An Original Hymn to Venus

Good evening, all! My name is Joshua, and I'm rather new around here. I've been an Epicurean for some few years, and I have occasionally been possessed by the notion to write a longform materialist poem in English. In my vision (forever out of reach) this would correct the two major deficiencies in Lucretius; first, the many (albeit generally trifling) mistaken scientific hypotheses in his poem. And second, the temporal disadvantage that separated him from the death pangs of pagan philosophy and the subsequent brutal intolerance of revelation.

To make a long story short, I began such a poem by degrees but soon found the rhyme and meter burdensome. I may add to it further, or start again in blank verse as time allows, but in any case I'll post it here for your perusal. I am desirous of letting it out for several reasons. For one thing, because I shall be pleased to have feedback! But I offer it as encouragement also; in the hope that some here will be pleased to know that there is a quiet, brooding literature in the world, unknown to you but not altogether unconnected. (To be continued...)

Strange star! Light, lingering in the West, whoso

Wouldst gleam this eve o'er silken river and

The silt hills, and thread the hanging grotto

Of dew-laden boughs with thy shimmering strand--

You, who call forth the sun upon the morn,

Setting fire to heaven, spreading light

And vital heat to the meridian!

In wondrous light all things on Earth are born,

Reared, and given to passionate delight

In the sweetness of life!

Cytherean

Maid, keep you by night to some secret

Tryst? Awaiting a youth handsome and bold

To steal over the garden wall and get

Your hand in his, and kiss you as he holds?

O Venus, you! Whose ancient light deceives

Me not, skating along the face of things,

For I know its weft, and find it delved deep

In the roots and bones of Earth. Thy reprieve

Falls sweet--Tarry here, counsel me to sing

Of old seeds of truths grasped, and pleasures reaped!

The lamp of Vesper hangs still, a pale urn

Watering our sleep with light and dewy dreams;

But the motion of all things is return--

Sink, and rise again. I trace thy gleam

Wandering, alighting waves far past my sight,

And sail thy wake on craft of human thought.

Stars do not shine that men may calibrate

Their instruments--float on! But my delight

Shall be to wash on Grecian shores, where taught

A sage long past whose simple truths abate

All Earthly fears.

That man, a Greek, fallen

Into mortal memory--to stardust

And starlight, scattering in the swollen

Void those atoms that were the scene of lusts

And terrors long conquered--Searching out the

Grounds of wise choice and avoidance, he lived

In this world a match even for gods

In happiness. His voice echoes to me

Across the centuries; he has contrived

A path of wisdom, pleasant still to trod--

A path incorruptible, laid forever.

Thanks awfully, gentleman! I'm beginning to feel that as I spend more time here, I shall certainly write more. Your idea about the recorder, Godfrey, is an idea I've had but have not implemented. Initiative and discipline; the very things I need. And not presumptuous in the least! I'll post more lines as they come to me.

-josh