Poetry in Honor of Epicureanism

I wrote a poem last year for one of the EP FB groups.

Hear these words O children of Nature’s swerve.



Let us rejoice in the freedom we surely deserve.



Of prudent wisdom long obscured by shame.



Professed by Epicurus of noble fame.



Lucretius penned in days of old.



Across the gap of time, a truth so bold.



Arise the days of hedonic measure.



Restoring the truth of humankind’s pleasure.



Dispel the fears of death’s illusion.



Release humankind from all confusion.



Again I say, O children of Nature’s swerve.



Be frank in speech and keep your nerve.



Be ready now to strike your blow.



For Epicurus, his Garden, and all who know.



The days shall come when the world will extol.



That pleasurable living was indeed the goal.

These are excellent but I will not feel totally confident in endorsing until Joshua approves!

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The innkeeper of the house of joy

Kalosyni, I love this line! And particularly the way it hits you as the poem builds up to it.

And I think this thread is a great idea as well. I won't repost all my old stuff here, which those curious can find at this thread; but I'll be happy to post my new verses here going forward. Cassius will have to find a proper place for this one so we can find it!

Matt;

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The days shall come when the world will extol.


That pleasurable living was indeed the goal.

One may indeed hope!

-Joshua

Hmm I thought we had a poetry forum. I will look and we can move this and any others to there

Oddly enough, while I was surveying a house foundation today a framing carpenter I had spoken to briefly came up to me a little later and said to me, "You may not believe this, but I'm a poet"...and he showed me a copy of his published book! He also gave me a few ideas about how the process works. I shared with him the title of my favorite poetry anthology, and slightly regret not asking for his email address.

We do have this forum on poetry, and I will move this thread there now. But in general we have far too many subforums to keep track of so when I have time I am going to have to prune down the number by a lot and somehow make them easier to sort through.

OH NO! I did not notice Matt's post had a color encoded. It is fixed now.

This is a reason that we need to highlight that "best practices" list of ways to use the forum.

People are always going to be pasting text from other programs, and that's the problem. We'll just have to stay alert to catch these posts as they occur.

Wow. Thanks for this! I have a poem I've been working on that I think will fit in here.

A Small Ode to Epicurus

You have welcomed us all to your Garden,

no matter the gender or class.

Pleasantness you offer - with simple fare,

friendship, tranquility and ease.

We can leave our burdens in the byway

with the clutch of traffic and dust,

find respite in a homey oasis

whose invitation is open,

conveying conviviality, peace,

and time to draw a common breath;

to relish the freshening fragrance

of lemons, marjoram and sage;

cool water or bloodred wine, rough brown bread,

salad greens, dark olives and cheese:

unadorned pleasures, sans the toil and strain

of over-fed extravagance;

lively talk of philosophy, laughter

at nagging follies we once learned

from our elders by strictest rote - and fear.

Under your eaves, we can relax:

embrace the evolving turnstile seasons,

heartbeat of the earth, rain and sun;

celebrate the fullness of the senses

and feelings that inform our way.

Under your eaves, we can abide: happy

in the naturalness of ourselves.

~ ~ ~

You have welcomed us all to your Garden,

which we now carry with us as we go …

Volupta Dawn

Dawn shatters the brittle husk of night—

as cracked shards fall, an amphora sun

generously pours orange-blossom honey—

nimble-footed Domina Volupta

with bountiful golden cornucopia

dances gaily from the vernal east—

festive agora fragrances of oregano,

ginger, black peppercorns and sage,

olives, lemons and lusty fermented grapes

are conjured on the rising breeze:

now redolent with citrus, wine and spice—

drowsing heartbeats are mellowly awakened

by melodious imaginal byzantine chimes;

flurries of bees cavort in your veins,

an undulous hum enraptures your spine—

the grace-infused, sun-hallowed celebration

of freshening day draws breath—and begins.

__________________________

Volupta: a variant of Voluptas, Roman counterpart to the Greek Hedone, goddess of pleasure.

agora: Greco-Roman marketplace.

Opulent Hours

Tart-cherry blossoms have burst in full bloom,

perfuming our backyard orchard garden;

and the Maythorn flowers umbrella me

as I lounge on a bench in mottled shade,

frail back braced against gnarly brindled bark

with flecks of gray like an aging man’s beard.

A thousand thousand sun-honeyed gold bees

hum feverish aphrodisiac hymns,

vibrant arias that tingle my veins—

and tease me away from my daydream drowse,

arousing erotic sweet reveries

resurrected from a livelier youth.

Feast of fragrances, lush amorous choirs,

magical memories: opulent hours.

___________________

“Maythorn”: another name for a hawthorn tree.

(Prompted by a discussion of bees and honey in ancient Greece and Rome by Kalosyni.)

Templum Librarium

I love the smell of old books, leather-bound

or well-worn hardcover cloth, beckoning

from dark-oak library stacks – passageways

to the heirloom temple of humanitas.

I take down a gaunt volume at random –

title illegible; pale patina

of dust I could imagine as ancient

as peripatetic Aristotle;

brittle pages I could pretend were cut

from papyrus scrolls of Epicurus

first scribed in his Athenian Garden,

copied and preserved by Philodemus

in his villa at Herculaneum

till encrusted in Vesuvian ash –

and discover archaic lettering

in majuscule Greek that I cannot read.

Still, the inscrutable inked glyphs beguile

the imagination’s mesmering muse

into a maze of bustling galleries

through a spice-pungent agora bazaar

under a Mediterranean sun.

There, for a few alchemical moments,

I rest in my own lavish reverie –

before touching the book to my forehead

and placing it back on its sacred shelf

among the other siren oracles,

preserved in this labyrinthine sanctum –

to continue my wayward pilgrimage,

absorbed in the luring balm of old books.

_____________

“humanitas”: coined by Cicero; to the Romans it meant everything relating to civilized humanity – culture, refinement, humaneness, the humanities, humanism, etc.

Note: The 3rd and fourth stanzas should be indented -- but that can't display here: just my poet's obsessiveness.

I love it, Pacatus!

It pleases me to see you're writing!

Pro Coquis Simplicibus

I.

I am but a humble galley-kitchen cook,

no tall-hat chef of haute cuisine.

Herbs are grown on the balcony in clay pots:

parsley, oregano, basil and sage—

or, such as bay leaves, preserved in a jar.

Vegetables—sometimes frozen, sometimes fresh—

are foraged from local grocery aisles,

the farmers’ market and organic co-op shelves.

(We used to grow our own, before we moved to town:

leaf lettuce, peppers, tomatoes, onions;

garlands of garlic, braided and hung on the stair.)

We have small crocks of dried beans: great northern,

pinto, dark red kidney and black—to be soaked

overnight and pressure-cooked in a pot;

but on lazier days we just open a can.

Our bread is no longer home-baked: but baguettes,

or rounds of sourdough rye, from paper bags,

served oven-warm straight to the rough-grained table.

Olive oil is sacred: virgin, green, robust,

with pepper that lingers, pungent on the tongue.

The wine is cheaper than it used to be

(save for the dry-as-bone elderberry brew

Vivian once vinted and bottled for winter):

petite syrah and malbec most recently favored,

with pinot grigio or a crisp rosé—

depending on the fare and the weather.

II.

Tomorrow, I plan a seafood gumbo

with okra, onions, scallops and shrimp, sautéed

in a mushroom roux; simmered in bone broth

with sassafras filé, bay and my own

finely ground creole seasoning concoction—

all ladled over mounds of arborio rice.

(I seldom measure as I make things up:

add a little, then taste—and taste again.

Stir well to incite shy single flavors

to mingle, flirt, betroth themselves and marry.)

Shake on some vinegar-tabasco sauce:

a dash or so to awaken the palate.

After dinner, a glass of tawny port—

or snifter of brandy aged in oaken sherry casks;

backgammon or cribbage to beguile the sunfall hours,

and a romantic murder to read before bed.

III.

I compose poetry the way I cook:

I seldom measure as I make things up—

one is a rumpus of flavors,

one a rumpus of sound and shape.

______________________________

Pro Coquis Simplicibus: “For the Simple Cooks.”

“rumpus of shapes”: how Dylan Thomas once described his poetry.

Autumn Ferment

A red-bandanaed sun dances barefoot

on the summer-ripened earth of autumn

as wine-maidens gaily tread swollen grapes

in wooden vats to mash yeast, skins and juice –

to waken the ferment that will be racked

from oak to oak, and aged in barrel-casks.

Corks are pulled from hand-blown bottles: youthful

vintage stored in the bodega cellar,

plucked to celebrate this year’s harvest end.

Rough-grained tables are stacked with rustic fare:

ham, black olives, apples, Manchego cheese

and thick loaves of lusty pungent brown bread.

Village musicians play wild pagan tunes

from ancient memory – never scripted

or scored in ink – to call upon their gods

to bless the yield, ward off the winter cold.

Flowered maidens dance barefoot with the sun

to transubstantiate fruit into wine.

+++++++++

Image: “Women Stomping the Grapes” – oil painting by Eric Michaels; used with permission.

+++++++++

The "calling on their gods" is not quite Epicurean, I admit ...

Quote from Pacatus

The "calling on their gods" is not quite Epicurean, I admit ...

Quote

And here, whoso

Decides to call the ocean Neptune, or

The grain-crop Ceres, and prefers to abuse

The name of Bacchus rather than pronounce

The liquor's proper designation, him

Let us permit to go on calling earth

Mother of Gods, if only he will spare

To taint his soul with foul religion.

Lucretius, On The Nature of Things, Book 2

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Epicurus’ Dance – A Doggerel Whimsy

I wonder if Epicurus e’er danced

– for pleasure and robust vigor –

as Socrates was wont to do at dawn?

“Friendship capers round the world,” he averred,

“heralding our ‘rousal to joy.”

Why should he not have thrown a frisky jig

in the walkways of his Garden?

Did the festive air of Eikas resound

with pan flute, palm-struck tympanum,

spritely-fingered tortoise-shell lyre

and lyrical seven-stringed kithara?

Did the friends and guests of ho Kepos dance?

~ ~ ~

O, I imagine Epicurus danced!

as I am sometimes wont to crudely do

past noon – with raw impromptu abandon –

when the pulse quickens in my feet.

Yea, I fancy our exuberant sage,

who bequeathed to us more than wizened words,

heartily and happily – danced!

~ ~ ~

So may we, with a Garden boogie, groove!

– no matter how gawkily we might move …

+++++++++++++

Image is of Anthony Quinn as Zorba the Greek, dancing.

I have shared here in the past about recognizing, accepting and even celebrating my “catawampus” (and imaginal) ADHD mind (most recently on Kalosyni’s thread “Practical Epicurean Therapeutics: Tips on dealing with worry”).

This poem is an example of how that sometimes translates into poetry (which is my joy and avocation), as something akin to Dylan Thomas describing his poems as a “rumpus of shapes” (and sounds).

Even though I hesitate (with some trepidation), I post it here because I didn’t want to derail any other threads (though it may not be strictly “in honor of Epicureanism”). I had to post the link because everything otherwise copy-pasted on here left-justifies, which defeats the jangle-tangle spacing (which hopefully generates the jouncy rhythms I wanted); I tried to just do a jpg picture, but gave up in frustration.

Anyway, I hope it is at least an enjoyable, playful read.

https://allpoetry.com/poem/16984257-Janglestreet-Rollick-by-Tookman