Best Ovid Poems
My aunt was a weirdo: she talked to trees, walked around the house naked and used to read me “The Metamorphoses” by Ovid and “The Song of Hiawatha” by Longfellow as a bedtime story. “Oom-ta-ta, oom-ta-ta”, - dactyl waltzed, pages rustled and I came down dactylic stairs into my personal Hades of dreams.
Beavers are in the Styx! Bison hide in reeds from mosquitos. Herds of wild mustangs graze on the Elysium fields. Red-skinned young ladies with asphodels in plaits listen to the story of Orpheus and Eurydice that the magic Willow tells them. Everybody's happy but Charon: Hiawatha* takes Minnehaha** out in his boat. But where is the son of Rhea and Cronus and his wife Persephone? “Lookee, lookee, - Olympus laughs, - who rules the netherworld now. Henry Longfellow!”
Time passed. I grew up. Other rhymes obsessed me. But every night, having slipped past three-headed Mishe-nama***, I go down into Longfellow’s Hades in search of my late aunt.
* The main character of “The Song of Hiawatha”.
** Hiawatha’s ladylove.
*** The character of “The Song of Hiawatha”, the king of fishes.
Some kind of Boccaccio
they open The Book,
borrowing thoughts
and stories from muses,
for it is a tome
in its entirety,
each muse, a Page, unamused,
to be plucked from tomb,
those sepia petals thrown up in the air,
unravel, the yarns like confetti,
land at the feet
of others
weeds and rows of perennials,
who bend like willows
backwards, they watch
unhooded falcons soar up
against the sky,
all shades of colour
the ever-moving clouds
like music, divine,
pull them up as if on strings
threaded through needlepoint
of a sharper mind,
they are carried away, drugged,
making wishes, like dandelions
blowing each the other,
they become - more - storks,
each a story, undone,
sewn and seeded
for the larger Ovid
in exchange for kinder souls
they dangle, each and every one
their spines entitled,
The Decameron
opened up,
lives fluttering,
they are read
as the in-betweens
some Prencipe Galeotto
engaged with Dante’s trust
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Page
stork, stalk
the Decameron
Prencipe Galeotto
Dante
Ovid
Santa Monica Pier
I remember watching
the ocean roll on the shore,
wave after wave,
crashing down on the solid sand
and I idly staring back
wondering if the Atlantic was as blue.
I watched him light a candle
and move in the swaying light
from a bygone age.
The flame flickered, so fragile,
it leans and sways in the cold breeze
My burning love is the flame in the lamp
From antiquity--a pre-industrial artifact
An oil lamp of glass from Rome
Bronze from Carthage
A terra-cotta from Athens
He smiles at me
in a flicker of light and
knows all my past like a line from Virgil
A chronicle from Homer
An essay from Milton, a history of Herodotus
And me, ignorant,
knowing nothing of him
can only quote
from Ovid,
Beowulf,
Caedmon and Gilgamesh.
The flame descends,
From the nape of the lit candle,
and we are lying in darkness on a spring night.
Everything in history is forgotten
and yesterdays are not so many
as night descends,
the lit moon cast in the glow
of the lamplight of our love.
We'll start from the beginning
A little bit of Ah and Awe
Sound out the consequential consonants
Speak low? Speak up!
Don't forget to roll your R's!
First verbs in present tension
Know your diphthongs and declensions
Vocabulary, adjectives, et, ad nauseam
That doesn't sound right
Did you forget to roll your R's?
Soon we practice in the forum
Painting words with such decorum
Past to present, transitive to direct objects
I object to this torture
Now don't forget to roll your R's..
Are we fluent yet? What?
No you can't give up on the Ovid just yet!
This is ridiculous, why not take Spanish instead of her mother
Good thing you can roll your R's
------------
This might not fall under Didactic...but I wasn't entirely sure. I'm not an expert.
This is kinda how I feel while taking Latin lessons.
Land of Dante, Michelangelo, Vivaldi, Verdi, Vanvitelli and da Vinci;
there Julius Caesar spoke these victorious words," Vedi, vidi, vici."
From the majestic snow-capped Alps to the sun-scorched Sicily,
one is astonished by the sea and sky blending to unravel a mystery!
My gorgeous town lays among shady mountains that
protect it from storms and winds coming from the West;
its vast valley is overlooked by a stately, sturdy castle...
standing as a sentinel that made the invaders tremble.
Walk with me down the narrow paths flanked by pines, maples and firs
that lead to the scented and harmonious landscapes loved by Ovid,
and adored by Virgil who once saw them on his long travels;
and I being born there, makes me very enthusiastic and glad!
Not many have seen a splendid sunset stretching as far as Mount Vesuvius;
I stood on that breeze-caressed hill transfixed and vowed by the glorious
spectacle of rosy clouds as shrilling seagulls hovered over a harbor so calm;
I could almost see the swift, white sails returning from a sea still blue and warm!
Give to me your purest hands
upon each translucent finger
I shall lay a trembling kiss
setting upon each of them a precious gem...
Then tenderly I will kiss
your dreamy eyes where hope does linger
my mouth on your mouth we will whisper
a poem from an Ovid erotica...
Once upon your loving neck
more kisses spark a necklace whose embers
will burn down on your enticing dark shoulders...
Later tonight when you are undressing
you will unclasp it
and it will fall down like soft rain
to scorch the lilies of your breasts!
~ ~ ~
The Broken Chalice
It was way too early for me to move in,
But love conquers all, or so Ovid says,
But nothing could prepare me for the javelin.
At first it was an electric lusty heaven,
We were so in love our words could not convey
The danger that was hiding there like a javelin.
Loving she was, and so very feminine,
But every day she dragged me to AA,
She could be sharp, like the head of a javelin.
Soon I knew what fear was, and the anger therein,
She simply could not trust me, even though I prayed
And assured her I was faithful, she raised the javelin.
Nothing was enough for her, her demands had no end,
I was heading into madness, for a Dies Irae,
And on a fateful day, I ran into the javelin.
And after all the surgery, paranoia set in,
She destroyed our trust, both night and day,
I wept and wept, the tears falling from my chin,
It was not enough for her to delay the javelin.
I was asked, "What is important to you?" by a friend-
she was just making conversation...
I was silent, deep in thought of diversity-
The true meaning of important.
Other than the worldly treasures of love,
money to survive, intelligence and adventure-
WORDS- was my answer.
Words. Power. Intelligence. Knowledge.
Adventure. Love. Death. Birth. God. Evil.
Conception. Contemplation. Life. Living.
Ovid, Homer, Ducasse, Rimbaud,
Patterson, Rice, Strieber, Jung, Darwin,
Verne, Grisham, Seneca, Christ...
As I read the words from the greatest,
and not so greatest, of minds-
It is all encompassing. I am in their world.
Writers bring their world to life when simple
words are written.
I can go to Atlantis, dissect a human, kill mummies,
be a vampire, see into the mind of a beagle, fly with eagles,
see the center of the Earth, view a rose in a way alien to me.
I can do anything. I have yet to do everything.
WORDS- little configurations with infinite
meaning.
Am not an aesthetic
poet.
I've no apollos
laurel in ode.
Too fragile is my
tongue to tell your
face;
For your look I dare
to speak.
Play me that
Amphion's harp
That in your mouth
dwells
For your sake I
shall be paris
For the Helen's face
you wear
I shall draw
Menelaus up again
To Trasimene Field.
I shall seek the
Delphian Oracle
That your heart I
may fathom.
Shall I employ Seba,
the questionnaire
That the discretion
of your choice I
win.
Sorania, my Helen
I am Ovid to his
Flea
And as jealous as
Oenon
Lead me to Venus'
chamber
And your dream I
promise be.
I stand by the
promise of Jephthah
To be your Romeo in
life and in death.
How true it is that one can't find better friends anywhere
than in this friendly community we call, " Poetry Soup " ;
before verses sounded too awkward and had no flair...;
until they all invited me in and tightened the loop!
And because of this devoted group of poets,
many have won contests and published books;
I have learned a lot from them and as my skills get better,
and like Ovid who wrote anywhere he went, I like to share!
How true it is that one can't find better friends anywhere
than in this circle of friendship where everyone can communicate
their thoughts penetrating minds much thicker than the air;
shouldn't everyone participate and start an interesting debate?
We have come to the right place by using these pens that seek amplitude
to make all potent tremble and change their unacceptable attitude;
words have power and we must use them prudently and not be rude:
make them ring as bells that chyme with joy to meet extreme altitude!
r
If my poetry moves you to witness to stranger
Just know that I'm touched that you're "sharing my ride,"
For the fact is that giving can be fraught with danger,
But those that it calls feel much warmer inside!
I have so little knowledge to call my invention
Some came from my parents, from people I've met
But the gift of the spirit defies all convention
It's holy, profound, precious gift without debt.
Even muse I call gift, for it waters my soul's growth,
An alternate path that the spirit can take
Truth that's flavored by strangers, by loved ones, I've seen both,
Fresh air never sweeter, Grace purges mistake!
Spirit truth has no owner like jewel or gold dust,
It's one with Creation; you'll know it by feel.
Although Midas (1) got gold, all his love turned to soul rust,
The gift of the Spirit is simply to heal!
Brian Johnston
June 13, 2017
Poet's Notes:
(1) From Greek mythology - Wikipedia
"One day, as Ovid relates in Metamorphoses, Dionysus found that his old schoolmaster and foster father, the satyr Silenus, was missing. The old satyr had been drinking wine and wandered away drunk, to be found by some Phrygian peasants who carried him to their king, Midas (alternatively, Silenus passed out in Midas' rose garden). Midas recognized him and treated him hospitably, entertaining him for ten days and nights with politeness, while Silenus delighted Midas and his friends with stories and songs. On the eleventh day, he brought Silenus back to Dionysus in Lydia. Dionysus offered Midas his choice of whatever reward he wished. Midas asked that whatever he might touch should be changed into gold.
Midas rejoiced in his new power, which he hastened to put to the test. He touched an oak twig and also a stone; both turned to gold. Overjoyed, as soon as he got home, he touched every rose in the rose garden, and all became gold. He ordered the servants to set a feast on the table. Upon discovering how even the food and drink turned into gold in his hands, he regretted his wish and cursed it. Claudian states in his In Rufinem: "So Midas, king of Lydia, swelled at first with pride when he found he could transform everything he touched to gold; but when he beheld his food grow rigid, and his drink harden into golden ice then he understood that this gift was a bane and in his loathing for gold, cursed his prayer."
For those of a military cast of mind
There are many poems they can find
Which do embellish battlefield glory
In the telling of their story.
But for me there is another field of play
Where merry pleasure is ne'er far away.
Not for me delight in weapons martial
Rather the joy of parts venereal.
Your soft hair framing your face
Your soft lips yielding with grace
And your soft darting tongue lambent
with the sweetness of heaven sent
That elegant and graceful neck I next address
Whereon a gentle peck and soft caress
Lead to the ruby roundels of your swelling areolae
Atop which stand your radiant and pert papillae.
How the gentle smooth curve of your skin
Gently and softly draws me in
Until, as brave as stout Cortes ,
I rest upon Mons Veneris
Nestling in the ***** is
The magic of the ********
Whose caressing works like a charm
To trigger a mighty ******
Then down through those wisps of hair
Until I joyously find where
Your ***** moist and moistening
Do invite my tongue to paddle in
That divine nectar of your welling spring
With legs spread wide signals me come in
To fulfil the passion of our play
And unite in loving ecstasy.
'Twas Ovid with his Ars Amatoria
Explored amoris ars gladiatoria
Wherein your scabbard could sheathe my sword
And that is the purpose of this world.
Where military men are needed
To keep us safe and undefeated
My plea to make love,not war
Is my carmen et error.
The morning was breaking and sheep were awaking,
which was much as the sheep all expected to do
But this morning's arising was far more surprising –
a mask fairy had brought them all something new
And the fairy remained and to them explained,
"The times now ahead will be tricky and fraught,"
The sheep were all puzzled, bemasked and bemuzzled,
but guessed no-one else cared a whit what they thought
At the fairy's insistence,"You must keep your distance,
the folds are unfolding so sheep have more space.
Sheep breathing is shedding a virus that's spreading
and that's why you're wearing that mask on your face.
“Your communal eating, your breathing and bleating,
endangers the rest of the sheep in the flock
The virus arising is uncompromising,
so all sheep are trapped 'twixt a hard place and rock.
“The spread we are blocking through good social flocking,
do not be alarmed for the rules are quite clear:
We must thwart or confuddle a sheep's urge to huddle,
you can flock all you want to, but don't flock too near!
“There is no strict mandation for sheep isolation,
but two metres distance, at least, you must keep,
If you find this troubling, then you can try bubbling,
but you can but bubble with one other sheep.
“Though if you are eating, not breathing nor bleating,
devoting yourself to the one grazing task,
You can distance one metre from each other eater,
but if you stop eating you must wear your mask.
“It is most consequential, the mask is essential,
to live through this crisis, YOU MUST NOT FORGET!"
They did not forget them, but thoughtfully ate them,
and that is as far as sheep wisdom will get.
Presumably ovid,
with qualm,
wit, and wisdom,
as to the smallest orb,
give way to our
very own,
Christendom.
As horn-mad, to
fetch me about,
the Kings, they play
mighty,
their Queens,
a jester and pout.
Though ancient
as jointure, the merry
plenty they must,
with the lyric
of masterful lyre,
a temptation
of lust.
The beauty of
maidens,
the fullness
of their breasts,
made ever-virtuous.
As the sun sets,
vertigo,
the nestles
of primrose and cressets,
giving way to the lecherous.
Oh. . . the love,
of Jesus,
our very own,
the saintliness of Magdalene,
the diadems of
the Goddess throne.
Amidst a canonized
hearsed, our beloved
Sun, rightfully lets.
The essence and infinity
of Magdalene, again
a Nemean regrets.
As the green fonds
of the winter fern
shed its nurturing essence.
Waves of nostalgia blazened
by the mid-December
days ripening afternoon.
The snow covered pines,
the aroma of fresh coffee,
the feigned ecstasies
of the struggling artists
made fragile,
and at no attempt.
Piercing thoughts of verse,
no love made without quarrel.
The day began as it always does
in December,
amidst melancholy and sorrow.
OBVIOUSLY
Obviously, the people who lived contemporary with dinosaurs were intelligent,
and the footprints indicate that they were quite human as the large toe on
primates is located closer to the heel to facilitate clinging to branches.
Doctor Hilton Hinderliter of Apollo Campus, Pennsylvania State University,
studied the evidence presented at the Glen Rose, Texas, excavations and
stated: "I would have to say that the belief in evolution is in a state of terminal
illness but its death will only be admitted by a new generation of scientists
whose minds have not been prejudiced by the type of education now prevalent in
the nation's public schools, an education which starts with the belief that
evolution has happened, which interprets all evidence according to that faith and
which simply discards any evidence which cannot be fitted into the evolutionary
framework' (Quoted with permission from Dinosaurs by Dr. Carl E. Baugh, 1987.
Promise Publishing Co., Orange, CA92667).
CHARLAX version
Obviously these primates
Are alcoholics because of the curvature of the toes the toes of a winoe curl up in
his cowboy boots until his leather boots won't walk him anywhere this
phenomenon is noted in the OVID manual as the winoe toe a rare medical
condition known as poor old man syndrome. Some rare versions have been
reported on the reservation as the Listerine syndrome this is because the
Indians cannot use real alcohol as it costs real money so they shoplift large
bottles of Listerine to get the WAMPUM going the winoes however have a
problem getting money for more wine and so they panhandle it this is called
panhandling.
IN Better neighborhoods there is theft this is called stealing and it's done by
everyone that drinks this is called alcoholism it is a very bad and strang disease.
Thank you Doctor Hilton Hinderliter for all your obverse reactionary
observations.
This is a recorded message recorded by the CharlaX one. This has been a
recording.
ARCHIVE 777.
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