/lit/ - Literature

Not with God, but with Antioch we begin,
Sail past Dikti on high,
Back up Ἀθήναζε.
These, I tell you, are all the fruits of this,
Of pangs and bones uncovered,
Of bastardized nature and her indolent servants;
Uneven temperaments and tongues
whet in the blood of next-love,
Of long ire whose name outlives the patience of true thoughts shared.
I tell you,
Phoenician Harlot,
Physic suffers not the drunken slip of thy tongue,
Drinking the tears of thy kith and kin.
She suffers not the unwitnessed word of dreams, but yields to milder yarns,
of hands together on their looms.
Aye, I concede: ire is long,
longer than the harvest of years unsullied
Ire is long,
longer than thy girdles and memory,
Enough to kill thrice and thrice again,
Phoenician Harlot —
Come to us,
Lay now down thy ire and rest.
Come to us,
Lay now down and rest.
Not of my own accord do I leave your shore
And give my sails to the windy isthmus which too yearns for you.
I tell you,
Infelicitous Virgin, all-shining child of man’s insolence,
Physic suffers not thy insular madness,
The errant and horny head of Lasithia.
She suffers not to close the holt of nymphs, but yeans the bullock
For our votive slaughter.
Aye, I concede: thy passion is great,
greater than the wails of starved throngs,
thy passion is great,
greater than thy Aonian chants and dances,
Enough to mount the Hill of War,
Infelicitous Virgin, —
You’ve won us.
Lay now down thy passion and rest.
You’ve won us,
Lay down and rest.
(...)
Finis: Clytæmnestra
I tell you,
You Bitch, half a man and child of his want,
What you already know:
Nature suffers your words, seeming those of a wise man.
Though Joy be peculiar to a woman’s heart,
how you deny the dyed bronze that ruined you;
how you seek out the dread voice of fame;
how you cry out in false censure! —
But so it is, all things moving towards their end.
These gifts you mustn’t give, these names, sanctify; words of honour must fall from other lips,
But I, idle satrap, was more a woman than you:
Forced me victory to compare with what I’d slain,
That my victory turn to rot again!
Aye, I concede: I was more a woman than you.

What does /lit/ think of my poetry?

>>17001561
without the first godspeed

Guten Abend, /lit/. Let's get a comfy Friday evening stack thread going. Also, what are you reading and drinking? For me it's two Gulden Draak and Baltasar Gracian's Criticon.