Ode For Walt Whitman

A Translation for Steve Jonas

Along East River and the Bronx
The kids were singing, showing off their bodies
At the wheel, at oil, the rawhide, and the hammer.
Ninety thousand miners were drawing silver out of boulders
While children made perspective drawings of stairways.

But no one went to sleep
No one wanted to be a river
No one loved the big leaves, no one
The blue tongue of the coastline.

Along East River into Queens
The kids were wrestling with industry.
The Jews sold circumcision’s rose
To the faun of the river.
The sky flowed through the bridges and rooftops—
Herds of buffalo the wind was pushing.

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poem by Jack Spicer
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Wine, Women, And Song

Ovarus mine,
Plant thou the vine
Within this kindly soil of Tibur;
Nor temporal woes,
Nor spiritual, knows
The man who's a discreet imbiber.
For who doth croak
Of being broke,
Or who of warfare, after drinking?
With bowl atween us,
Of smiling Venus
And Bacchus shall we sing, I'm thinking.

Of symptoms fell
Which brawls impel,
Historic data give us warning;
The wretch who fights
When full, of nights,
Is bound to have a head next morning.
I do not scorn

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poem by Eugene Field
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Dithyramb

Believe me, together
The bright gods come ever,
Still as of old;
Scarce see I Bacchus, the giver of joy,
Than comes up fair Eros, the laugh-loving boy,
And Phoebus, the stately, behold!

They come near and nearer,
The heavenly ones all--
The gods with their presence
Fill earth as their hall!

Say, how shall I welcome,
Human and earthborn,
Sons of the sky?
Pour out to me--pour the full life that ye live!
What to ye, O ye gods! can the mortal one give?

The joys can dwell only
In Jupiter's palace--

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poem by Friedrich Schiller
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Melancholy

My hand caresses intimately.
Playing harps, with tight memories of my early dreams of 'love
Entranced by the solid walls of hot baths and steam
My Eyes reversed, white,
on the head tilted toward the high.

With her curly hair, I would have kissed again as I have always done.
Changes that cannot happen,
Like of shooting stars, you cannot win, his passing and time.
I seal my love.
A sad day, the cold air puffing, sweating in my jacket,
Walking faster and faster.
Lilies of the road are whispered,
the melancholy like thorns tangling my heart.

Silly dream, you made me exalt.
Drunk by Bacchus, left me awake intoxicated.
Like a bottle, running along the street, empty and aimless

The steps of time, leave footprints,

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poem by Luca Menin
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The Complaint Of New Amsterdam

I'm a grandchild of the Gods
Who on th' Amstel have abodes;
Whence their orders forth are sent
Swift for aid and punishment.

I, of Amsterdam, was born,
Early of her breasts forlorn;
From her care so quickly weaned
Oft have I my fate bemoaned.

From my youth up left alone,
Naught save hardship have I known;
Dangers have beset my way
From the first I saw the day.

Think you that a cause for marvel ?
This will then the thread unravel,
And the circumstances trace,
Which upon my birth took place.

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poem by Jacob Steendam
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Drink Out Thy Glass

Drink out thy glass! See, on thy threshold, nightly,
Staying his sword, stands Death, awaiting thee.
Be not alarmed; the grave-door, opened slightly,
Closes again; a full year it may be
Ere thou art dragged, poor sufferer, to the grave.
Pick the octave!
Tune up the strings! Sing of life with glee!

Golden's the hue thy dull, wan cheeks are showing;
Shrunken's thy chest, and flat each shoulder-blade.
Give me thy hand! Each dark vein, larger growing,
Is, to my touch, as if in water laid.
Damp are these hands; stiff are these veins becoming.
Pick now, and strumming,
Empty thy bottle! Sing! drink unafraid.

. . . . .

Skal, then, my boy! Old Bacchus sends last greeting;
Freya's farewell receive thou, o'er thy bowl.

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poem by Carl Michael Bellman
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The Rebel Angel, 'Satan

Yes I am rebel angel Iblis
with my invincible code triple six.
Like a robot rebelling against his master
I have revolted against my heavenly pater.
We have unbridgeable difference of opinion,
about, leading the world towards joy, Dionysian.
He maims and kills for Bacchic thrills
without realizing that even a puppet feels.
Like a bloodthirsty spectator in a theater
he applauds mayhem and massacre.
My contempt for his sadistic ways and means
compels me for attempts umpteen.

Now I have to out-maneuver him
and behead his blood claded fancies and whims.
My righteous blitzkriegs will last till my last breath
and I will not cow down by his sinister threats.
Let the whole universe stand against me
but I'll neither bow nor flee.
Unmindful of death, I fight without plan

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poem by Hitesh Sheth
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The Dead Follow Every Wind

Logos of pride
Burning eyes of phallus poetry
The over man of Nietzsche
Caged in robust vanity
Scarborough of delicate sanity
We suffer like condemned tribes
The pall of Prometheus fire
All are punished in the true mirror
All are swarthy madmen

Along the shore a ray of sun
Wise hour deems blue asylum
Men of the seventh seal
Tombs of radiant jewels
She hands skeletons her potion
We dance like poised slaves
Numb in totem revelry
Circle around mountains of myth
No fountain of youth shall respite

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poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Reste, Reste Avec Nous

Reste, reste avec nous, ô père des bons vins!
Dieu propice, ô Bacchus! toi dont les flots divins
Versent le doux oubli de ces maux qu'on adore;
Toi, devant qui I'amour s'enfuit et s'évapore,
Comme de ce cristal aux mobiles éclairs
Tes esprits odorants s'exhalent dans les airs.

Eh bien! mes pas ont-ils refusé de vous suivre?
'Nous venons, disiez-vous, te conseiller de vivre.
Au lieu d'aller gémir, mendier des dédains,
Suis-nous, si tu le peux. La joie à nos festins
T'appelle. Viens, les fleurs ont couronné la table:
Viens, viens y consoler ton âme inconsolable.'

Vous voyez, mes amis, si de ce noble soin
Mon coeur tranquille et libre avait aucun besoin.
Camille dans mon coeur ne trouve plus des armes,
Et je l'entends nommer sans trouble, sans alarmes;
Ma pensée est loin d'elle, et je n'en parle plus;
Je crois la voir muette et le regard confus,

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poem by Andre Marie de Chenier
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A Classical Revival

At the outset I may mention it's my sovereign intention
To revive the classic memories of Athens at its best,
For my company possesses all the necessary dresses,
And a course of quiet cramming will supply us with the rest.
We've a choir hyporchematic (that is, ballet-operatic)
Who respond to the CHOREUTAE of that cultivated age,
And our clever chorus-master, all but captious criticaster,
Would accept as the CHOREGUS of the early Attic stage.
This return to classic ages is considered in their wages,
Which are always calculated by the day or by the week -
And I'll pay 'em (if they'll back me) all in OBOLOI and DRACHMAE,
Which they'll get (if they prefer it) at the Kalends that are
Greek!

(At this juncture I may mention
That this erudition sham
Is but classical pretension,
The result of steady "cram.":
Periphrastic methods spurning,
To my readers all discerning

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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Nobody Believes

Nobody believes in love-
not even me.

Love is the thing
you wait
to end.

Love is the thing
that will not,
cannot work.

Love is the thing
they warn you of-
the dire parents,
the friends
with their dead
marriages,
their crushed hopes.

Nothing crushes hope

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poem by Erica Jong
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Pan to Artemis

Uncharmable charmer
Of Bacchus and Mars
In the sounding rebounding
Abyss of the stars!
O virgin in armour,
Thine arrows unsling
In the brilliant resilient
First rays of the spring!

By the force of the fashion
Of love, when I broke
Through the shroud, through the cloud,
Through the storm, through the smoke,
To the mountain of passion
Volcanic that woke ---
By the rage of the mage
I invoke, I invoke!

By the midnight of madness: -
The lone-lying sea,

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poem by Aleister Crowley
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Paris: I Do! I Do!

How much I love you
Paris I do! I do!
With this ring I thee wed
Forever joy you spread
I love you Dearly
My temple, my clergy
You swept me away
A tsunami in May
Again and again
My runaway train
What is it about your loins?
The love that never coils
Awakens the beat in me
Heart of my destiny
Your streets a poet's dream
Café au lait rich cream
Your Champ Elysées
Mon jardin des Pensée
Oh oui mon amour, je pense à toi
toujours, le matin, midi et soir

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poem by leaking Pen
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Bacchus and Ariadne

The moist and quiet morn was scarcely breaking.
When Ariadne in her bower was waking;
Her eyelids still were closing, and she heard
But indistinctly yet a little bird.
That in the leaves o'erhead, waiting the sun.
Seemed answering another distant one.
She wakes, but stirred not, only just to please
Her pillow-nestling cheek; while the full seas.
* * * * *
Her senses lingering in the feel of sleep;
And with a little smile she seemed to say,
'I know my love is near me, and 'tis day.'
At length, not feeling the accustomed arm.
That from all sense of fancied want and harm
Used to enclose her, when she turned that way.
She stretched her hand to feel where Theseus lay.

But how? Not there? She starts with a small cry,
And feels the empty space, and runs her eye
O'er all the bower, and stretches from the bed

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poem by James Henry Leigh Hunt
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On A Honey Bee

Thou born to sip the lake or spring,
Or quaff the waters of the stream,
Why hither come on vagrant wing?--
Does Bacchus tempting seem--
Did he, for you, the glass prepare?--
Will I admit you to a share?

Did storms harrass or foes perplex,
Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay--
Did wars distress, or labours vex,
Or did you miss your way?--
A better seat you could not take
Than on the margin of this lake.

Welcome!--I hail you to my glass:
All welcome, here, you find;
Here let the cloud of trouble pass,
Here, be all care resigned.--
This fluid never fails to please,
And drown the griefs of men or bees.

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poem by Philip Freneau
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Velox amoenum...

It sometimes happens that great Pan
leaving Arcady, roams these gentle hills,
enchanting the kine and suffering no
dropp of wet or seering sun to vex them.

At such times the milky brides of the foul
billies go calmly athwart the deep groves
trustful of their Lord, rooting up weak
shoots of tender arbutus and delicate thyme.

Untended, then, the kids may caper
impervious of snakebite and Mars' wolf-
constantly assured by the blue, long, drawn-out
flute note drifting across the vallies, down the stony

slopes of listing Ustica. At such times, Tyn-
dares, I sense the god'slove-incense to
them these verses intimated by the Muse; and
that they spill from Nature's bountiful horn

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poem by Morgan Michaels
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The thick golden stream of honey took so long

1

The thick golden stream of honey took so long
To pour, our host had time to say:
'Here in the dismal Taurides, where fate has brought us,
We don't get bored at all' -- and she looked over her shoulder.

2

The services of Bacchus everywhere, as if on earth
Were only guards and dogs. You go along, you notice no one --
Like heavy barrels, the peaceful days roll by:
Far off. Voices in a hut: you cannot understand, nor reply.

3

After tea, we went out in the huge brown garden,
The dark blinds were lowered like eyelashes.

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poem by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
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Femmes Damnées

Like pensive cattle, lying on the sands,
they turn their eyes towards the sea’s far hills,
and, feet searching each other’s, touching hands,
know sweet languor and the bitterest thrills.
Some, where the stream babbles, deep in the woods,
their hearts enamoured of long intimacies,
go spelling out the loves of their own girlhoods,
and carving the green bark of young trees.
Others, like Sisters, walk, gravely and slow,
among the rocks, full of apparitions,
where Saint Anthony saw, like lava flows,
the bared crimson breasts of his temptations.
There are those, in the melting candle’s glimmer,
who in mute hollows of caves still pagan,
call on you to relieve their groaning fever,
O Bacchus, to soothe the remorse of the ancients!
And others, whose throats love scapularies,
who, hiding whips under their long vestment,
in the sombre groves of the night, solitaries,
blend the sweats of joy with the tears of torment.

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poem by Charles Baudelaire
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A Literature Lesson. Sir Patrick Spens in the Eighteenth Century Manner

VERSE I

In a famed town of Caledonia's land,
A prosperous port contiguous to the strand,
A monarch feasted in right royal state;
But care still dogs the pleasures of the Great,
And well his faithful servants could surmise
From his distracted looks and broken sighs
That though the purple bowl was circling free,
His mind was prey to black perplexity.

At last, while others thoughtless joys invoke,
Fierce from his breast the laboured utterance broke;
"Alas!" he cried, "and what to me the gain
Though I am king of all this fair domain,
Though Ceres minister her plenteous hoard,
And Bacchus with his bounty crowns my board,
If Neptune still, reluctant to obey,
Neglects my sceptre and denies my sway?
On a far mission must my vessels urge

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poem by Sir Walter Raleigh
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A Crown Of Worms

I am the author, dream up your pain
Drink as did bacchus, rebel just like cain
Lord of the city, I shall remain
All pandemonium, I shall reign
Sit in my fortress, up on my hill
Drinking the wine, 'til I've had my fill
Building up high, my castle walls
Oh, to veil my splendid fall
I present you, I present to you,
I present you this crown of worms
Surrounding myself with mysery
Drawn curtains heavy of my history
Exquisite I am, perfect unity
On my left hand is false majesty
I feign affection, efute the true story
Dispute with creation, the lie is my glory
I care for no one, my gospel is death
For me the light's gone, only darkness is left
I present you, I present to you,
I present you this crown of worms

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song performed by Megadeth
Added by Lucian Velea
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