As Ishtar is present in the body of all women thus the love of one woman for another can be considered the worship of Ishtar by Herself. The following poem expresses this beautifully.
At the risk of being considered Philistines we have modernised the poem's language to a small extent. We believe that in so doing we have made the poem's beauty and sensuality more accessible and comprehensible to a modern audience. To any who believe that in so doing we have destroyed its purity we can only apologise.
SAPHO TO PHILÆNIS
Where is that holy fire, which Verse is said
To have? Is that enchanting force decayed?
Verse that draws Nature’s works from Nature’s law,
You, her best work, to her work cannot draw.
Have my tears quenched my old Poetic fire;
Why quenched they not as well, that of desire?
Thoughts, my mind’s creatures, often are with thee,
But I, their maker, want their liberty.
Only your image, in my heart, does sit,
But that is wax, and fires environ it.
My fires have driven, yours have drawn it hence;
And I am robbed of Picture, Heart, and Sense.
Dwells with me still my irksome Memory,
Which, both to keep, and lose, grieves equally.
That tells me how fair you are: You are so fair,
As gods, when gods to you I do compare,
Are graced thereby; And to make blind men see,
What things gods are, I say they are like to thee.
For, if we justly call each silly man
A little world, what shall we call you then?
You art not soft, and clear, and straight, and fair,
As Down, as Stars, Cedars, and Lilies are,
But your right hand, and cheek, and eye, only
Are like your other hand, and cheek, and eye.
Such was my Phao a while, but shall be never,
As you were, are, and oh, may be ever.
Here lovers swear in their Idolatry,
That I am such; but Grief discolours me.
And yet I grieve the less, lest Grief remove
My beauty, and make me unworthy of your love.
Plays some soft boy with you, oh there wants yet
A mutual feeling which should sweeten it.
His chin, a thorny hairy unevenness
Does threaten, and some daily change possess.
Your body is a natural
In whose self, unmannered, all pleasure lies,
Nor needs perfection; why should you then
Admit the tillage of a harsh rough man?
Men leave behind them that which their sin shows,
And are as thieves traced, which rob when it snows.
But of our dalliance no more signs there are,
Than fishes leave in streams, or Birds in air.
And between us all sweetness may be had;
All, all that Nature yields, or Art can add.
My two lips, eyes, thighs, differ from thy two,
But so, as yours from one another do;
And, oh, no more; the likeness being such,
Why should they not alike in all parts touch?
Hand to strange hand, lip to lip none denies;
Why should they breast to breast, or thighs to thighs?
Likeness begets such strange self flattery,
That touching my self, all seems done to thee.
My self I embrace, and my own hands I kiss,
And amorously thank myself for this.
Me, in my glass, I call you; But alas,
When I would kiss, tears dim my eyes, and glass.
O cure this loving madness, and restore
Me to me; you, my half, my all, my more.
So may your cheeks red outwear scarlet dye,
And their white, whiteness of the Galaxy,
So may your mighty, amazing beauty move
Envy in all women, and in all men, love,
And so be change, and sickness, far from thee,
As you by coming near, keep them from me.
John Donne (London, 1572 - 1631)
The illustrations are by the Parisian artist Suzanne Ballivet (1904 - 1985). The poem was sent to us by our friend, Trey.
If you would like to suggest a theme or a praise poem for Friday Worship, please do get in touch.
With Love.
No comments:
Post a Comment