Metamorphoses

by Ovid

He told them not to fear: they knew the worst, And he would solve each problem as it came; He planned a breed of men of heaven’s make, Different in spirit, better than the first.

So God created an elite race of gods and goddesses. Crazy!

And in flood’s desert one saw a creature, Perhaps a man, swim toward a vanished hill That once he knew; another rowed a boat Over the acres of his plough; another sailed The fields that were to be his harvest, Over the roofs of his sea-buried home. Another caught fish from the floating branches Of the tallest elms; ships’ anchors dropping In grass-grown meadows and swift keels sped Over green hill and vineyard. Where yesterday Thin-legged goats stepped on their way to pasture, The bearded seal dozed through the deep sea hours, And mermaids drifting with new-opened eyes Gazed into cities that were walked by men.

The flood from the Book of Genesis without Noah but with mermaids. This is insane!

Who at echo of Neptune’s voice came from the sea Like a tower of sea-green beard, sea creatures, Sea shells, grey waters sliding from his green shoulders To sound his horn, to wind the gliding rivers

Ovid is killing me

At Neptune’s order Triton lifted up His curved sea shell, a trumpet at his lips Which in the underworld of deepest seas Sounds Triton’s music to the distant shores Behind the morning and the evening suns;

Damn

We are the multitudes that walk the earth Between sunrise and sunset of the world, And we alone inherit wilderness. The living are lost beneath a dwindling sea. Even the ledge of mountain where we stand May drop to darkness; and even the brief shadow Of clouds that drift and fade is the return Of midnight to the terror in my heart.

Sheer poetry

Then all her daughters Poured futile tears in memory of their brother, Beating their naked breasts and calling out The name of Phaethon by night, by day, Who cannot hear their cries above his tomb. Four times the Moon had changed her slender horns Into a globe of light, yet they rained tears As though tears were the habit that they wore And weeping was their only cause to live. At last the eldest daughter, Phaethusa Cried, as she walked the grave, her feet grew numb, And when bright Lampetia came to help her She too felt rooted into clay. A third sister Who tore her hair clutched leaves; another found Her ankles sheathed in wood, another that Her arms became long branches. As they gazed, They saw the wooded bark close round their thighs And creeping up close uterus and belly, Breast and shoulder, even to fingertips Of leafy hands; only their lips were free

To call their mother. And what could this Mad woman do but run to each, to press Each fading pair of lips against her own? Or more, if not enough, tear at the bark, Break twigs where drops of blood streamed from each wound, And each as she was torn cried, “Mother, save Me, Mother, it is my body that you tear Within the tree, O Mother, now farewell!” As bark closed over lips their tears still ran, Tears that were drops of amber in the sun Fallen from green sides and branches of young trees, To flow in clearest waters of the river And later worn as jewels by Roman brides.

Its sagging doors, which, swaying inward, showed Envy at feast, eating great snakes and vipers, A perfect diet for increase of venom. The goddess, sick at the unholy sight, Turned eyes away, while Envy, leaving scraps Of half-chewed meats upon the floor, lunged To her feet and shambled toward Minerva Who stately stood in armour. Envy moaned, Changing her face to suit Minerva’s sigh, Grew death-pale, and her body seemed to shrink, Eyes wild, teeth thick with mold, gall dripping green To breast, green from her tongue, for Envy never Smiles unless she sees another’s misery; Envy is sleepless, her heart anxiety, And at the sight of any man’s success She withers, is bitten, eats herself away. Although Minerva hated what she saw In the foul creature’s face, she gave instructions, Clipping her speech: “Make it your duty, woman, To infect Aglauros, one of Cecrops’ daughters, So that your poison streams within her veins,” And with this said, she thrust her spear to earth, And swiftly, lightly vaulted back to heaven. Squint-eyed old Envy saw the goddess vanish, Nor could she bear to think of so much glory Without inward whines and tears. She gathered Up her stick grown thick with thorns, her dark cloak As cloud on her shoulders, and sped straightly Her errand. And where she walked all flowers died, Grass perished, and blight ran over tops of Highest trees, and as she breathed she tainted The streets of peopled towns, even in homes.

undone. Then lighting at his shrine Sweet-smelling incense, they began to call God Bacchus by his many names: Deep-Sounder, King of All Noises, and the Careless Lord, Son of the Thunder-Shaft, the Twice-Born Infant Of Two Mothers, Son of the Orient, And of the Wild-Haired Mistress of the Skies, Maker and Husband of the Vine, Lenaeus, And Nyctelius, the Very God of Night, And Father Eleleus whose cry is heard As Hallelujah over all of us,

A lot of potential band names.

At your word Pentheus wiped out, Lycurgus Too, of the double axe, ungodly men! And both undone—while you, awe-striking Bacchus, Threw Tuscan sailors into wave-tossed waters. Even now crowds follow where your chariot Leads them, the flash, the glitter of the Lynx- Drawn car—satyrs and women and even A drunken elder staggering with his stick Who leans, reeling, against the hollow belly Of his mule. Wherever you may go, the crowd Is there, the shrieks of girls, the shouts of boys, Tympanum roaring and the cry of flutes.

I'm getting some serious Jack Kerouac stream of consciousness here.

Even with a boxwood comb. Then, lightly dressed, She sank upon the turf, or sometimes wandered To pick a garland of sweet-smelling flowers Which grew nearby—and that day saw the boy; O how she yearned to take him in her arms! “Yet she held off a while in coming near him; Stood still a moment till her blood ran cool, Plucked at her dress and calmly fixed her eyes; When she was certain that she looked her best, She chose her words and spoke: ‘O lovely boy, If you are not a god, then you should be one, Cupid himself—and if your birth was human How proud, how pleased your parents should have been. What happy brothers, if you had them, doting Sisters, and O, the nurse who held you close To reach her breast. But gladder than all these,

Some of the best erotic prose ever written

Then dipped his feet and, charmed by flowing coolness Of the stream, stripped off his clothes; and when she saw Him naked, the girl was dazzled; her eyes shone

Erotics

With blazing blinding light that Phoebus’ face Poured in a looking-glass, nor could she wait To hold him naked in her arms. Striking His arms against his sides, he leaped and dived Overhand stroke, into the pool; his glittering body Flashed and turned within clear waters, as if It were of ivory or of white lilies seen

More eroticism

Through walls of glass. ‘I’ve won, for he is mine,’ She cried, clothes torn away and naked, as she Leaped to follow him, her arms about him fast, Where, though he tried to shake her off, she clung, Fastening his lips to hers, stroking his breast, Surrounding him with arms, legs, lips, and hands As though she were a snake caught by an eagle, Who leaping from his claws wound her tall body Around his head, and lashed his wings with her Long tail, as though she were quick ivy tossing Her vines round the thick body of a tree, Or as the cuttlefish at deep sea’s bottom Captures its enemy—so she held to him.

Romantic

The heir of Atlas struggled as he could Against the pleasure that the girl desired, But she clung to him as though their flesh were one, ‘Dear, naughty boy,’ she said, ‘to torture me; But you won’t get away. O gods in heaven, Give me this blessing; clip him within my arms Like this forever.’ At which the gods agreed: They grew one body, one face, one pair of arms And legs, as one might graft branches upon A tree, so two became nor boy nor girl, Neither yet both within a single body.