by Torsten Schwanke
2001 / 2025
dedicated to young Evelyn
Canto I
O godlike summer! South with life imbued!
With many poets I the sun have viewed,
That golden apple in the sapphire skies—
O let me pluck thee, fruit of love’s surprise!
Madonna! See me waken from the dream,
Consumed with longing for that Eden gleam!
Though Morpheus bore me on his silent bark,
I slept as dead upon the oceans dark.
But morning stirs all things to seek the flame
Of heaven's torch and earth’s ecstatic claim;
Then rises she from shadow’s dewy veil
And grants delight in gestures warm and frail.
O walk, Madonna, O my guiding star,
Before me walk to lights that never mar,
To gardens green and seas of deepest blue,
Where wave and rock their age-old vows renew.
I honor Her whose limbs in Liège rest,
Entombed in earth, by sacred rite confessed.
Saint Evi! Bring the body of the Lord,
That flesh by flesh be raised in one accord!
My heart finds life in France—O sweet la France!
How I do bloom beneath thy sun’s romance!
What fruit I bear in Provence’ blooming lane,
What drunken joy I draw from ruby strain!
Like troubadours of Provence, soft and low,
I yearn to sing like nightingales in woe.
To moan like seas that crash on hardened stone,
And woo the rock with rushing voice alone!
The grave became the wellspring of my song,
From which the seas of ecstasy are strong.
The rose, though thorned, from blood-red bloom was born;
Desire is sweet when lustful hopes are torn.
For where the sea on steadfast rock must break,
There sprays the ocean for the longing’s sake.
So in my burning fast, I wasted sore,
Yet visions drunk with love refreshed me more!
That summer when I longed for death’s release,
I sought in Aphrodite’s form my peace.
Consecrate by a death-wish, high and wide
The sea rolled in with passion, flame, and pride!
The oceans of all ends could not contain
The flames that rose from my desiring brain!
Not even She, with serpent round her hips,
Could soothe the snake that through the garden slips!
I stood upon the edge of death’s dark coast—
And God alone knows what I glimpsed as ghost.
But hush! I crave the tender spring anew,
And sing of Her whom God entrusted true.
Yet first I beg Christ’s bride to grant me grace,
My virgin-mother, queen in sacred place.
To her in narrow cell my soul I gave,
Whose yearning spirit no mere flesh could save.
To shepherd’s heart my inmost mind I bared,
In Queenly shrine where holy love was shared.
The love wherein the cosmos turns its sphere
Let fall its beam and made my vision clear.
Is not green Aphrodite’s light divine?
Is not her golden hair a heavenly sign?
Is she some demon rising from the flame?
Let God’s own beauty speak in her sweet name!
O God, how wondrous fair thy works appear!
But fairer still art Thou, who placed them here.
Congregation of Truth, I make my claim:
May I not sing the heathen goddess’ name?
I seek the blessing of the priestly guide,
That he may judge my song and not deride.
Together we derided Luther’s law,
Too rigid in its rule, too cold in awe.
We praised God’s Mother on the ocean’s bend,
And knelt before her statue without end.
We lauded Mary of the Sea and Grace,
Who sees all longing written on each face.
He spoke of Homer’s voice, then holy Ovid,
Of saints and muses that our hearts outlived.
Then, solemn-faced, he smiled with mild reproof:
The Eternal Feminine draws us aloof—
This Mighty Sign, this Lady of the skies,
Shall raise you up, a man of God most wise.
As friend to man, she draws him ever near,
A heavenly beloved, pure and clear.
If goddess you have called her, be it so—
I saw within her smile a secret glow.
For what is born of foam and sea’s delight,
The Greeks called ‘goddess’ only out of fright.
Yet myths are signs that point to something true:
A glimpse of light the ancients never knew.
Then consecrate your ox, your lowly ass,
Your passions all, to star of ocean’s mass.
As do the Greeks of Orthodox design,
So sanctify your art at Mary’s shrine.
Lift up your song to such exalted height,
That Saint Maria claims it as her right.
Life’s brief, and art is long upon the page—
Faith holds the truth, but free is poet’s stage!
So I, like poets rapt in sacred fire,
Call virgins forth who draw from holy lyre—
The Muses, sowers of the golden seed
Whose words within the soul the seers read.
On Helicon’s twin peaks I laid my head,
And in its green I dreamed as dreamers tread.
I saw the thrones where chaste maids made their seat,
With laurel crowns that bloomed about their feet.
Soft, gentle were their voices in the breeze,
That breathed upon my lyre with sweetest ease.
The Muses turned old scrolls with tender grace,
And sang of Venus' bridal in that place.
Calliope gives breath to all my lines,
Her kisses fill my verse with sacred signs.
She lets me sing of chaos dark and wide,
And of the throne where Aphrodite rides.
Polyhymnia grants the hymn divine,
The holy tone in ancient godly line.
To Eros, Aphrodite’s youthful son,
She sanctifies the song when it’s begun.
Melpomene turns sighs to tuneful strain,
And weeps through me with melancholy pain—
For all my blood’s a sea of sorrow deep,
From which the Venus of my veins shall leap.
Thalia brings the heaven’s cheerful light
And sings the sun’s delight, so warm and bright.
In Maytime smiles that gentle maiden fair,
Her beauteous breast half glimpsed through silken air.
Terpsichore gives rhythm to the word,
The wingèd foot of verse by her is stirred.
She sways her hips within the veil’s embrace,
And moves her form with such ecstatic grace.
Nor Clio, bathed in sunlight, shall be mute,
She brings the hours and days in bright repute,
Recalls the time, in history made divine,
When Aphrodite's cheek was pressed to mine.
Euterpe shapes my verse with subtle art,
She strings the pearls of song with faithful heart.
No word shall age within this woven song,
Forgive the weaker lines that come along.
Erato—ah Erato!—so sweet,
Erato, come kiss me in retreat!
Erato, joy of mine beyond compare,
Sing Aphrodite’s name into the air!
And last comes you, Urania the wise,
Who reads the secrets written in the skies—
Sing her who moves all life with breath and fire,
O Muses, whom in service I admire!
Canto II
The God whose name was never known in Greece,
First shaped the dark, primordial void’s release,
The primal matter, blind and undefined,
Great mother of all light that’s ever shined.
God willed that from the sea of Chaos rise
A chosen star with breasts of boundless size—
The Earth, great mother of all things that live,
By vaulted coasts where foaming oceans give.
Then from the spirit of the God Most High,
The gods emerged, eternal, from the sky;
On sacred Olympos they danced in glee,
With goddesses in holy harmony.
The fairest god of all was Eros bright,
Whose arrows ruled the hearts of gods in flight;
Than Ares’ blade or Zeus’s eagle bold,
More strong is Love, whose shafts are never old!
Great Eros, conqueror of every sense,
Of gods and mortals both, the influence!
He brings both joy and pain in equal part—
A world-destroyer, savior of the heart!
From Chaos’ womb came forth the Mother Night,
In star-blue robes that shimmered in the light,
The young and splendid God of Day she bore,
Who wanders in the azure skies once more.
Upon the firmament, fair Astra shone,
And Orion chased the Pleiads on and on;
Saturn, in Scorpio, with sorrow mild,
While Dawn emerged, a mist-enfolded child.
The mountains rose, all birthed from Earth’s deep core,
Olympus, Athos, towers evermore;
They stand in gates of cloud, a skyward throne,
Yet tremble in their roots with thunder’s groan.
The Night gave birth, by Heaven’s godly grace,
To Ocean, who the circling Earth embraced,
The Middle Sea and islands fair with bays,
All born to walk in Phoebus’ golden rays.
Hyperion gleamed upon the sky’s vast dome,
In golden-purple robes he found his home,
While dreamy Phoebe, on her pillowed seat,
Lay thinking soft, her reverie complete.
From time’s first dawn came Mnemosyne wise,
Titaness of all sacred memories,
A mourning swan, in meditation deep,
She glorifies the sacrifice through grief.
The Earth’s own son was Kronos, Time's fierce lord,
A rebel-god who raised his daring sword;
He barked against his father, bold with pride—
The timeless God of Heaven he defied.
O Cyclopes, and Giants cruel with hate,
On Earth ye are but guests with dreary fate;
No welcome waits in paradise's dome—
Ye are despised by Heaven’s highest home!
You are the clay-born children of the earth,
And hearts of stone you carried from your birth.
No gentleness, no love within you dwells,
A swarming heap of dust where chaos swells.
In rocks confined, from pitch and primal slime,
The brew of chaos ferments out of time.
You are the spawn of filth, the root of sin,
Consumed by hateful lust that roars within.
You Cyclops, with one eye upon your brow,
Yet nailed a board across it even now!
Your thread of fate twists blind, confused and proud—
One strand endures: your arrogance unbowed.
You call yourselves the lords of manly thought,
That counts the grains by intellect self-taught.
You thrust your spears into the planet’s womb,
Yet never feel her spirit in the gloom.
You deem yourselves enlightened, radiant, wise,
Yet live imprisoned far from sunlit skies.
A wretched fate upon your brows is pressed—
You storm the heavens, never granted rest.
Woe, Earth! That you rebelled against your source,
O ancient mother of life’s varied course!
Your sons of slime you made into wild beasts,
You broke the trembling souls with godless feasts.
Woe, Earth! That you have hatred brought to birth,
To mock the primal law that shaped the earth!
Woe, Earth! That you chose hate and shunned the light,
To cast a shadow on the realm of white.
You used your rights as mother, not as bride,
Denied the sacred bond, the groom defied.
As mother to the beasts you chose the wrong,
You hated wedded light your whole life long.
Old Gaia, with her breasts so broad and bare,
Gave Time, her son, the sickle of despair.
The Titans rose—divine eternity
They sought to maim with brute virility.
The god of heaven, mighty Lord of seed,
Sowed worlds with beings from his boundless need.
O Time! Reject his force that once begot,
Let lamed eternity forget that god.
Let Cyclops rule with clear and naked brow,
Let Reasoned Time take up the scepter now.
Let sickles whirl around the heavenly source,
And Shame cast down the sky-god's sacred course.
O wound of circumcision, bleeding sign,
Who dares before your mark to lift the spine?
O sacrament of seed, O purest eel,
From whom sweet nymphs in blood and song reveal!
You, heavenly seed, whose fire from sky did fall,
Where serpents bite their tails in sacred thrall—
Let not our loins grow weak or love decline,
Since groaning valleys took your flame as shrine.
O nymphs, sweet daughters—black, and brown, and gold,
Your bodies veiled in hair, your glances bold—
You are the seed’s delight, the poet’s flame,
Whose fingers weave through locks and call your name!
Yet you are hard as walls of fortress stone,
Your breasts like battlements, cold, carved in stone.
But rather sank the seed in ocean’s tide,
And mingled there its love, no more to hide.
O golden seed of Heaven’s kingdom born,
From God’s own streams of blessing, deep and warm,
The sea divides, a dark and tender tomb—
Primeval grave for gods' ecstatic bloom!
O flames of fire, in golden seed contained,
You sank into the flood, serene, unstrained.
And flame and water mingled in embrace,
The sea, a mother, held the god’s bright face.
Then rose you up, O Aphrodite fair,
Gold-drunken joy in summer’s silver air!
The sea turned green beneath the sky’s delight,
And love’s day came to me in shining light.
The waves crashed down like waterfalls in might,
Your locks fell like a cataract in flight.
You walked the crests of foam in pure delight,
Like Eden’s Eve, unveiled in morning light.
I see you in my dream at break of day—
Your mouth a fruit, your nose an eagle’s sway.
You sleep within a shell above the spray,
The foam a dream-born bubble’s brief ballet.
From Aphros you derived—foam-born and proud—
Your slender foot steps on the strand unbowed.
The rose in thorny bloom begins to glow,
Cypresses shade the land where sunbeams flow.
The sparrow sings his hymn with fervent fire,
The doves lift up their breasts in shy desire.
The goddess walks through Cyprus’ garden fair,
To see the gods' snow-crowned and sacred lair.
How glow your cheeks in beauty’s arching pride!
How soft the goats beneath your gentle guide!
How twist the snakes in longing’s curling game!
Come, joy of shame, and whisper me your name!
Canto III
As like a stag in rut with burning chest,
I roar and thirst for springs that grant me rest!
Life’s stingy grip gives birth to artful grace,
From sighs and groans flows speech in swiftest pace.
This winter, all my thirsting seeks the flame
Of Greece, where summer sings a brighter name.
I think upon the prince’s love-born song,
To Highest Good his praises did belong.
The people sang to starry Astarte,
While women walked in gardens of Tammuz free.
The sage in songs his soul and longing kept,
For her whose hips like willow branches swept.
I sing thee now, O moment bright and fair,
That marks when spring and summer cleave the air!
O praise to wounds that rose-red hearts have borne,
For love is thus by poets best adorned.
I thirst like Tantalus in Hades bound,
The pomegranate shining near, yet drowned—
Eludes my lips the godly, rich delight,
From which I’d sip life’s ecstasy and light!
I burn within the sevenfold fire's gleam,
I burn inside the seventh circle's dream.
With tongues of flame I speak of sacred fire,
And crave life’s golden fruit as my desire!
Before my eyes I see a hoary sage,
Who paints Our Lady in a golden cage
Of glory—brilliance round her veil now glows,
A halo like a sun her visage shows.
I see him stand before the fairest muse,
Reclined upon a couch in languid hues.
She cools the blaze with waters of her womb,
To rescue her from Venus' fiery tomb.
A youthful brush I see in glowing hand,
That shapes her almond face in burning strand.
The winds have robbed her of her cloak of flame—
She stands exposed, yet pale with sickness' name.
I see the painter craft repentance’ frame,
That almond face still bathed in blushing flame.
In veils of rose are golden beams unfurled,
The mark of pomegranate—heart of world.
I hear the Muse of Italy intone,
Of islands made for pleasure's flesh and bone.
I see the Tajo-nymphs in garlands fair,
They dance to green bliss-isles through perfumed air.
Then hear I Protestants attempt to raise
A song of crystal orbs and golden blaze.
But lacking passion’s flame, their singing seas
Are cold as stone, with frozen harmonies.
So now I sing of Vulcan, Venus’ spouse,
Whose bitterness in scorn I must arouse.
Rough-legged, with beard in smoky shadow steeped,
Dust-covered, joyless, in his anvils heaped.
Tedious kisses—just a peck or two,
Like married folk exchange in moments due.
A blinded smith who never glimpsed desire,
Nor saw in Venus' womb the serpent’s fire!
Back to your forge, you limping, smoky brute,
Your fumes don't match with Venus' floral fruit!
Go crouch in ash, you gray and smelly ghost,
And fumigate your chamber, crypt, and post!
But Venus, truly, was a living flame,
A spring of fire no mortal could reclaim.
Her golden apples, swans upon her breast,
Were balls of lava, never meant for rest.
As fiery-rich as Eden’s primal bride,
Her heat poured out, no modesty to hide.
From out her womb came golden lava's flood,
It hissed and steamed upon the water’s mud.
She plunged in steam and sibilant delight,
Smoke spires rising to the sky’s blue height.
She bathed to cool the fever of her frame,
To have her soul baptized in passion's flame.
I saw in vision Aphrodite glow,
Descending to a rocky pool below.
Her soul inflamed, as if by Eros' dart,
Each ache and shiver trembling through her heart.
You saints once flung yourselves in snow’s embrace,
To chill desire and keep your souls from base—
But Venus threw herself in grassy wave,
To quench her fire in a watery grave.
A foamy veil caressed her limbs so white,
Her breasts, her loins, gleamed in the softened light.
She dipped her tresses in the gentle tide,
And played with hands where passion would abide.
She thought upon the fairest god of love,
While cherubs teased and danced in air above.
Then floated there, a spider pale and dead,
To fill divine Cythere with sudden dread!
She screamed—a sharp and piercing cry of fear—
Leapt from the bath, her goddess-form made clear.
She walked refreshed, as free as morning’s song,
And flowers sprang in bloom her path along.
The ancient sages rightly said before,
Dead flies will taint the finest perfumed store.
Let spiders die, who made the goddess moan—
Such vile breed deserves no worldly throne!
She wrapped herself in robes of silken snow,
A golden girdle made her beauty glow.
She tamed the sweetness of her summer pain,
And bound her breasts with soft, yet proud disdain.
O Cythere! How you’ve let me down,
Don't lace yourself into a priggish gown!
Let splendor shine! Let freedom rule your dress—
Who bottles up the sea’s great restlessness?
She tied her chestnut hair with braids so tight,
One strand escaped—a tender, wanton sight.
And as I saw it, breath was drawn away,
My head grew hot, my thoughts began to stray!
She laid herself upon the grassy floor,
And irises blushed deeper than before.
I saw fair Venus resting on the green—
And Ares came, in martial armor seen.
Mars, lay thy weapons down upon the grass,
Unmail thy loins, let all thy war-wrath pass.
The peace of golden ages sat before,
While Eros peered from Love’s unbolted door.
Then Ares shed his mail of tempered steel,
Save for a linen cloth his loins to seal.
O Muse of Florence, paint the godly flame,
Thy painter’s hand shall glorify their name.
Draw chastity’s thin veil across the frame,
Where love the war-god’s fury overcame!
I envy him! My pulses burn and pound—
May all my strife in Love’s own grave be drowned!
And as the gods in tender rapture lay,
While Venus wiped her shame with grassy spray,
There Ares, weary, lulled in passion’s trance,
Was ringed by cherubs locked in mirthful dance.
O band of Eros, playing with his spear,
Now take those arms and cast them far from here!
Who held the shaft should hold it not for war,
But joy in love, its sweeter, truer lore.
Yet to the common shame of gods made bare,
In greenest bed and perfumed, yielding air,
Came Phoebus soaring from the vaulted blue,
And cast a golden net the lovers through.
O would that I were always caught as they,
For she has snared me in her net today.
To coo and kiss in gentle, jeweled nest,
To know all knowledge in love’s coils confessed!
The lovers, in adultery divine,
Lay caught within Apollo’s mesh so fine.
Then Vulcan came, and gods burst out in cheer,
Olympian laughter ringing far and clear.
Canto IV
O my soul, shake off this craven fear
Of judgment from a God who strikes severe.
Be gentle as the dove, yet wisely sly,
And bathe in wisdom’s soft and shining sky!
In spirit and in truth wouldst thou adore,
Then sing thy dream, be honest at the core.
Though dream it is, yet soon shall dawn the light,
When soul emerges from the shade of night.
All dreaming, all my soul’s imagining,
All tears that in the vale of shadows cling,
Are but the thirst no solace yet can tame—
For Eden’s fruit and tree of life I claim!
Let all the cosmos serve me as a shrine,
And she in soapstone nude be deemed divine.
I reach toward her cherry lips with zest,
Then higher still—to cosmos’ crown and crest!
Who saw the visions of that bloom-filled place,
Where life flows full with floral, fragrant grace?
Let crystal not, nor marble be my goal—
But wine and honey's balm to soothe the soul!
The myrrh I seek to breathe, its perfume lies
Upon dear Wisdom’s breast, a paradise.
Grant me, O God, the Greeks’ harmonious song,
For deep delight makes timeless rapture strong!
Thus strengthened now, with courage freshly won,
I dream again of kisses, one by one.
The Muses glide in rows, in art arrayed—
Then came the Muse, my love, who with me stayed.
So wander on, fair friends and women true,
With stringed delight and melodies anew.
Let me again the dream’s bright form behold,
And feel again that rapture rich and bold.
The towers crystal-pierced the heavens' dome,
And pathways spiraled to the southern home.
She came in black, her arms laid bare and wide,
Embraced me close, and pressed against my side.
The Muse lay silent on the poet's breast,
As heart to heart with beating joy was pressed.
I twined myself in locks that gently blew,
With blissful torment, sweet as it was true.
She gave her crimson lips, like pomegranate,
Our tongues entwined in passion’s sweet duet.
My senses fled in ecstasy unbound,
In flight of love that silenced every sound.
Then spoke the woman from the realm divine,
By Jove the gracious sent with will benign:
Now sing the blessed joys Anchises knew,
And Venus pale, whose lips were red with dew!
Anchises watched the herd by father’s hand,
The shepherd-chief of Dardan’s noble land.
The rosy clouds at morning stirred and stirred,
With birds love-drunk, whose song like rapture whirred.
How fair the woods of Ida, deep and still,
As Eos came with steps both soft and chill.
The cow lowed deep, with love’s desire stung—
She sensed that Eros through the meadows sprung.
Upon a Cloud Did Zeus Himself Unwind
Upon a cloud did Zeus himself unwind,
And stretch with fervent zeal o’er humankind.
He stirred in Anchises a yearning flame,
For Aphrodite — lust without a name.
Anchises burned with fire of wild delight,
Consumed by longing in the heat of night:
"O mighty goddess, vast and most divine,
Beyond all sense, I long to call thee mine!"
And Zeus again did stretch across the skies,
Inflaming Cytherea’s heart likewise.
Desire awoke in her for mortal grace;
She burned with lust to touch his earthly face.
O mortal man! Would I were mortal too,
To die embraced in love’s eternal hue!
I am the flame that rose from ocean's womb,
And you — my fleshly joy, my living doom!
The laughter-loving queen of passion came,
To kindle hearts with love’s unending flame.
A flush of blush upon her cheek was born,
As from her waist she loosed her belt of charm.
He sighed: O sweet queen of the sweetest smile!
Then kissed her lips until they bled awhile.
In her he placed his soul, his seed, his breath —
He fed her mouth, that sweetened gate of death.
There in the dark and flowering underbrush,
A shell lay red, its pearl a blushing blush —
A gate of pearls to heaven’s ecstasy,
He offered up his soul's fertility.
And from her womb there bloomed a golden fruit —
Aeneas, hero, strong and resolute,
Whose deeds did Homer’s sacred tongue recall,
Born of a god, and yet admired by all.
And Aphrodite, goddess of delight,
Cythere, ever laughing in the light,
Declared that he, Anchises, need not grieve —
Their child would spring from love’s divine reprieve.
But Zeus would rage, almighty in his throne,
Should mortals lay with gods, and claim their own,
And should a man defile that holy bloom,
And seed the womb that bears Olympian doom.
So Aphrodite washed her glowing face
With water flowing from old Ida’s place.
Where snow was white, red roses gently grew,
And shame perfumed her cheeks with blushing hue.
Ashamed, like nymphs who fear their sensual ways,
She climbed Olympus through the morning haze.
She left the barren mortal fields below,
Where once she stooped in love’s ecstatic glow.
Anchises, struck with rapture like a god,
Held tight that memory, too great, too odd —
Until, once drunk on Dionysian fire,
He let slip truths no man should e’er desire.
But all our pain, our grief, our dread despair,
The hopeless longing echoing in air —
Is healed by Dionysos’ sacred flood:
Salvation lies in consecrated blood.
From every brooding thought that casts us down,
Spiced Cyprian wine will lift the soul's dark frown,
Until we drink too much and blindly sway,
Then stumble foolishly and fall away.
As babe who spits or drools in senseless cries,
He told a fool his deepest mysteries.
That was Anchises’ bitter, shameful fall,
When Lady Folly bore him in her thrall.
I am Anchises—yes, myself, no less—
Who knew the Goddess in her waywardness.
She came to me, her modesty misplaced,
To stir in me a manhood yet untraced.
From heaven’s heights, Lord Zeus beheld our bed,
And wrathfully he shook his storming head.
He guards the honor of the Queen above,
To whom he gave his reverence and his love.
That no vile mortal dares to shame her name—
The mother of joy's ever-burning flame,
Olympian Grace, whose light the sun outshines,
Whose radiance through all earthly longing shines!
From throne of storms, said Zeus, I'll strike him low—
My thunder shall destroy him in one blow!
With searing bolt I'll scorch his mortal clay,
And cast him down to Acheron’s dismay!
But she, the Mother of all aching hearts,
Of every pang that love or loss imparts,
She stood before her father’s throne, and pled,
With rose-red heart for him she once had wed.
These mortals are but fools, and blind their eyes—
Forgive the drunken boaster’s boastful lies.
For I have loved him, chosen him as mine,
And laid myself beside him, love’s divine.
Canto V
Alas, myself must pour my goblet's wine,
Alone I drink, in fellowship with none.
Yet still, the ruby drink I call divine,
From Roman glass, glows crimson in the sun.
Where are you now, good Ganymedes gone?
Have Jove’s own eagles snatched you from the skies?
Where is an echo for my words alone,
A sage who sees the soul behind my eyes?
You fools, you rigid fundamentalist,
You always soured my wine with lewd disdain—
Your blasphemies did lazily consist
Of pissing in my cup of deepest pain!
Now sit I lone beneath fair Phoebe’s light,
And toast my brother, shadow at my side.
For Hebe’s youthful touch I long each night,
To be with her in youth and time abide.
The blessed ones above by Hebe dine,
Within her cup there floats the little imp—
Cupido! All must praise his might divine,
Even fair Kypris from Olympus’ rim.
Alcaeus sang, in fragments now passed down,
That even gods in turn the cup must share,
And Hermes served with caduceus and crown,
The feast of gods with elegance and flair.
We holy poets of the Christ declare
That wisdom is the strength we most adore.
Hermes Trismegistus, with mystic care,
We praise, and secret knowledge we explore.
Yes, Hermes came with eloquence and rod,
And taught us hidden truths from sacred lore:
Arcadia, once paradise of God,
From which the Scorpion drove us out before.
The age of Scorpios—Platonic theme—
He pierced the nymph's soft flank with stinging wile,
But from the Son of God’s redeeming beam,
He’s banished back within his fated isle.
Beneath the zodiac of Castor's flame,
The wise men sought fair Sophia’s blessed light;
(The stars may shape the low-born in their frame,
But spirit roams among the gods in flight.)
And Hermes speaks in riddles like a seer,
Through Anubis’s throat we all must go;
Yet Isis, flawless, draws our souls up clear,
Like golden suns ascending from below.
And Mercury instructs the mystic rites
Of Samothrace, mid-ocean’s holy isle,
Where sinners fasted through the sacred nights,
And praised the grape and grain with solemn smile.
And Hermes came to Aphrodite fair,
Who on a rock beside the sea reclined.
A pomegranate burned within his care,
Cythere sucked its juice and sweetly dined.
As god with goddess whispered young delight,
A bashful blush o’ertook her modest flame.
Then Hermes brought from shells the meat so white,
The salty flesh from which all lovers came.
He handed her a vine leaf, neatly rolled,
With dainties filled—delights of taste untold.
She placed the roll with grace into her mouth,
And even Hermes' lust it quenched, forsooth.
Then mixed he powder from the rhino's horn
In Roman wine, the grapes of passion born.
Her cheeks began to glow with blushing flame,
As near he sat, as if both were the same.
He set upon the stony table bare
A fish, with salt from the Mediterranean fair.
To please her love, this dish he did prepare,
And heard her tongue click—Aphrodite's flare.
He offered her one potion after next,
To thrill the goddess—charmingly perplexed.
As if from Elysium’s divine delight,
She blushed with modesty, her skin turned bright.
Mercurius, whose element is air,
Commanded southern winds to whisper fair.
He bore the scent of blossoms, blue and light,
Into her curls, so brown and sweetly tight.
He brought the fragrance of the reddest rose,
With golden sunlight mingled in its dose.
Enchanted, they embraced in fragrant play,
As mortals might to gods incense convey.
In rosemary and lavender he laid
The Venus-form, whom dialectic swayed.
As air, he moved with lustful lover’s grace,
And circled 'round her chaste and modest face.
A mare has once conceived from passing breeze—
And cows, too, have been bred by winds with ease.
So Hermes blew into her curling hair,
And robbed her goddess-rest with cunning flair.
She arched like waves that crash on ocean’s shore,
She surged like tides that rise and swell and roar.
She bent the triumph-arch in passion's heat,
Through which burned Hermes’ flaming, godly feet.
Then he, with all his contradictions bound,
With double-natured self, in her was found.
She was like marble from Carrara’s mines,
As fair as Helen, born of starry signs.
And she, in whom the cosmos once was wound,
Unloosed, and bore a fruit so deep, profound—
As in the ancient poets’ songs we see,
A wondrous child from love’s divinity.
Hermaphroditus was the child’s true name,
From both his mother and his father came.
As maiden, like a broomstick lithe and fair,
As boy, a mind with nearly girl-like care.
From Mother came his beauty, pure and fair,
Her father's joy gave her the buoyant air.
A youth, he sang with tones beyond the known,
Her ear, a maiden’s, caught the gentle tone.
His soul was soft—virginal in its grace,
As though on velvet paws he crossed the place.
A girl, she bore the wisdom pure and wide,
More wise than bald men lost in brooding pride.
Hermaphroditus’ soul was water-bright,
His fate as fleeting as the wind in flight.
Her womb a storm, her mind a desert gale,
His heart a wreath of roses, fresh and frail.
Those eyes so clear! Those lashes long and fine!
Those lips so soft! Those curls like tangled twine!
His hair—wide nets of mesh in golden shade—
Veiled cheeks where downy whispers gently played.
No boy, no girl: behold, a poet stands!
The poet’s soul knows not of gendered hands.
To beauty's dream he yields without regret,
A bridal breeze stirs softly through his net.
True poets! Let not scoffers shame your fire!
So womanlike you dream and still aspire.
More sisterly than sisters in your art,
Your beauty rises from the dreamer’s heart.
Be core-born souls, you poets: firm and bold,
In shaping thought, like Father-God of old.
By speech's staff you hold yourselves upright,
And shape the form with inner forming might.
The Mother Earth presents her open face,
The sunlight calls you to the sky’s embrace.
Within the moon's mild heart a man is found,
Alone with shadow, wine, and thoughts profound.
For truly, poets are like moons above,
Reflecting suns with borrowed light of love.
They grace the earth with softly silvered sight,
And seal with balm of dew the wounds of night.
The Muse, thy bride, is like the rising sun,
She steps in gold, the day’s bright crown begun.
She is the sky’s delight, the world’s clear flame—
And loving her, thou lov’st the Light’s own name!
Canto VI
I see you, vineyards steeped in drunken haze,
Where crooked pines wear crowns of greenish blaze.
The squirrels spiral up the barky halls,
And honey drips from pine-coned temple walls.
I see the surge of wheat in ocean waves,
Its tide rolls skyward, where the heaven braves.
With golden hair, the long and slender grain,
Erects its body in a gold domain.
Brown cattle moo with udders round and tight,
Their milk flows warm in streams of frothy white.
Pink pigs lie resting in their shaded pen,
Where Jews and Muslims fail as faithful men.
Yet pagans march in sacred, solemn lines
Through blooming vales encircled by the pines,
Where naked nymphs within the rivers dwell,
Clad only in the sunbeam’s glancing spell.
Their limbs are milk, their forms are golden bread,
One longs to share them warm, from heel to head.
Who would not burrow in that tender form,
To heal the wound where sexes blur and swarm?
We wish to lie upon great Nature’s breast,
Within her womb, in living breath to rest,
To drink the fire of life with burning lips,
And rise from death that grips the soul and grips!
Let us, in drunken joy, life’s bounty praise,
As though no creature sighed through fleeting days.
And see, through veils the sunbeam’s fingers draw,
Eternal Nature shining forth in awe!
As though a god would lay her at our feet,
With fruits from Arcady divinely sweet—
No more the groan, no croak, no barren shore,
The grain abundance ever brims in store.
There shall we rest where sweetest bushes bloom,
Like wingèd genii born of spirit's womb,
And blend our breath with perfumes rising slow,
Where gentle blossoms on the hilltops glow.
On every tree, the fruit of joy does swing—
We drink its nectar in our wondering.
The host of stars above begins to reel,
Their soul-sparks in our burning hearts we feel.
As though I kissed the mouth of bliss at last,
In purest rapture longing to hold fast,
To drink from breasts the burning ecstasy,
And die love’s death in deep felicity!
O let me know your secret, dark and deep,
O garden of delight, in silence keep!
Let me for your pomegranate burn,
That I may taste the bliss for which I yearn!
Then Dionysus came, the lord of field,
Whose golden light to all the green did yield.
He came alone, no maddened crowd around,
No maenads’ cry, just footsteps on the ground.
O thyrsus-staff, your pinecone tip I greet,
With ivy wild wrapped round your sacred seat!
O Lyaeus, let us walk in your bold track,
Lead us with power, and we shall not turn back!
You are the strength of man in flesh and frame,
The pine-shaft grips you, blazing, wild with flame.
You are the might of drunkenness made real,
Born from the Highest’s loins, with godly zeal!
Yet too a girlish youth with flowing hair,
Soft lips, bright eyes, with light and beauty fair.
The Bacchic maidens found delight in you,
Their vine-wreathed dances whirled your spirit through.
Touch us with your enchanted, magic rod,
That timber wakes and buds at your nod.
If from your ecstasy our life began,
Let nectar drip from lips of mortal man!
In all your veins the purple wine runs sweet,
Your god-flesh is the food we long to eat.
A drop of blood that in your body flows,
To be your flesh, is all my spirit knows.
Behold her now, she in the garden stood—
No, danced!—while hares leapt in the springtime wood.
The serpent bit its tail, a silver ring,
And she began her florid spiraling.
She ran her hand through auburn, ruddy hair,
Entangling curls with fingers pale and fair.
The blossoms bowed before her curling grace—
For she was queen of every blooming place.
She twined her whiteness like a coiling snake,
As magi summon spirits for love’s sake.
The purple blush, the flame along her cheek,
Could make even Dionysos faint and weak.
Then Dionysos feared with trembling heart,
For Eros honed his arrows, sharp with art—
He dipped them in the burning of her face,
Whose breast could conquer any god or race.
As morning dew on magnolia bloom appears,
So fell a veil around her hips and spheres.
Yet more revealed than hid the veiling fold—
Aphrodite's truth in silken gold.
But Eros drew the gauze from off her skin,
And showed the ivory where gods begin.
Evier, Evier! in joy and grace,
He joined the queen in her divine embrace.
Now help me, holy Erato, divine,
To sing with wisdom praise in lyric line—
The golden key to Plato’s dungeon door,
Prepared to seek its golden keyhole’s core.
The Jews of old, in Testament and Law,
Spoke of the sign that Abraham once saw.
For David, too, that mark did turn his fate,
To sin, then wedding-bed and bridal state.
Saint Paul once said the weakest limb we hide,
That all the Body sings and is not pride.
Yet every member of the flesh must raise
Its voice in song to God’s incarnate praise!
The Gnostics and the Manichees reviled
The body's limbs, so lovely, strong, and wild.
The saints and seers of many centuries past
Despised the tool by which the bond is cast.
Still to this day, in vaulted halls, priests teach,
The flesh exists for children—none may breach.
Yet all that happens in the shadowed wall,
They shroud in silence, fearing truth might fall.
A poet of my church once dared to claim:
That phallus, vulva—sacraments the same!
In every act of love, love’s self delights,
When bride and groom share joy in sacred rites.
Now in these times of Rome’s Saturnal feasts,
And Köln's wild carnival with masks and beasts,
Fed well with Ceres’ grain and Bacchus’ wine,
In marble halls where gods and mortals dine—
I sing the praise of man and all his frame,
Each part a glory, none deserving shame,
What woman loves in man—without disguise—
And what in man brings longing to her eyes.
In woman may you find your destined end,
Then rise again, reborn through her to send.
Yes, bold I speak: let go, and take her hand,
Let laughter bloom from lips where joys expand!
So in a garden I shall set you high,
O son of Venus, Dionysos nigh—
With nectar from the flowers you're baptized,
A wand of wonder, sacred, mythic-sized.
The nightingales shall sing their symphonies,
While cooing doves compose their ecstasies.
Lift up your head—behold her breasts arise,
The sight that stirs my soul and dims my eyes!
Go, pass within her gate of blushing rose,
And plead my cause where sweetest longing grows!
For she’s a fruit of rich and ripened hue—
And I, like you, sweet Priapus, woo!
Canto VII
O Myrrha, Myrrha, praised in holy song,
Rich balm of oil, whose fragrance lingers long,
You showed the Syrian fields the sacred way,
To God’s own soul through scent and sweet array.
O Myrrha, Myrrha, hallowed be thy name,
Not arid thought, but leafy, living flame!
A perfumed smile surrounds thee, fresh and green,
Thy limbs become the smoke of rites unseen.
O Myrrha, Myrrha, life by grace adorned,
Thy mother’s womb, with fragrant bush adorned,
From thy live fibers, soft and pure and fair,
Adonis sprang, God young and debonair!
Now bloom the bells, those tiny flowers white,
And Crocus serves the rites in morning light.
Adonis is the soul of vernal time,
In crimson roses wrapped, in velvet prime.
His eyes like flames, in burning ardor gleam,
His face is like the sun in morning’s beam.
His curls like golden waves around him swim,
His form delights the holy women’s hymn.
The pious women tend their garden plots,
Their tulips blush for him in sacred spots.
Slim maiden-hips, like willows, gently bend,
And Eros, blind and bold, they swift unpen.
The Bible calls thee favorite of the fair,
The pagans named thee Tammuz, sweet and rare.
Yet I—a bard in classic mood and mode—
Will feast on Cyprus' god in song bestowed.
The goddess born of Aphros’ foamy tide,
She wandered here where rainbow blooms abide.
I summon you, O Muses, daughters bright,
And thee, great Shakespeare’s soul and sacred light!
For he did sing the longing of the kiss,
The goddess' thirst for Aphrodite’s bliss.
He sang of lips, and love’s divine delay,
And holy burning hearts that fade away.
And Sappho raised the hymn in priestly flame,
To Kypris weeping Adon’s hallowed name.
To Kypris, too, she prayed with passion wild,
When her own heart was by a maid beguiled.
O golden Venus on thy dappled seat,
Drawn in thy car by finches lithe and sweet—
Thy son torments my veins with cruel delight!
Oh grant me grace, return love’s tender light!
O soul that once sang praises bright and clear,
Whom shall sweet Peitho lead to love sincere?
O Cytherea! Morpho fills my heart,
Now stir her soul with thy soft, cunning art!
O Erato, now sing the aching song,
Of Anadyomene, grieved so long.
Her tears fell light from lashes soft and wide,
Her sighs like birds flew off to worlds untried.
O goddess-formed, beloved and divine,
To thee alone my yearning I consign!
Enfold me in thine arms of sacred grace,
And dance with me in love’s enchanted space!
O you, more radiant than springtime’s bloom,
Within your eyes, all light dissolves my gloom.
Let me, with reverence shy and chaste command,
Bestow a kiss upon your gentle hand.
To you alone my grateful heart I owe,
For kissing that dear hand so pure as snow.
O slender hand, so pale and finely wrought,
In beauty’s bonds my soul by thee is caught.
I long to kiss your wrist, your arm, your skin,
To feel the pulse of love that dwells within.
And should you warm to thoughts of such a bliss—
Perhaps you smile to dream of such a kiss?
I long to kiss your ivory shoulder fair,
O godlike form, with reverential care!
I’d be the silk that wraps your noble frame,
To bite you deep with love’s devouring flame!
I see your shoulder — beauty’s purest light —
Yet may not kiss it, aching with delight.
Upon my own, a yoke of fate is pressed,
That I must ever lack your fond caress.
O fairest being! When your cheeks you lave
With crystal waters that their bloom might brave,
Then leap my soul-snakes, sevenfold in flight,
And Phoenix-heart ignites in burning light!
With all my soul I thank you, noble one,
That once I kissed your cheek like golden sun.
No day have I felt more a king than then,
When I beheld your curls — love’s crown for men.
What shall I say? You see me waste in flame,
My passions burn — untamed, without a name.
I dream your mouth, that godlike, purple pride,
And ache to kiss the bloom you would not bide.
Once by the lake, beneath the verdant trees,
I kissed your lips — like fire they seized my knees!
You, chaste as snow, as shy as any bride,
I, rose of flame with heart's wound open wide.
Though I’m divine, and deathless is my breath,
If you refuse one kiss — it means my death!
This burning love — too fierce for mortal day —
Will break my soul if you still turn away!
O proud and lovely man, why so unkind?
Was bile so black and gall so green your mind?
For whom were those divine lips set apart?
Zeus sent the boar to tear your shining heart!
The beast broke from the forest, vast and dire,
He came with thundering hooves and eyes of fire.
His monstrous bulk was dread, his breath was flame,
And to the youth in wrathful charge he came.
Lightning burst forth from his infernal eyes,
And thunder cracked beneath his feet and cries.
From every pore your fear began to seep,
Adonis — death shall strike you in your sleep!
On John the Baptist’s day shall fall your fate,
Your blood shall burn and flower soon too late.
In crimson streams your beauty shall be shed,
Your body rot within the earthen bed.
Demigod lord of seasons and their flow,
You’ll fade with autumn leaves in golden woe.
While vintners walk the rows with hands like red,
Your form lies with the dust, your beauty dead.
Snow falls from clouds into your perfumed hair,
Your limbs are ice, once warm and rich and rare.
Yet spring shall bloom with bells of white and gold,
And women sing with hearts both proud and bold.
But now, struck down by tusk so fierce and wild,
You fall — and weeps the goddess for her child.
She holds you to her breast in aching pain,
Anadyomene in love’s refrain.
O Aphrodite, cast away your veil,
And let it cover him so pale and frail.
Let soul-fired tears upon his body stream,
And let your grieving bosom heave and gleam.
We all hear sighs and moaning, full of pain,
Escape the lips where sorrow leaves its stain.
We see the lovely one, in grief bowed low,
Before the one who meets his end in woe.
Her flowing locks undone, in soft descent,
Like strings of rosy pearls, disheveled, bent.
A sea of tears where Paphia finds release,
As starlike drops disturb her breast's deep peace.
At last she may now kiss his pallid face,
No longer rose-hued, robbed of life's embrace.
She clasps him close, though wounded is her heart,
And weeping, holds his feet, still worlds apart.
O pain! O mystic sweetness of the soul!
A tear transfigured to a pearl made whole—
A pearly gate to fair Elysium,
Where Anadyomene is overcome.
Canto VIII
Now lend, O Muse, me Orpheus' sacred lyre,
That I may speak old proverbs, filled with fire.
Let me proclaim the fair and wondrous sprite,
The maiden of all beauty: Psyche bright!
O Psyche, with thine eyes like almond’s glaze,
O Psyche, with thine eyes like almond’s phase,
A rock stands in the flood where currents run,
Above it shines the light of setting sun.
The tenth among the Muses' dancing line,
The fourth amid the Graces thou dost shine,
More dear to me than Aphrodite's charms,
I’d cradle Psyche’s heart within mine arms!
The poet, drunk with Genius’ holy flame,
Exalts fair Psyche with love’s sacred name.
This Venus heard within Olympus' dome,
And burned with wrath and envy in her home.
She called her son, the blind and daring Eros,
And said with bitter mouth, consumed by pathos:
Make her fall in love—but not with any knight!
Let her be cursed to love a monstrous sight!"
Go execute the curses that I wail,
Wrenched from the blackest gall without avail.
Give her, that praised and celebrated girl,
To Jürgen, swineherd of the village hurl!"
And Eros heard upon his mother’s knee
The hateful curse and swore its destiny.
Then from her lap he tore himself apart,
To wreck the gentle Psyche’s blooming heart.
With beating wings he soared through airy skies,
He pierced the clouds and passed where silence lies,
He reached a land with sea of deepest blue,
Where Psyche stood amidst the mortal crew.
And once he saw her in her summer dress,
So light, so sweet, such natural loveliness,
Blessed with the charm of every mortal maid,
In love he fell, and vow of wrath decayed.
He wrapped her in his warm and feathered arms,
As once did Zeus with Leda’s stolen charms,
Psyche’s allure did Eros' heart inflame,
He bore her through the night with wings of flame.
He took her to his garden full of flowers,
His palace filled with joy and secret bowers,
Where he, with holy rites and passion bright,
Would serve her love with sacred heart alight.
Yet she might never know his name divine,
Nor see his form, though heavenly he shine.
And through the night he kissed her o’er and o’er,
Her body dear, whom none could not adore.
Thus lived they long in bliss without a care,
Like doves who love within a perfumed lair,
Two lovers drunk with love in love’s own land,
Until her sisters came to take her hand.
"Step-sisters, Eros, must I see once more,
And tell them of the joy that I adore.
They too must hear my sweet felicity,
This bliss I gained through love’s divinity."
The blind god bore her to her sisters’ place,
Unknowing of fate’s high and woven trace,
He saw not what the goddesses had spun—
The threads of doom already were begun.
My step-sisters, O daughters of my sire,
Come, share my joy, let envy not inspire!
If you submit to him, my loving lord,
He might your sundered hearts with love reward.
For such a love to me was truly shown,
My heart feels healed and wholly is my own.
I wish this grace my sisters too may find,
That such a love may bind all humankind!
But darkly do my sisters' thoughts conspire:
"A monster comes to mate with you at night!
A demon drawn from Hades’ realm of fire,
Who courts your doom in shadow's ghastly rite!
Though stepsisters, we counsel what is best—
Tonight, this beast of night you must destroy!
Heed us, for we are guardians heaven-blessed,
Though stepbound, wisdom makes us now alloy."
So Psyche hastened to the shadowed vale,
Where blood-red beeches cast a ruddy gloom,
She lay within the chamber dark and pale,
To wait her spouse within that silent room.
A tiny lamp she kept beneath her veil,
And near it hid a dagger, sharp and cold.
She waited there, her breathing faint and frail,
Like one who fears what dreadful fate may hold.
At midnight came, unseen, the god of love,
To her, his bride, more fair than mortal dream;
Well-tutored in the joys that dwell above,
That Homer once to Helen’s touch did deem.
And Eros lay with Psyche, deep in bliss,
Till fire of longing quenched in pleasure’s glow;
Then sank he down into a downy kiss,
His head upon her breast, serene and low.
But Psyche, stirred by doubt, her lamp revealed—
And saw the god whom she had thought a beast!
She gasped—and in that moment, all concealed
Was Eros gone, his tenderness had ceased.
For when he woke and saw the gleaming knife,
He knew her heart had doubted love divine.
He vanished swift, forsaking love and life,
And left her weeping, stripped of joy’s design.
Now Psyche, shorn of bridegroom, joy, and light,
Fell deep into a vale of grief and pain.
She dreamt of ruin, screamed herself from night,
And sought the son of Venus, all in vain.
She fled the hall of love, now cold and bare,
Its sacred rites now emptied of delight.
She left the valley steeped in dewy air,
Abandoning its bloom and morning light.
Through towns and villages she wandered on,
Through deserts, forests, and by storm-tossed seas—
Unchained by bonds, companions, all were gone,
Save longing for love’s fragrant melodies.
At last she reached the gate of sacred rose,
Which whispered welcome with a silent charm.
An apple tree in bloom before it grows,
Where dove and dove embraced in soft alarm.
Behind it stood proud Paphia’s domain,
A jasper palace red as poppy’s hue.
And Psyche, trembling, crossed that holy plain
To stand before Urania’s ancient view.
Then Venus made her servant, stern and cold,
And set her tasks of burden and of grief.
Oft Psyche sighed, too worn, too weak, too old,
And found in dreams alone her brief relief.
But Eros still concealed his godly grace,
Though seven souls of pain were in his place.
At dawn one day, beneath the rose-lit skies,
To Father Zeus he came with pleading eyes.
And Zeus beheld from clouds his golden throne,
As morning light upon the palace shone:
I see Urania’s daughter, fair and mild,
Now serving Psyche like a humble child.
And you, O wingèd boy, with sightless gaze,
Still bear for her a heart consumed in blaze.
So let dear Psyche be my gracious gift,
And may her griefs in joy and glory shift.
Then Eros in a flame of love appeared,
Before the one whom once his silence feared.
No monster met her gaze, no loathsome brute,
Nor kitchen swineherd rough and grim and mute.
But crimson wings enclosed her with desire,
And bore her through the storm of love’s own fire—
In passion's rapture, whirling past control,
She rose, enwrapped in kisses of the soul!
Immortal then became her soul and name,
Her senses bathed in bliss, her heart in flame.
And Amor gave the god-blessed maiden fair
A rightful place in Love’s eternal air.
Canto IX
O laughing-loving, radiant Cytherea,
Bind storming rapture o’er the blue Aegea
With belt of grace across the middle sea,
And quench the flames of sin that torture me!
O goddess, queen of gods and goddesses,
Who reigns by power love alone possesses!
From out thy fires no soul escapes unburned—
May Charis smile on us, with favor turned!
Yet three chaste goddesses the skies have known,
All virgins, veiled before both god and throne.
No eye has seen them bathe in earthly stream,
Unseen they wander, holy and serene.
Diana, huntress with her flowing hair,
Moves through the forest wild and shadowed air;
In trailing robe she walks where no man stalks,
While bluebell chimes ring soft along her walks.
Her silver throne upon the moon she reigns,
As queen of night she blesses hills and plains;
Her dews fall soft when nightingales alone
Keep watch and guard the secrets of her throne.
She glances shy through lashes dark and long,
Her brow arched lightly, sculpted, chaste and strong.
A quiver bright upon her hip she wears,
With arrows keen for all her woodland snares.
And nimble nymphs sweep softly through the glade,
In search of woods where Artemis has strayed.
The stag, with reverence, bows before her might,
Forgets his mate in awe of virgin light.
As gentle as the dawn-awakened deer,
Her nymphs flee mortal bonds and drawing near.
They shun all earthly marriage, earthly fire—
By virgin woods encircled in desire.
Among these nymphs was chaste Metamelia,
Of Parthenion, fair Arcadia’s mia.
Who saw her nose disdainfully upturned,
When lewd the Muse-born poet's passion burned?
A seer, in virtue clad, could earn her gaze—
One who sipped wisdom’s wine in holy praise.
To him she showed her eyes, in greenish light,
Her lips, like roses trembling in their white.
She showed her locks of dusky-golden thread,
That softly on her silken robe were spread.
Her snowy dress — so pure, so finely spun —
Struck breath from him; he faltered, overcome.
She touched him with her hands, so cool, divine—
And struck him blind with ecstasy’s design.
Diana saw him fall, undone, accused—
For he confessed: “’Twas Cynthia I have kissed.”
Athena is the other goddess pure,
Who bows not to the Paphian's allure.
She cries not out in passion’s sweet unrest,
No mortal gaze has seen her form undressed.
From Zeus’s brow she sprang with battle’s pride,
In gleaming arms, no need for groom or guide.
She taught the Greeks to drive the Persians back,
And taught proud Rome to wield the god of war’s attack.
Athens raised up the finest marble columns,
To Athena, guardian of their solemn realms.
Her sacred birds were owls, in twilight pale,
Their silver stare like moonlight through a veil.
In olive groves, her temple gifts took root—
The oil tree’s fruit, for her alone, bore fruit.
Fools who opposed her wisdom’s holy way
Caused her much grief and led the world astray.
She once appeared within old Nestor’s form
To guide Telemachus through wisdom’s storm.
She taught the German poet Torsten too—
Consoled him when his pain and sorrow grew.
A virgin goddess, pure as ice and snow,
No lustful cry did from her silence grow.
She taught wise Plato in the grove’s cool air
The ideal form beyond all earthly care.
To Athene was the maiden Retia true,
Who dwelled in Athens, garbed in wisdom's hue.
Though maiden-born, her soul was shaped by men,
She longed to walk with Plato in his den.
So dressed a boy, not out of wanton aim,
But thirst for truth, not craving lust or fame.
She sought from sages wisdom’s flowing spring,
Not songs of harlots minstrels often sing.
She loathed the screech of every Xanthippe,
Preferred a quiet soul’s philosophy.
She listened close to mouths by fate made wise,
And watched the Fates weave threads with silent eyes.
She cursed the paths of Paphos-Ktima’s line—
The harlot’s trade no soul could e’er refine.
She praised but one: the seeress Diotime,
Who dreamed of love’s ascent beyond all time.
Yet not in passion’s blaze or lustful trance,
But wisdom’s love—sublime in soul’s advance.
In Retia’s breast the truest form was grown:
The Good, the Beautiful, the True alone.
A third great goddess, stranger still to fire,
Was never touched by Paphia’s desire.
Hestia, virgin, rarely met the eye—
Her gaze was chaste and mirrored starry sky.
Once Apollo, flushed with vernal flame,
Beneath a linden whispered her his name.
He pled for love, for beauty pure and bright,
But she denied the golden god his right.
She prized her vow, her uncorrupted name,
Though even poets’ god would court her flame.
She laid her slender hand upon the brow
Of Zeus, whose curls outshone the sun somehow,
And to his throne she gave her virgin prayer—
A vow of flame, forever pure and fair.
I turned away from Phoebus’ burning plea,
And vowed to keep my maiden purity.
Though he pursued, I firmly spurned his fire—
To greater heights my chaste heart would aspire.
To Zeus I swore a sacred, solemn vow,
Which won his favor and his reverent brow.
He granted me, with dignity and grace,
A flame eternal for the hearth and place.
In Greece, few women served fair Hestia's name,
For love’s bright god had set their hearts aflame.
Who could resist when Eros ruled the skies?
His arrows danced in every lover’s eyes.
Yet one I saw before the altar stand,
A vow upon her lips, a flame in hand.
And in that moment, silent, soft, and clear,
The poet’s eye was blurred with tender tear.
Ah, downy arms and hair like golden wheat!
Ah, youthful dreams that once were soft and sweet!
Now lost forever to her sacred call—
She shut her soul to love, and gave her all.
She lives untouched, in purity divine,
A mystery held by the sacred shrine.
Devoted solely to Olympian fire,
Her virtue shines, a beacon to inspire.
Yet Cupid smiles — his barb as sharp as ever,
And stirs the hearts that swore to stray from never.
Melissa’s hand through silken strands does glide,
That veil her form with soft, Sapphic pride.
And so we circle back to passion’s flame,
That minstrels sang and poets dared to name.
The radiant goddess with her laughing eyes—
Fair Aphrodite, queen of love and sighs!
Canto X
Upon a mountain slope once lived a swain,
A goatherd mild, whose soul knew not of pain.
Oft did he dream beneath the myrtle tree,
At peace with earth, with sky, and melody.
He watched his goats and kids upon the green,
Where grasses lush in springtime bloom were seen.
The flowers wore their robes of vivid dyes,
While nectar-seeking flit the butterflies.
The sun would shine, and in its golden gleam
His heart poured out to gods a grateful stream.
And then he’d muse upon his longing deep—
A love that woke his soul but let it weep.
He loved the fair and radiant Ephyra,
Who plucked her flowers by the cypress tree.
And when he saw her, gods above could hear
The burning cry of love’s fierce agony.
At dawn her beauty lingered in his mind,
As if some sea-born goddess redefined.
She moved with grace, like those in mythic song,
A charm so sweet it could not lead to wrong.
Her flawless skin through summer’s cloth would shine,
With sweat like pearls in morning’s sacred shrine—
Pearls born of longing, gleaming in the sun,
The pain of summer love, and he undone.
When he beheld the goats in passion leap,
And kids that sucked the milk in hunger deep,
Then all his dreams surged forth with aching cries
As hot tears fell from blue and yearning eyes.
She smiled with gentle mercy, ever fair,
Yet answered not his love, nor heard his prayer.
As cold as Venus cast in marble white,
Yet living proof of beauty’s deadly might.
He turned unto the night, his only friend,
And wept beneath the moon without an end.
Dark melancholy held his veins in thrall,
His blood swam black beneath its ghostly pall.
He ceased to tend the goats and left the day,
In fasting vigil watched the night decay.
He slept while waking, dreamed when sleep was near,
His heart raced on in fevered, shattered fear.
So thin he grew, near to a living shade,
And ivy leaves became his bitter bread.
On stony beds of rock he laid his head,
And cried to gods for peace among the dead.
He died of grief—his love too vast to bear.
Then came winged Thanatos through silent air,
To lead him from that final earthly loss
Into Urania’s eternal bosom’s cross.
There body, soul, in mystic change were one,
A transformation by the stars begun.
His flesh grew beastly, loosed from human shape,
But through pure death, his soul found full escape.
She raised the limbs once lifeless, cold and wan,
And shaped them to a shining snow-white swan.
The soul returned into the plume-clad frame,
And soared once more on fate’s unbridled flame.
The darkling brother, sensual and wild,
Transformed, became a sense serene and mild.
The soul now dwelled in joy, in feathered grace,
Delighting in eternal new embrace.
The swan flew wide with wings of sweeping span,
And left behind the Lethe’s dusky plan,
Ascending into pure and cloudless sky,
Where Venus’ golden tresses floated by.
She gleamed like diamonds, brilliant, chaste, and bright,
With heaven’s light aglow in eyes of light.
In golden beams did Cygnus softly sway
On waves that blushed in rose-red ocean spray.
He swam upon the endless sapphire tide,
That gushed from Venus’ hair and surged beside.
He sailed into the southern hemisphere,
Toward realms of bliss, the Isles of Heaven near.
And Venus, also named the Grace divine,
Who tames the savage wave with touch benign,
She journeyed forth to Greece’s storied strand,
Drawn in her car by doves at her command.
She hastened to the fields of Arcady,
To bless fair Ephyra with ecstasy—
The gentle Ephyra, so mild, so fair—
To lift her to the isles through golden air.
The doves came to a halt with coo and hum,
They gently rocked the chariot as they come,
And Ephyra was caught in Venus’ charm,
Until she joined her, safe from every harm.
Then Ephyra stood on the darkened shore,
Where lava shaped the beach and stone it bore.
She found the land in bloom, so lush and grand,
Like Eden once for Chava and her man.
She saw the waves of great Atlantic sweep
Into a cove where rocks were black and steep.
As though fair nymphs on sea-mares rode in light,
With Poseidon in hand his scepter bright.
Then Aphrodite’s statue came ashore,
By ocean’s gift unto the isles once more.
O Ephyra! O blossom of the sea!
O heavenly one with hair of auburn free!
When Ephyra that sacred image raised,
She journeyed inward, long and deeply dazed.
There lay a world of bliss, serene and right—
A true abode of joy and pure delight!
A garden rich in bloom, a heaven’s glade,
Where lilac bushes smile in purple shade.
Where countless birds their songs of gladness spill,
And long banana leaves the breezes fill.
In bushes sang the thrush with dusky plume,
While cheerful finches chattered through the bloom.
The island garden lured them, shy and sweet,
To moisture's heart, retreating soft of feet.
There came she to the Cupids' workroom door,
Where Eros’ children played with sweets and more.
They shaped from sugar loaves their fond delight,
Which pleased the tongues of cherubs, soft and white.
O sugar-snouted dear! O honeyed kiss!
Sweet Cupid labored cocoa into bliss.
Be patient, said he, chocolate shall be made,
And love shall rise where cocoa’s warmness played.
What poets sing of ambrosia's flow,
That drips from rocky heights in gods’ tableau,
Was here in Ephyra — so fair, so mild —
Transformed in sweets that left her weak and wild.
With honeyed joy her very soul was stirred,
The buzzing bee within her softly purred.
She sighed, If now a hero kissed me near,
I’d lose myself in bliss so bright and clear.
From leafy grove came Cygnus, flushed and bold,
His heart on fire, no longer self-controlled.
He saw her there, his own beloved one,
And Cupid’s sparks leapt out, their course begun.
Beneath the shade of broad banana leaves,
While birds sang songs as sweet as summer eves,
They kissed like gods in passion's warm embrace—
So long, so wet, in fevered, flowing grace.
They passed into the tangled, leafy deep
And sank into a pool serene and steep.
Together bathed in union pure and kind,
While waves caressed them, warm as lovers' mind.
Then Ephyra rose gleaming from the spray,
In naked glory near the shore to stay.
And Cygnus, rapt, forgot all former pain,
And sealed his joy in love’s eternal chain.
O Ephyra, my life, my love, my flame!
Bright Cytherea, laughing is thy name.
Thy face, the sun by which my life is led—
My queen within the crystal sphere, rose-red!
Canto XI
Half of his journey now was past and gone,
When Tannhäuser into a dark wood came alone—
A forest unlike any known on earth,
That threatened him with forms of monstrous girth.
It was the wood of hatred and of strife,
Of enmity distilled, devoid of life.
In sable garb it stood, a sight unblest,
Where mocking winds of scorn gave none a rest.
What once was holy, both in heaven and here,
Was mocked and trampled, held beneath all sneer.
With haughty gestures, proud beyond compare,
They scorned the sweetness of the holy air.
The owls had creeds, those seers blind yet wise,
Who saw in God a hate that underlies.
They turned from childlike faith and bowed no head,
For in their hearts, the love of God was dead.
The forest god was but a ghastly shade,
In blackest fear and horror he was made.
Eternal sameness was his cold decree—
No change, no hope, just time's monotony.
Who’d trust this god? Yet he alone was known
To owls, who made his midnight dread their own.
They preached of terror, dread, and doom’s domain,
And worshipped him with gloomy, dark refrain.
The mice crept forth as giants of the mind,
And gnawed the roots of truths once well-defined.
Their shadowed thoughts, blown through the branches black,
Spoke of the end, the day all light turns back.
These mice shall first be raised in ecstasy,
But only those who claim their piety.
For thousand years they'll rule in learned peace,
In earthly Zion where all sorrows cease.
How versed they were in matters of the soul—
Inventing gods to fill their wisdom's hole!
They read the legends etched in ancient trees,
The rings of years their sacred prophecies.
They gnawed with minds as sharp as they were small,
And told of wolves and mystic rise and fall.
Their god—conceived in skulls so tight and bare—
Was far and false, a phantom made of air.
Yet mistress of this wood was still the wolf,
Who taught both owl and mouse her cursed gulf.
Her spittle dripped like cold, dead blasphemy,
With seven heresies in misery.
“Come then, false wolf, you shall not lure my soul!”
Cried Tannhäuser, defying her control.
“Though Luther’s name you mouth with hollow tone,
Your bells are clay, and dead—they ring alone!
But I shall follow Her, my God’s own mother!”
He turned away, and would not heed another.
From out a bush of green stepped Father Goethe,
With heavenly joy upon his brow aglow, he
Smiled like the blessed, laughing mild and bright,
As dawn rose up and vanquished forest night.
Then Goethe spoke in honeyed, noble phrase:
The Mother's form, all women’s queen, we praise.
In love she calls all beauty to the bard,
Who seeks no prize but her, his lone reward!
And that the poet’s work may come to bloom,
She gave her image, shining through the gloom.
In love she shall the poet’s youth restore—
But first, you must pass Venus’ mountain door.
And Goethe led the way with staff in hand,
Tannhäuser gladly followed his command.
For when the gift of grace began to shine,
He passed through purging fire by will divine.
They reached a gate, majestic, tall and wide,
With crimson rose-thorns curling on each side.
There flew the choir of Amor’s wingèd grace,
And sang of Aphrodite’s ocean place.
But water was not here her true domain,
No nymphs in whispered silk would swim again.
The sea where now the poet feels the flame,
Is kindled bright by Love’s eternal name!
The minstrels of all ages raised their song
Within the seventh ring of fire and wrong.
By tongues of red-hot snakes they were embraced,
And bore their trials gladly, soul replaced.
There walked the poet every heart had known,
Through Amor’s garden, heated to the bone.
Beside the noble Dante did he roam,
With Petrarch wandering the flames of home.
As Dante tells, by Beatrice’s hand,
Who brought him truth from Heaven’s purest land:
There wept they bitter tears for Venus’ fire,
And praised the one who curbed all man’s desire.
Then Tannhäuser into the fire did tread,
Like loosened locks of flame upon his head.
He feared the searing blaze would be his doom,
Yet walked the path into the inner room.
The panther of the flesh was driven out,
The fox had torches tied his tail about.
And purity of soul at last was found,
His passions healed, transformed, and safe and sound.
Desire, once wild, now ordered, rose in praise,
To Her, the Purest One, in holy blaze.
Through flame and snake stood Tannhäuser in awe,
And blessed the One who bore the One he saw.
The Lady full of grace then bade him rise,
Appearing as the Virgin from the skies.
She led him from the house of carnal night,
And sent him onward to the seat of Light.
To Rome then Tannhäuser began to go,
And came at last where Saint Peter’s domes glow.
Above the wave-bright Tiber shone the sun,
Its azure laughter blessing everyone.
The orange trees in springtime sweetly bloomed,
The holy Good Friday was now entombed.
And Tannhäuser received his audience
Upon a gentle May Day, bright and dense.
Tannhäuser, said the Pope, with soft refrain,
Just after chanting low the glad Te Deum,
What once was praised in heathen theater's reign,
Now lives in marble in our own museum.
The lovers of the arts delight in stone:
The Vatican gives Venus all her own.
From distant times she journeys to be here,
As does Apollo—stone of Belvedere.
The greatest artists took her as their guide,
And shaped in sacred forms their holy pride.
Behold the David—rapt in pure delight—
Carved out by Michelangelo in white.
Then gaze on marble wrought by Bernini’s hand,
You’ll find it in Siena’s hallowed land.
Though some may see an Aphrodite there,
’Tis Magdalene in penitential prayer!
To her devote yourself in reverent ways,
As she adored the Christ in tearful praise.
From Aphrodites may she set you free,
And He from Venus’ grip of vanity.
Through all her prayers, may burning fleshly fire
Transform to God’s own sanctifying lyre.
Surrender all to her, and she shall strive
To cleanse the lust in which your dreams arrive.
But for the idols worshipped in your past,
A pilgrimage I now upon you cast.
The burden of the road shall earn you grace,
And God’s own blessing crown your weary pace.
I send you to the brothers—Greeks of old—
Yet not to Athos, though devout and bold.
On battered knees, with penitential song,
Crawl up Olympus, sacred, steep, and long.
There in the cloister set upon the height,
Entrust yourself to Mary robed in light.
Attend the whisper in the pine tree’s crest—
She comes at times to claim her chosen guest.
Then all your gift of verse and artful strain
Devote unto the Virgin, free of stain.
Let this your motto be, through joy and trial:
“I am entirely thine, O Queen most mild.”
And if you gain her favor and her glance,
The laurel crown of fame shall be your chance.
Canto XII
To Cyprus, consecrate thyself to Mary bright,
Who rose, the Hebrew Dawn, in holy light.
She bore the morning star beneath her veil;
Olympus, Pedieos, her we hail.
To her, the day of Salamis be blessed,
When Homer met Ahasuerus in rest.
To her, the sea-star, is the night consigned,
Of pagan hope and all the heathen mind.
The throne of wisdom, dream of sages old,
She bore the Logos into flesh and fold.
Let every ode in Sappho’s passioned tongue
Be sung to her whom ancient bards have sung.
Here lies the heart of Greece, its sacred land,
Here Asia's empire took its rightful stand.
Olympians to her their homage pay,
And crown her high—Urania, light of day!
Olympic poets praise with tragic art
The Virgin, Queen, and Mother set apart,
Whose perfect veil, unstained by earthly sin,
Reveals the Logos’ meaning deep within.
I praise thee, Queen of Earth, and Queen of Cyprus fair,
Who lifts the isle with ever-gentle care.
Her grace dispels the vipers of the Fall,
And mercy flows like dew to cover all.
To thee the Greeks, in sacred custom true,
Raise cloisters where the silent monks pursue
A life in contemplation ever blest,
In thee redeemed, in thee forever rest.
To thee they speak their rosaries with zeal,
And chant the prayers that round the ages wheel.
To thee they offer Cyprus’ dance and song,
And books that bear thy name their whole life long.
To thee they dedicate great Homer’s lore,
To thee, O Charis, snows of Mount restore.
To thee they give the burning flame of Eros,
That thou may turn his fire to love—Agape’s chorus!
Even the Turks, who ride on asses still,
Give dates to thee, and serve thy holy will.
They long to quench thy soul’s divine desire,
With fruits and prayers and hearts of incense fire.
They offer manna and the quail’s sweet nest,
To her whom Zacharias once confessed,
The prophetess, of Aaron’s priestly line—
Be sanctified, O Holiness divine!
The Turks and Arabs honor with due mirth
Thy virginal, immaculate birth.
And Mirjam danced beside the parted tide,
When God the way through sea and storm did guide.
O Queen of all the ever-rolling seas,
O Ocean full of purest harmonies,
In thee the heavens’ burning lights abide,
Immortal Soul, in thee made glorified!
O drop from out the ocean deep of God,
O crystal pure, O star the sailors laud,
O sea beneath the moonlight’s silent glow,
Celestial glass, O star that guides below!
Thou shinest ever on the endless tide,
Let not our ship in stormy waves collide.
Guide thou our fragile boat to haven fair,
And widen us the gate of peaceful air!
O smile from off the stairs of heaven bright,
Where Diotima showed us still the light!
With thy silk train, in grace and gentle art,
Sweep us to Paphos-Ktima’s beating heart!
Celestial Bear with all thy shining stars,
Shine down on us in peril from afar.
And should we chase false goddesses in vain,
Lead us back to thy holy Child again!
O Virgin, Mother of the fairest love,
Teach us the love that pleases God above—
Yes, teach us love, love ever, evermore,
As if naught else on earth were held in store!
Let us no longer doubt as Thomas did,
That Christ came down in flesh and was not hid.
Nor scorn the truth the Church has taught so long,
That thou, in body and in soul, belong.
Taken to heaven’s realm in glory crowned,
Immortal, soul and body both unbound,
Thou art our Queen, so merciful and grand,
To me the form of woman’s truth shall stand.
Who trusts in thee shall see thy mercy shine,
A beauty not of earth, but near divine—
More fair than houris in their gardens wide,
More fair than Aphrodite in her pride.
As sign that thou didst rise beyond the skies,
Thou left’st thy girdle, gift that testifies.
O let me touch that belt within the wall,
A relic of salvation's sacred call!
The magic girdle of all holy fire,
I’ll honor in Olympus’ cloistered choir,
And touch it so my wayward heart may cease
To fight against the truest love and peace.
O Virgin pure, forever undefiled,
Blest be thy name, O Heaven’s radiant child!
I consecrate to thee with sacred plea
The middle seas that mark my life and me.
All hail to thee, Maria Aphrodite,
For Christ is life in everlasting beauty!
That I may know him thus, and not amiss,
Be that through thee the Highest’s holy wish!
All hail to thee, Maria Aphrodite,
For Christ now reigns where light and truth are mighty.
He gives, in Eucharist, the kiss of peace,
For which I hunger, praying love’s release!
Hail unto thee, Maria Aphrodite,
For in pure oil the Spirit came to me.
Grant that I raise His banner high above,
Woven with soul of dove and purest love.
Hail unto thee, Maria Aphrodite,
Thou soul made flesh in holy clarity.
Bestow each virtue that I do not own,
And make me chaste and whole, and thine alone.
Hail unto thee, Maria Aphrodite,
O Queen of Heav’n, of Heaven's height the key!
Send me thy kisses full of grace and fire,
And take this hymn, my vow of pure desire.
Hail unto thee, Maria Aphrodite,
Thou lead’st the bridal souls through paths of light.
Each hour and day, in ways both sure and deep,
I’ll wed myself to thee in sacred keep.
Thy lips declare, O Mary, thou wouldst wed
This poet’s heart, by holy longing led.
And all I have—my soul, my breath, my art—
I give to thee, O love, my living heart!