Lo, behold the satyr wild – fierce and bold and free –
from Dionysos’ revel he but stops to rest
and fall upon upon a bended knee,
‘neath twisting branches verdigris,
and offer thanks for life by Bacchus blessed.
Crowned he is by curling locks and grapen vine,
a face cursed by beauty, yet lit by wicked grin:
for his sculpted chest is brazen, bare, and fine,
and ‘twixt lean hips kitled in goat-skin,
hangs Priapos’ boon, not quite hidden.
One clawed hand he rests on muscled thigh,
his breath restored, and his ardor keen.
The other paw he lifts toward gods and sky –
his eyes fierce-bright with silver sheen –
and that grin, first wicked, leers now obscene.
A poem from my Creative Writing class. Prior to this class, I had not written poetry since high school, and it is doubtful that I will ever do so again unless similarly forced. Still, I’m not displeased with this piece: an ode to a statue, perhaps once a lamp, almost certainly an idol. The photograph is mine, taken in the Nelson-Atkins museum of Kansas City, MO.
Those who know me in the real world, of course, have already seen this poem posted elsewhere, but not the picture.