longing to have thee, lov’d one, in his sight; To hold to his thy lissom body tight; To press thy lips and, pressing, to surprise Thy soul and his together in thine eyes … If this be wrong, no love on earth is right!
Youth in tree with arm raised – Wilhelm von Gloeden (1856-1931)
Love, I adore the contours of thy shape, Thine exquisite breasts and arms adorable; The wonders of thine heavenly throat compel Such fire of love as even my dreams escape: I love thee as the sea-foam loves the cape, Or as the shore the sea’s enchanting spell: In sweets the blossoms of thy mouth excel The tenderest bloom of peach or purple grape.
I love thee, sweet! Kiss me again, again! Thy kisses soothe me, as tired earth the rain; Between thine arms I find mine only bliss; Ah let me in thy bosom still enjoy Oblivion of the past, divinest boy, And the dull ennui of a woman’s kiss!
From ‘Caprices: Poems by Theodore Wratislaw’ (London: Gay and Bird, 1893)
No mystery about what’s going on here.
When someone at the Pall Mall Gazette got an early look at Caprices, they immediately picked up on the vibe — To a Sicilian Boy and L’Eternal Feminin were clearly written with a Uranian (homoerotic) theme. The staffer freaked out and threatened bad reviews unless those poems were cut. The publisher caved and swapped them for two safer options, Paradox and At Midnight.
But nobody seemed to notice the poems quietly dedicated to Oscar Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas. That particular scandal was still waiting in the wings.
To a Sicilian Boy eventually found its way into Charles Kains Jackson’s The Artist and the Journal of Home Culture, a more open-minded publication of the time.
Theodore William Graf Wratislaw (1871–1933) — yes, he claimed to be a Count thanks to his grandfather, who basically declared himself one — was born in Rugby. These days, almost no one remembers him, but he wrote about 160 poems, most during the so-called “naughty nineties.” His work popped up in Love’s Memorial, Some Verses, The Yellow Book, and The Strand Magazine. He’s even rumoured to have inspired Max Beerbohm’s character Enoch Soames.
At some point, Wratislaw swapped the pen for a government desk job — which he famously called “penal servitude.” He married three times, but people still speculated about his sexuality, and To a Sicilian Boy didn’t exactly hide the clues. The timing’s telling: Wilde’s trial happened in 1895, and that same August, Wratislaw quietly joined the Civil Service. Draw your own conclusions.
Innocence came calling. What are you writing? I was writing about you, but didn’t say that, and it would have made no difference because it was never part of the plan.
Have you been sent by someone? Have you come with a message? Have you come to taunt me? Have you come to kill me?
In the dark, I think only of sweat, tattoos, and dirty underwear. How erotic is that? The excitement before you destroy me.
Have you come with love? Have you come with hate? Have you come with both? Have you come with nothing?
There is desire in the shadows. Hands everywhere, controlling, and satisfyingly rough. But there are unanswered questions. Do these hands belong to someone who wants me dead?
Have you got a disease? Have you got a condom? Have you got a knife? Have you got other ways of killing me?
They will get you in the least expected way. Beware of Gabriele of Stadium, they said. He will exploit your weakness. He is the Angel of Death and brings only a glass full of piss and blood.
Lust shattered my guard. Lust drowned my senses Lust clouded my judgement. Lust is the death of me.
The romantic Gypsy of Roma, who dances with a gun, and destroys hearts with the blade of Ardizzone, looks into my eyes. Is this the most addictive boy ever? Is this the saddest and perfect end? And after he slits my throat he will say to Alberto of Ostia that it was too easy.
Alfie’s out. Alfie’s in. Alfie likes me. Alfie messages. Alfie is sweet. Alfie is shy. Alfie is young. Alfie is wise. Alfie’s out. Alfie’s in. Alfie doesn’t talk. Alfie ignores me. Alfie doesn’t like me.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 