Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “Love’s Philosophy” makes me want to run off and make love in some secluded forest hideaway. Unfortunately, this feeling always passes once I start wondering about bugs and sand getting into various private bits, but anyway. 
So, what poem gives you that tingly feeling in your naughty bits?
.:Nichol:.
Am I the only one who thought the OP was sexist poetry?
[Nigel Tuffnel]
What’s wrong with being sexy?
[/NT]
This bit from Stanislaw Lem’s “Cyberiad” can be quite powerful under the right circumstances.
Oh My America!
My Newfoundland!
no?
Keats’ The Eve of St Agnes, without any doubt. It has a striptease in it!
That’s it. That’s all you’re getting. 
Depends how straightforwardly intense you’re feeling about it. If you want to skip the appetizer and go for the main course, read Pablo Neruda’s Twenty Love Poems and a Desperate Song. Even if you don’t know Spanish, get the bilingual edition so you can read it out loud and get some of the melody and cadences.
This one isn’t about thrashing limbs, but for an understated little verse try Sara Teasdale’s ‘The Look’.
I don’t know if Allen Ginsburg’s “please master” counts, since it’s actually erotic poetry rather than just sexy…
but really, any of the poems Tom’s written me. He once wrote me a delicious little sestina involving breakfast coffee and salacious things done instead of it.
Garcia-Lorca’s “La Casada Infiel” is the only piece of poetry that never fails to make my breath short and my skin flushed. I don’t know if there are any translations but the original spanish can be found here .
And I quote:
And:
Gotta go, there’s cold shower with my name on it somewhere.
I’ve written some sexy poetry, if that counts. Made my creative writing professor blush, anyway.
My fiance likes the “Man from Nantucket” series.
To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvel.
BTW, the use of the word “quaint” was a very vulgar pun at the time.
Max kudos to bifar for choosing The Eve Of St Agnes. It’s not only one of my favourite poems, it’s also one of my favourite examples of human genius… right up there with Michaelangelo’s David and Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos and George’s “It’s not you it’s me?” speech from Seinfeld. When you look at the incredibly demanding structure of the poem, and its considerable length, you realise it’s really one majestic flourish from Keats - a kind of ‘Go on then, let’s see anyone match this’.
Parts of Agnes are very sexy indeed. In fact Keats’s publishers refused to handle it because they felt it was indecent, which - by the standards of the day - it was. He was faced with the problem of stating that the two leads characters consumated their relationship at a time when there was simply no way he could just come right out and say it, and I think his solution is magnificent and beautiful and, in the spirit of the OP, very sexy. I’m not going to give it away here. It’s worth looking up for those who are interested.
However, my vote would have to go to Donne’s The Sun Rising. Donne was the original ‘randy vicar’, a supposed ‘man of God’ who would, to use a modern phrase, shag a barber’s floor. The Sun Rising is basically his attempt to capture the feeling of ‘the morning after the shag the night before’, while you’re both still in bed and barely awake. And it’s pretty darn good. In years long gone by, I used to like reciting it on, ahem, ‘appropriate’ mornings.
Another for Pablo Neruda:
The Cuban blue of midnight is your color,
Naked I trace stars and tendrils in your skin.
A friend asked if I wanted to do a reading at her wedding. I chose two stanzas and changed from the first person to the third.
Sex Without Love
How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
Gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other’s bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth, whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio
vascular health–just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.
-- Sharon OldsI write this kind of stuff all the time, so here’s a sample offered with all due humility. Not on a par with the greats, of course, but it’s fun to write and to send to suitable recipients.
The Considerate Lover
In that I love, I seek your finest self
In heart and mind content, and duly rested
Untroubled, calm, complete in vital health
No want of food or water ever tested
Right is this care, for if a frailness rake
The heart to which mine’s linked, then so projects
That grievance into me, as does the lake
One bird of broken wing make twin reflect
Thus I ensure my love not interfere
With nourishment, nor stop you fixing thirst
But spare a thought to seek a path sincere
To render love yet put your wholeness first
Hence kiss I fullest deep your lips, yet think
To leave you free the while to eat or drink
© Ianzin
You’re a John Donne fan too?
That’s the one I was going to pick, too.
Well I think it’s wonderful, Ianzin.