JHVH: II
The satyr
Spins upon a basalt hoof;
His pelt is smoke-dark, shaggy flame,
His skin all rosy, wood-salt scented embers,
And from the pipes
He holds in satiny fingers of fire
Streams a liquid galaxy of sparks,
Every spark a trembling cry
Of desire.
* * *
His eyes, two seething coals,
Invite you to the Dance;
His song, a tale
Of towering, hungry firestorm,
Of gale-driven, miles-high,
Demon-driven Inferno,
Surrounds you with its weaving,
Crackling melody,
Nets you in its rubied, smoky skeins,
Its topaz, cinnamon woof.
* * *
His embrace is fire,
His lustful breath a furnace,
His Dance the Salamander’s;
And if you would behold his nakedness
With your own,
Be ware to join Semele,
Ashes on the winds of Love.
(And if you would flee
Love’s all-consuming furnaces,
’Ware to drift alone,
Ashes -- on the winds of Limbo . . .)
* * *
The satyr
Leaps and glows and pipes his song
In the caverns
Of the hot heart of the World;
His knowing grin
Invites you to the Dance.
As beautiful as Mars
Asleep at Venus’ side --
As dangerous as Mars
Full awake and rampant
Under blazing battlefield skies --
He makes jest of all your knowledge,
Makes an empty lie of all your power
And shreds your proud, confident calm
To tatters of wailing, desperate yearning.
* * *
Trembling with dread
And a yearning greater than Fear,
I entered his fiery arms,
Expecting to be roasted
To charred, filthy rags
Of self-damnation
By leering, briary,
Flaming boar’s-lust
Rutting --
And found myself
In a milk-warm,
Aquamarine tide-pool
At the edge of a cradling evening sea
Of tenderness,
Cherished and healed
At the Fire-Storm’s Eye.
Spins upon a basalt hoof;
His pelt is smoke-dark, shaggy flame,
His skin all rosy, wood-salt scented embers,
And from the pipes
He holds in satiny fingers of fire
Streams a liquid galaxy of sparks,
Every spark a trembling cry
Of desire.
* * *
His eyes, two seething coals,
Invite you to the Dance;
His song, a tale
Of towering, hungry firestorm,
Of gale-driven, miles-high,
Demon-driven Inferno,
Surrounds you with its weaving,
Crackling melody,
Nets you in its rubied, smoky skeins,
Its topaz, cinnamon woof.
* * *
His embrace is fire,
His lustful breath a furnace,
His Dance the Salamander’s;
And if you would behold his nakedness
With your own,
Be ware to join Semele,
Ashes on the winds of Love.
(And if you would flee
Love’s all-consuming furnaces,
’Ware to drift alone,
Ashes -- on the winds of Limbo . . .)
* * *
The satyr
Leaps and glows and pipes his song
In the caverns
Of the hot heart of the World;
His knowing grin
Invites you to the Dance.
As beautiful as Mars
Asleep at Venus’ side --
As dangerous as Mars
Full awake and rampant
Under blazing battlefield skies --
He makes jest of all your knowledge,
Makes an empty lie of all your power
And shreds your proud, confident calm
To tatters of wailing, desperate yearning.
* * *
Trembling with dread
And a yearning greater than Fear,
I entered his fiery arms,
Expecting to be roasted
To charred, filthy rags
Of self-damnation
By leering, briary,
Flaming boar’s-lust
Rutting --
And found myself
In a milk-warm,
Aquamarine tide-pool
At the edge of a cradling evening sea
Of tenderness,
Cherished and healed
At the Fire-Storm’s Eye.