SILENUS' SONG
from The Golden Age
“dystranslations” of some of Virgil’s Eclogues
I.
I don’t wanna sing war
no more, Varus–
let someone else beat
the drums for you
send another crop
of young boys off
to be cut down – I’d prefer
not to, instead
I’ll praise this herb
right here in these fields.
Chillax, that’s
what I say.
I don’t have to be tied up
by no Naiad to do it,
either.
I’ll spin out all creation,
how earth first got baked
by the sunthen rinsed off
by a good long rain
from clouds kneaded together
out of stardust
and godstuff–
how plants and trees sprang up
in the hills and how the hills
yielded beasts that wound
their way down to
the sweet spots where
springs nestled and
life flowed – how the first
PEOPLE shook out
of the shadows naked
as rocks, full of song
and awkward as fuck–
Yes, let’s just conk out
here on these winding
contrails and shards
of song, tripping
on tales of
First Things
II.
We are not these loathsome
mortal bodies–
if you need proof of that
think of wretched
Pasiphaë her unspeakable
passion for snow
white bull
which represents something
gone wrong in the
turn to agriculture /
industry –
think of Phaethon’s
sisters gone stiff
in bark and shooting up
from the stunned
dirt, consider
Polydorus turned into
bleeding bush / blood cake
breaking
in Aeneas’ hands – or the unholy
meal served up to Tereus
by Philomela…
All these I sing, wrong
from the start, a dream
we only think we’ve
woken up from.
Corporations
money men
owners
provosts
generals
senators
the false smile
the cold
hand
power line through
wheat field
plastic bag in
bramble
oil on gills
the grit of empire worked into
every oyster shell:
wrong
from the start
from The Golden Age
“dystranslations” of some of Virgil’s Eclogues
I.
I don’t wanna sing war
no more, Varus–
let someone else beat
the drums for you
send another crop
of young boys off
to be cut down – I’d prefer
not to, instead
I’ll praise this herb
right here in these fields.
Chillax, that’s
what I say.
I don’t have to be tied up
by no Naiad to do it,
either.
I’ll spin out all creation,
how earth first got baked
by the sunthen rinsed off
by a good long rain
from clouds kneaded together
out of stardust
and godstuff–
how plants and trees sprang up
in the hills and how the hills
yielded beasts that wound
their way down to
the sweet spots where
springs nestled and
life flowed – how the first
PEOPLE shook out
of the shadows naked
as rocks, full of song
and awkward as fuck–
Yes, let’s just conk out
here on these winding
contrails and shards
of song, tripping
on tales of
First Things
II.
We are not these loathsome
mortal bodies–
if you need proof of that
think of wretched
Pasiphaë her unspeakable
passion for snow
white bull
which represents something
gone wrong in the
turn to agriculture /
industry –
think of Phaethon’s
sisters gone stiff
in bark and shooting up
from the stunned
dirt, consider
Polydorus turned into
bleeding bush / blood cake
breaking
in Aeneas’ hands – or the unholy
meal served up to Tereus
by Philomela…
All these I sing, wrong
from the start, a dream
we only think we’ve
woken up from.
Corporations
money men
owners
provosts
generals
senators
the false smile
the cold
hand
power line through
wheat field
plastic bag in
bramble
oil on gills
the grit of empire worked into
every oyster shell:
wrong
from the start
David Hadbawnik