I Dream of Athens
Do not ask, "What is the meaning of it?" I assure you, it has none. More literature has been mauled by "meaning" than by any other thing. I am fully convinced that art need no real moral in order to exude beauty. That is the chief principle of the thing: the beauty of it. Without it, art ceases to exist. So just listen to the words...let them roll off your tongue. It will be enjoyable, trust me.
I Dream of Athens
I entered once a Gypsies tent
My mind awhirl with dark intent,
As cyclone swirls of fragrant smoke
Twirled round us both to make us choke,
And lack of candles mirrored my
Ardent crave for secret scry;
And as I touched the beads around
That’s clung to both the walls and ground
I fancied that this mystic room
Were so astoundingly a tomb.
“I dream of Greece, dear traveler,
I crave—most crave—desire her,
The idle shepherd by the dell
Watches the maid nearby the well
Whom, blushing from the summer heat
Then sees the boy among his sheep,
And then the shepherd thinks that she
Turns so red because of he.
Emboldened by her secret nooks
He seduces her with looks,
And she’ll relinquish chastity
To vanquish her virginity.
“I dream of Sparta where the men
Are strong in arm and dim in ken,
Where food is ill and even worse
Is their bold, barbaric verse;
Yet men of war are rarely found
Except in Sparta, they abound.
The spear and shield are but the same
As is their arm, their heart, their name;
And in the blood of fallen lie
Their Glorified, at last, to die.
“I dream of Thebes and all Theban:
Where every god is god and man,
Where springs the life of every myth;
The favorite of the gods; their pith
Is sole to save those ancient walls
And vaunted knowledge of their halls,
Where turncoat is as easy found
In battlefield, as underground.
“I dream of Corinth where the sails
Billow amongst the clouds, and wails
Of seagull high whom, by default,
Do glide their way through sprays of salt.
And slaves do line up on the decks
Of merchant ships, around their necks
Are plaques to tell where each called home:
From Egypt, Persia, even Rome.
Then, in the night, the wine does flow
With fragrances of mountain snow,
And spices wrought from Hades hand
Invades the nose of every man,
And burns the brain of every sense
With thick carpets of incense.
“Yet, more than these, I dream bejeweled
Of She above whom none have ruled;
Rich, marble tassels drape her breast
While sweet and silent is her rest,
Her sons of strong and brazen limb
Could overthrow the gods at whim.
Yet do they not—alas!—their care
Is Aphrodite’s golden hair,
Is for Athena, every boy
Is soon become her lovers toy.
The clarity of Pericles
Could place the Scythian at ease,
And every word of wise Plato
Does cause a citizen to grow
Aware of life, aware of self,
Aware of one’s internal wealth’
While, with pride they gaze upon
The vast, enduring, Parthenon.”
At last, complete, the Gypsy rose
And tearing his own tattered clothes
Beat his breast with rendering wail
That made his sullen check seem pale,
And reaching for his kerchief rag
Wiped his nose until it sagged.
“Here ye lad” he said, at last,
“Alas, alack, those times be past
Although in dreams all men be same:
Orphans recall their mother’s name
And I have seen my strength go weak,
And I fancied too I were a Greek!”
Labels: writing and poetry
posted by thisisme @ 1:31 PM
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