|By Artemis on Tuesday, October 31, 2000 - 07:49 am: Edit|
This poem was written by Aleister Crowley and published in "The International" during a time (circa 1917) when he was contributing editor. In fact, he contributed most of what was published in that magazine, under various of his many pseudonyms. This poem also appears in his "Green Goddess", attributed to "someone who must have loved it (absinthe) well" if I remember correctly. JKK and I collaborated on the translation, which presented some difficulties, due to Crowley's "innovative" use of French. We took some necessary liberties with the translation, but came up with something I think is true to the spirit of the original, which may be of particular interest to the alchemists in the group.
by Jeanne the Glutton
Apollo, who mourned the demise of Hyacinthus,
Refused to cede victory to death.
It was needful that his soul, adept at soaring,
Find for beauty a more sacred alchemy.
So with his celestial hand, he exhausts, he threshes,
The most subtle gifts of divine Flora.
Their broken bodies sigh a golden exhalation
From which he reaps for us the drop of absinthe!
In dark hovels, in sparkling palaces,
By one, by two, drink this magnetic brew.
For it is a magick spell, a healing balm;
This pale opal wine aborts misery,
Opens the inner sanctum of beauty
Bewitch my heart, enrapture my soul!
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