I Hear The Women Singing - Poem by gershon hepner
I HEAR THE WOMEN SINGING
I hear the women singing, melancholic
about the pleasures that they wish to share
with men with whom they fraternize and frolic
in manners that they never thought they’d dare:
Come let us burst joy’s grape upon our palates
and please ourselves with lovers who’re well hung,
and turn all friendly phalluses to mallets
that ooze with sweetness tickled by our tongue.
Their bodies taste the glad grape juice they’re sipping,
aroused within the temple of delight,
as in the dark fantastically they’re tripping,
while slipping out of dresses for the night.
Inspired by Keats’s poem Ode to Melancholy:
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty - Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
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