Forum Member Poetry to Illuminate Epicurean Philosophy

I wrote a poem last year for one of the EP FB groups.

Hear these words O children of Nature’s swerve.

Let us rejoice in the freedom we surely deserve.

Of prudent wisdom long obscured by shame.

Professed by Epicurus of noble fame.

Lucretius penned in days of old.

Across the gap of time, a truth so bold.

Arise the days of hedonic measure.

Restoring the truth of humankind’s pleasure.

Dispel the fears of death’s illusion.

Release humankind from all confusion.

Again I say, O children of Nature’s swerve.

Be frank in speech and keep your nerve.

Be ready now to strike your blow.

For Epicurus, his Garden, and all who know.

The days shall come when the world will extol.

That pleasurable living was indeed the goal.

These are excellent but I will not feel totally confident in endorsing until Joshua approves!

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The innkeeper of the house of joy

Kalosyni, I love this line! And particularly the way it hits you as the poem builds up to it.

And I think this thread is a great idea as well. I won't repost all my old stuff here, which those curious can find at this thread; but I'll be happy to post my new verses here going forward. Cassius will have to find a proper place for this one so we can find it!

Matt;

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The days shall come when the world will extol.


That pleasurable living was indeed the goal.

One may indeed hope!

-Joshua

Oddly enough, while I was surveying a house foundation today a framing carpenter I had spoken to briefly came up to me a little later and said to me, "You may not believe this, but I'm a poet"...and he showed me a copy of his published book! He also gave me a few ideas about how the process works. I shared with him the title of my favorite poetry anthology, and slightly regret not asking for his email address.

Wow. Thanks for this! I have a poem I've been working on that I think will fit in here.

A Small Ode to Epicurus

You have welcomed us all to your Garden,
no matter the gender or class.

Pleasantness you offer - with simple fare,
friendship, tranquility and ease.

We can leave our burdens in the byway
with the clutch of traffic and dust,
find respite in a homey oasis
whose invitation is open,
conveying conviviality, peace,
and time to draw a common breath;

to relish the freshening fragrance
of lemons, marjoram and sage;
cool water or bloodred wine, rough brown bread,
salad greens, dark olives and cheese:
unadorned pleasures, sans the toil and strain
of over-fed extravagance;

lively talk of philosophy, laughter
at nagging follies we once learned
from our elders by strictest rote - and fear.

Under your eaves, we can relax:
embrace the evolving turnstile seasons,
heartbeat of the earth, rain and sun;
celebrate the fullness of the senses
and feelings that inform our way.

Under your eaves, we can abide: happy
in the naturalness of ourselves.

~ ~ ~

You have welcomed us all to your Garden,
which we now carry with us as we go …

Volupta Dawn

Dawn shatters the brittle husk of night—
as cracked shards fall, an amphora sun
generously pours orange-blossom honey—

nimble-footed Domina Volupta
with bountiful golden cornucopia
dances gaily from the vernal east—

festive agora fragrances of oregano,
ginger, black peppercorns and sage,
olives, lemons and lusty fermented grapes
are conjured on the rising breeze:
now redolent with citrus, wine and spice—

drowsing heartbeats are mellowly awakened
by melodious imaginal byzantine chimes;
flurries of bees cavort in your veins,
an undulous hum enraptures your spine—

the grace-infused, sun-hallowed celebration
of freshening day draws breath—and begins.

__________________________

Volupta: a variant of Voluptas, Roman counterpart to the Greek Hedone, goddess of pleasure.

agora: Greco-Roman marketplace.

Opulent Hours

Tart-cherry blossoms have burst in full bloom,
perfuming our backyard orchard garden;
and the Maythorn flowers umbrella me
as I lounge on a bench in mottled shade,
frail back braced against gnarly brindled bark
with flecks of gray like an aging man’s beard.

A thousand thousand sun-honeyed gold bees
hum feverish aphrodisiac hymns,
vibrant arias that tingle my veins—
and tease me away from my daydream drowse,
arousing erotic sweet reveries
resurrected from a livelier youth.

Feast of fragrances, lush amorous choirs,
magical memories: opulent hours.

___________________

“Maythorn”: another name for a hawthorn tree.

(Prompted by a discussion of bees and honey in ancient Greece and Rome by Kalosyni.)

Templum Librarium

I love the smell of old books, leather-bound
or well-worn hardcover cloth, beckoning
from dark-oak library stacks – passageways
to the heirloom temple of humanitas.

I take down a gaunt volume at random –
title illegible; pale patina
of dust I could imagine as ancient
as peripatetic Aristotle;

brittle pages I could pretend were cut
from papyrus scrolls of Epicurus
first scribed in his Athenian Garden,
copied and preserved by Philodemus
in his villa at Herculaneum
till encrusted in Vesuvian ash –

and discover archaic lettering
in majuscule Greek that I cannot read.

Still, the inscrutable inked glyphs beguile
the imagination’s mesmering muse
into a maze of bustling galleries
through a spice-pungent agora bazaar
under a Mediterranean sun.

There, for a few alchemical moments,
I rest in my own lavish reverie –
before touching the book to my forehead
and placing it back on its sacred shelf
among the other siren oracles,
preserved in this labyrinthine sanctum –

to continue my wayward pilgrimage,
absorbed in the luring balm of old books.

_____________

“humanitas”: coined by Cicero; to the Romans it meant everything relating to civilized humanity – culture, refinement, humaneness, the humanities, humanism, etc.

Note: The 3rd and fourth stanzas should be indented -- but that can't display here: just my poet's obsessiveness.

I love it, Pacatus!

It pleases me to see you're writing!

Pro Coquis Simplicibus

I.

I am but a humble galley-kitchen cook,
no tall-hat chef of haute cuisine.

Herbs are grown on the balcony in clay pots:
parsley, oregano, basil and sage—
or, such as bay leaves, preserved in a jar.

Vegetables—sometimes frozen, sometimes fresh—
are foraged from local grocery aisles,
the farmers’ market and organic co-op shelves.

(We used to grow our own, before we moved to town:
leaf lettuce, peppers, tomatoes, onions;
garlands of garlic, braided and hung on the stair.)

We have small crocks of dried beans: great northern,
pinto, dark red kidney and black—to be soaked
overnight and pressure-cooked in a pot;
but on lazier days we just open a can.

Our bread is no longer home-baked: but baguettes,
or rounds of sourdough rye, from paper bags,
served oven-warm straight to the rough-grained table.

Olive oil is sacred: virgin, green, robust,
with pepper that lingers, pungent on the tongue.

The wine is cheaper than it used to be
(save for the dry-as-bone elderberry brew
Vivian once vinted and bottled for winter):
petite syrah and malbec most recently favored,
with pinot grigio or a crisp rosé—
depending on the fare and the weather.

II.

Tomorrow, I plan a seafood gumbo
with okra, onions, scallops and shrimp, sautéed
in a mushroom roux; simmered in bone broth
with sassafras filé, bay and my own
finely ground creole seasoning concoction—
all ladled over mounds of arborio rice.

(I seldom measure as I make things up:
add a little, then taste—and taste again.

Stir well to incite shy single flavors
to mingle, flirt, betroth themselves and marry.)

Shake on some vinegar-tabasco sauce:
a dash or so to awaken the palate.

After dinner, a glass of tawny port—
or snifter of brandy aged in oaken sherry casks;
backgammon or cribbage to beguile the sunfall hours,
and a romantic murder to read before bed.

III.

I compose poetry the way I cook:
I seldom measure as I make things up—
one is a rumpus of flavors,
one a rumpus of sound and shape.

______________________________

Pro Coquis Simplicibus: “For the Simple Cooks.”

“rumpus of shapes”: how Dylan Thomas once described his poetry.

Autumn Ferment

A red-bandanaed sun dances barefoot
on the summer-ripened earth of autumn
as wine-maidens gaily tread swollen grapes
in wooden vats to mash yeast, skins and juice –
to waken the ferment that will be racked
from oak to oak, and aged in barrel-casks.

Corks are pulled from hand-blown bottles: youthful
vintage stored in the bodega cellar,
plucked to celebrate this year’s harvest end.
Rough-grained tables are stacked with rustic fare:
ham, black olives, apples, Manchego cheese
and thick loaves of lusty pungent brown bread.

Village musicians play wild pagan tunes
from ancient memory – never scripted
or scored in ink – to call upon their gods
to bless the yield, ward off the winter cold.

Flowered maidens dance barefoot with the sun
to transubstantiate fruit into wine.

+++++++++

Image: “Women Stomping the Grapes” – oil painting by Eric Michaels; used with permission.

+++++++++

The "calling on their gods" is not quite Epicurean, I admit ...

Quote from Pacatus

The "calling on their gods" is not quite Epicurean, I admit ...

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And here, whoso

Decides to call the ocean Neptune, or

The grain-crop Ceres, and prefers to abuse

The name of Bacchus rather than pronounce

The liquor's proper designation, him

Let us permit to go on calling earth

Mother of Gods, if only he will spare

To taint his soul with foul religion.

Lucretius, On The Nature of Things, Book 2

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Epicurus’ Dance – A Doggerel Whimsy

I wonder if Epicurus e’er danced
– for pleasure and robust vigor –
as Socrates was wont to do at dawn?

“Friendship capers round the world,” he averred,
“heralding our ‘rousal to joy.”
Why should he not have thrown a frisky jig
in the walkways of his Garden?

Did the festive air of Eikas resound
with pan flute, palm-struck tympanum,
spritely-fingered tortoise-shell lyre
and lyrical seven-stringed kithara?

Did the friends and guests of ho Kepos dance?

~ ~ ~

O, I imagine Epicurus danced!
as I am sometimes wont to crudely do
past noon – with raw impromptu abandon –
when the pulse quickens in my feet.

Yea, I fancy our exuberant sage,
who bequeathed to us more than wizened words,
heartily and happily – danced!

~ ~ ~

So may we, with a Garden boogie, groove!
– no matter how gawkily we might move …

+++++++++++++

Image is of Anthony Quinn as Zorba the Greek, dancing.

I have shared here in the past about recognizing, accepting and even celebrating my “catawampus” (and imaginal) ADHD mind (most recently on Kalosyni’s thread “Practical Epicurean Therapeutics: Tips on dealing with worry”).

This poem is an example of how that sometimes translates into poetry (which is my joy and avocation), as something akin to Dylan Thomas describing his poems as a “rumpus of shapes” (and sounds).

Even though I hesitate (with some trepidation), I post it here because I didn’t want to derail any other threads (though it may not be strictly “in honor of Epicureanism”). I had to post the link because everything otherwise copy-pasted on here left-justifies, which defeats the jangle-tangle spacing (which hopefully generates the jouncy rhythms I wanted); I tried to just do a jpg picture, but gave up in frustration.

Anyway, I hope it is at least an enjoyable, playful read.

https://allpoetry.com/poem/16984257-Janglestreet-Rollick-by-Tookman

Quote from Kalosyni

But beware the pain that comes, when pleasure turns to flames

I really like this! The line above is my favorite, along with "sharing food and laughter." It works almost as a hymn. Thank you.

I wanted to repeat: it rings like an Epicurean hymn.

A Whimsical Tribute to Garlic

Garlic, they say, keeps pale vampires at bay –
nose-drip sneezes and varied diseases.

It’s tang on the tongue is piquant and young,
though lovers beware it’s bouquet in the air.

With cel’ry and onion glazed, by creole chefs praised:
flavors wed with wine, baptized “holy trine.”

Of our garden’s harvest, they were far best
– with peppers – fat from dark soil, sans hard toil.

Bulbs braided with care were hung in the stair,
their cloves minced for stews to thwart winter blues.

Today storebought and to our pantry brought:
still a staple taste never gone to waste.

~ ~ ~

To Royal pursuit ye cooks I recruit:
Order o’ th’ Garlic Creed, harken to this rede –

“A garlic a day wards doldrums away.
‘Too much’ is a myth – hale health is its pith.”

__________________________

“rede”: an archaic word meaning counsel, guidance or guiding rule.

Years ago, a friend of mine discovered a hobo cookbook with a recipe for potato soup. Included was this: “The phrase ‘too much garlic’ has no meaning.” I have fantasized of starting an order – the Royal Order of Garlic Eaters (ROGE) – with that statement being the official credo …

Urban Hobbit

Truth is, I’m just a hermit hobbit whose home
is a burrow into imaginal
adventurous realms—without the danger
or hardship real ranger-journeys entail—

and fantastical elfin bailiwicks
here and gone in a pungent pinch of snuff,
before fierce hordes can supper interrupt.

(As Chesterton once said: Home again safe
from afar—with steak, wine and good cigar.)

Lately I have taken, in elder age,
to going barefoot through our small smial
in this urban shire we now inhabit;
peeking out only to stock the wine rack,
ice box and pantry: hearty, simple fare
in our narrow galley to be prepared
with oregano and parsley from pots
set out on the sunny south balcony
overlooking the rumbling interstate.

(A hobbit-hole can be hewed anywhere.)

~ ~ ~

Fat I have grown since the bramble-wild years
of unravelling rusty barbed-wire fence
on swelter-heat days, with gloves and long sleeves
to keep the frail skin unsliced and unscarred;

the time I stranded our stout pickup truck
midstream on bedrock of Terrapin Creek,
or lost the chimney-brush down the dark flue;

years since autumn splitting of hickory
to stack in the shed for winter burning;
or braided garlic in the stairwell hung,
from compass-pointed kitchen-garden beds
that burgeoned with sweet onions, bell peppers
and roma tomatoes thick on the vine—

our brick burrow tucked against the steep ridge
we called the feng shui turtle at our back,
defending against tree-breaking stormwinds;
and the rough-cut, weather-black oaken bridge,
laid board-by-board, hammered by calloused hand:
single dry way down the chert-gravel lane.

Sixty rustic reclusive seasons spent
in that untamed tract: spading earth in spring,
tending through summer, harvesting in fall,
feasting o’er snowtime by hickory fire.

~ ~ ~

Though our cubbyhole city apartment
is far from that rugged country cottage,
I chose the whimsical name of Tookman:
a hobbity-homey son of a Took.

____________________

Hobbits and rangers are, of course, Tolkien characters.

smial: a hobbit-hole dwelling.

ice box: just an anachronism.

Tookman: My pseudonym on a site where I publish my poetry. Also a whimsical play on an old family name on one side of my ancestry, which meant a person dwelling near a body of water or a depression in the earth.

“son of a Took”: One of Tolkien’s hobbits was Peregrine Took (aka Pippin). Also, "the Old Took."

Photo: Me during those “wildy garden” years.