Joshua's Poetry Megathread

Hexameter

I shall not tuck a poem into the recesses of the temple of

Artemis, nor like wheat stuff it into the sarcophagus of a king—

In hope, to germinate by a strange alchemy the seed of common thought

Into revelation. Why, Heraclitus, this ploy? The seed of a thing

Is so much mystery in itself! All things change; leave to the oracles

These frivolous wasting hare-brained schemes. Time is our sooth-sayer, and nature

The only genuine article—and as for wheat, I should much prefer

To see her trembling, age after age, in the elements—there is hope.

Look there.

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¹Heraclitus is said to have hidden a poem there so it would be passed off as divine revelation.

²In spite of the myths, no grain has ever been successfully germinated from "mummy wheat"

I've tried writing in Hexameter before, but it's rather difficult in English. I'd say this is my best attempt at the meter so far.

And I might as well post this one, too. I wrote it while surveying on a golf course last week. All of my poems are Epicurean in a way, though not explicitly.

The Cypress Stump

This broken nib, standing perfectly erect

Within this inky pond, seems to speak of

One more thought unsaid or line

Unwritten. The heron senses it, too,

If I do not mistake.

The old marsh has not done speaking.

The fairway and the green lie all around,

But between these courses of the

Linksman's paradise, the older Eden

Whispers in palimpsest, as faintly

As the faintest ripple on the placid

Wine-dark water.

Thank you, Bryan! It doesn't seem to come naturally in English at all, and it must have taken enormous dedication in Latin as well. This is one reason I won't believe St. Jerome's story about the insanity of Lucretius. A difficult and elegant poem cannot have been written in odd hours by the semi-lucid. It was the dedicated, painstaking labour of months and years.

The Hessian Monk

The Hessian monk was a lad of eighteen,

And his cowl and psalter were black

The Hessian maid wore 'er hair in cascade

Like a river of gold down her back

The Hessian monk would sigh as he prayed

Pater Noster and Ave Marie

While the Hessian maid piled books at the stall

With her father on Old Market Street

The Hessian monk was trained by a scribe

In the parchment and language of Rome

The Hessian maid saw him coming one day

And she blushed and lost hold of a tome

The Hessian monk was cloistered in stone

As cold as the vows that he'd sworn

But the Hessian maid breathed a vow of her own

On the bloom of a rose that he'd born

He copied Lucretius by day, and by night

Gazed on Venus of foam and of shell

When at last he had finished, he folded his robes

With a note on the cot in his cell

Brothers o Brothers you'll tell me I've sinned,

And there is a price to be paid

But nearer than heaven, and better by far

Is the hand of a Hessian maid

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I've been wanting to write an Epicurean drinking song for some time now. Best not take it too seriously

"Hessian" is in reference to the region in Germany (probably Fulda) where Poggio rediscovered Lucretius' poem. Sometimes pronounced 'Hesh-in', but here 'Hess-ee-uhn' for the sake of the meter.

Set to the tune of "The Dornishman's Wife", for any Game of Thrones fans here!

Chrysalis

To my Grandfather

A fortnight past you went to rest

In blankets soft as vermes-silk,

And lingered hopeful of the milk

That brims the flowers sweetly blest

And nursed you there a further hope–

Unfolding wings, an end to strife–

Dim visions of a second life

With nothing left to lose but hope

Of all this I was scarce aware

Until I saw this very morn

The butterfly–what it had worn

In hue and color richly fair

And as I watched it float and dance

A friend was near, and gave report

That he had seen it just before

Emerging from those silken strands

Thoughtfully I watched it dive

And grace a petal then, and rise

And wondered at my own surprise–

The echo of a nick in time

For how could I have missed a tale

So plainly writ in yellow gold

Where lighted wing so boldly told

Of empty casing, rended veil?

He gestured, and I found it ripped

And hanging fruitless on a vine–

That very night you took some wine

And gently in your sleep you slipped

A fortnight hence the chrysalis

That changed into a butterfly

Shall change again, for it shall die–

Another metamorphosis

The ancient echo ripples on

A nick in time will come for each

But as I peer into the breach

Its sound is lovelier than song

Incidentally, the story in this poem is completely true. My coworker saw the butterfly break free as we were surveying. I had already been mulling over the idea of a poem when I heard that night that my grandfather had died.

I'm experimenting with short, evocative prose passages as a way to outline and explain certain aspects of the philosophy, á la Marcus Aurelius or "Zen Flesh, Zen Bones". Here is an early effort.

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When the tyrant Polycrates desired to bring water to his city, the geometer Eupalinos excavated a tunnel through the heart of a mountain, instructing his crews to dig from both ends at once. The tunnel was finished many years later when the workmen met in the middle.

If it is springwater that will slake your thirst–if the end of life is buried under a mountain–summon the geometers. But if you seek instead a sound mind, soothed by pleasure and untroubled by fear, go to the garden of Epicurus. Leave geometry at the gate, and enter. Does death frighten you? He will teach you to smile at it. Do the gods disturb you? He will instruct you in the blessings of real peace.

Enter, friend, and be healed.

If thy mute verse is evermore to speak,

Then I must learn its Latin, and some Greek.

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The last two lines of a Shakesperian sonnet...if I ever write the sonnet!

Note; On the Translator

Good friend beware

this slack apparel;

It once wore well

But no more does;

The wine is old,

But not the bottle–

T'will serve, but is

Not what it was.

There's use within

A cooper's barrel,

But beauty more

In oak and ash–

The poet's verse

Was fine and subtle—

But lost now in

A leaking cask.

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With help from Don

Reflections on Venus

O, To the baking heat of day

Admit an end,

And consecrate my ambling frame

With dark of night

I'll find me by a quiet way

A clear sky sight,

And stalk the still and silent game

At twilight's rend

She lingers there, and would not yield,

But she is led—

Sweet, cloying clouds coax her to swoon

And sink to rest

I watch her go—a burnished shield,

One might've guessed,

Glassing the Sun to seize a boon—

His Gorgon head

More sense another poet has,

Or so I think,

Venus; thy armour has no chink—

It's swirling gas

That one doesn't do what I thought it was going to do when I started writing, but I may turn out to like it. Four stanzas of over-wrought metaphor shaken back to reality by a Lucretian fact-punch.

It truly is unbelievably hot! At night it's warm and stuffy, but the day is just hellish. The end of September cannot come soon enough.

I found this, which I wrote several years ago, tucked away in the leaves of an old book. It was my copy of A Few Days in Athens.

Quote

August Rain

Why do you believe the year is waning?

Even now it is just beginning.

You, who thought the days grow darker,

Though midnight gleams with a thousand stars--

Have you forgotten that day in August?

In August, when I blossomed in the rain.

Every hour carries its own Spring.

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Even ignorance, and doubt, and the slow decay of centuries do not destroy that which above all is green and good; pleasure, beyond reproach and above infamy.

For the flowers of the myrtle, sacred to Venus, may yet bloom even in unlikely places--and the philosophy of Epicurus, though forgotten, is not lost--not while we few remember.

Do Well to Tarry

Seek for the twin-gated passage:

From Athênai it led;

There shall be wisdom spoken,

Stronger than mortal dread.

There shall be carved a message,

That peace is near at hand,

For the garden of pleasure shall open:

And the Samian forth shall stand.

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Structure borrowed from Tolkien, of course! I cannot think of a good title.

Haiku

Low coals cast grey

Shadows on the pines. Eyes closed,

I think of old friends.

I.

Long have I journeyed, and by many roads,

O Mercury! But you, I have not met;

What darkly hidden Words or ancient rite

Are there to summon you? Lay down thy load,

Friend wayfarer! Come, see that what I write

Shall nothing add to toil or regret.

The shade is sweet beneath thy father's oak;

The stream shall soothe thy feet, and on the shelf

Are scrolls of lore, thy weary soul to sate.

Put by the wide-brimmed hat, the rod and cloak;

Come, leave those dusty sandals by the gate--

This note I bid thee send is to thyself!

Commerce, roads and boundaries were my trades

As they are yours, O Mercury! Flotsam

From the wreckage, you and I, of time,

And life--and floating, tossed upon the spray,

I made safe harbour here! And here, my rhymes

Extol the vine, and fruit, and myrtle-blossom--

And never shall complain of what it took

To find, by slow degrees, this hallowed place!

Nor should you mourn, fleet-footed god, the years

Of mortal life spent wasted as I looked

For lasting peace. But say at least that here

Is crowned the glory of the mortal race!

Ah! Son of Jupiter, how shall I tell

What pleasure and what joy this Garden bears?

For that is her secret; in other parts

Are choicer olives, grapes, and sweeter pears--

But here, are cultivated higher arts--

Of wisdom, friendship, and of living well.