|By Artemis on Friday, November 09, 2001 - 01:38 pm: Edit|
Ordinaire, I was only playing with words; I wasn't serious about you (or anybody) recognizing anything in me.
I'm more than happy to provide you with the poem. There is no war between me and anybody at this point.
|By Dr_Ordinaire on Thursday, November 08, 2001 - 06:33 pm: Edit|
Artemis, it's not that I didn't recognized your poetic capacity.
We were involved in a civil war that was not of our making or, as far as I'm concerned, my desire.
Thank you for the poem.
|By Artemis on Thursday, November 08, 2001 - 11:16 am: Edit|
I saved a copy on a floppy (I too a poet and you didn't know it), but I think it varies a little from what I posted. Pretty close, though:
by Jeanne The Glutton
Apollo, who mourned the demise of Hyacinthus,
Refused to cede the victory to Death.
It was needful that his soul, adept at soaring,
Find a holier alchemy for beauty
So, with his celestial hand he squeezed, he exhausted
The most subtle gifts of divine Flora.
Their broken bodies sighed a golden breath
From which he reaped 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 matter of healing,
This pale opal wine aborts misery,
And throws open beauty's inner sanctum
Bewitch my heart, ecstasize my soul!
|By Dr_Ordinaire on Thursday, November 08, 2001 - 08:47 am: Edit|
Like the one for the Hausgemachters.
Pity, I wanted to keep Artemis' translation of Crowley's poem.
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