Doubtless, nymphs have played
In this woodland glade,
Where bright flowers bloom
And are gone ,
Oh too soon!
Yet, another one
Will, doubtless play
As satyrs say,
“tis hot today!.
But, tis true
That satyrs too
Must fade away.
Said the sweet nymph unto the satyr
“Sir, surely you can’t grow any fatter!”.
Said the satyr
Unto the nymph
“Come you down from your high plinth
And let us make great sport together
In yonder heather!”.
But the nymph did gently smile
And said “I have been had
By many a rich handsome lad.
But sir, ‘tis not my style
To grace with my pretty face
And my fine silks and lace,
An ugly old satyr’s poor platter!”.
Walking through the wood
In this weather hot
I think on should,
And should not.
I shall be good.
But, I have heard tell
That nymphs herein
Dwell.
Some say, that they
Are shy.
I shall stare at the sky
For, therein,
Sin
Is not.
Above, the hot
Sky,
Whilst below
Nymphs go
By.
Pan plays on his pipe
To the delight
Of woodland nymphs.
Who have, long since
Ceased to see,
In his ageing pipe,
Beyond the delight
Of his poetry.
Lashed to the mast,
You ride
The tide
Of pain and pleasure.
The weather
Is hot.
Sirens sunbathe,
And say, “let go”.
You know
You ought not,
But the girls are so hot,
And the reef
Of grief
Below
Seems hidden, and all you see
Is a beautiful she.
So, you let go
And, at your leisure
Go down
And drown
In the sea
Of pain and pleasure.
But, long
‘Ere you did see
Those cold, calculating eyes,,
You recognised
Her siren song.
And yet
You did choose
To lose
Yourself in the sea of regret,
Where men go down
And drown,
And drown again,
In pleasure, and pain.
Some find
In the arms
Of that ancient profession
A kind
Of passing peace.
But a girl’s charms
Fade, and many a confession
Is made
By those who still believe, to the priest.
Though, in modernity, eternity
Is feared, by those who think
On dust
And such
As a never ending drink
From the waters of Lethe
Where men find
Peace
From the world’s call,
And all
Thought
Is reduced to nought,
In Hades where there
Is no hot
Fire, and desire
Is forgot
In an eternal, dreamless dream,
And Satan’s grin, is never seen.
For the song
2 Goddesses I know
And will go
And worship at their feet
But they may my ardour defeat
And bid me cease,
‘Else they will call the police!
Should I therefore hold my peace,
Or whisper words of love
To a goddess above?
And if I express my passion
To a young lady of fashion,
To which one should
I speak?
I am weak
With desire,
‘Tis best to kill this fire
For ’tis only a delusion
That a goddess could
Give me her love,
And confusion
Would, I maintain
Reign, where I to voice
My love
To 2 goddesses above.
No, I shall stay
Away from goddesses
As there is too much choice . . .
I saw
A goddess in a store.
I chaffed.
She laughed.
There was no more.
In woods green
Nymphs were sometimes seen
By mortal men.
Now when
Girls I see in short clothes,
Their toes
Bare, to the sultry air
I wonder where
All the inocence has gone.
Yet Aphrodite
Was flighty
(Was she not?,
And on hot
London nights
Phone calls will be made
And visits paid
By aphrodite, to oh so mortal men
You have seen desire
In a lover’s eye
Kindle then die.
You survived the fire
But I know well
That you have no riddle to tell.
Yet had you something to say
To those who pass your way
It would concern
A flame that does burn
Unrequited, for whom or what
I know not,
Or perhaps I hide
Inside the sphinx
Who can see
But will not reveal
The real
Me.
—
This poem was inspired by a visit to Crystal Palace Park, which contains a number of sphinxes https://memoirsofametrogirl.com/2017/01/08/crystal-palace-park-sphinxes-restored-history/
K Morris - Poet 