The Archpoet His Confession: A Recasting
Seething over inwardly
with savage indignation,
in my bitterness of soul
I make this declaration.
My substance is an element
refined of all pretension,
a plaything for the fluttering breeze,
a gossamer invention.
You'll find among the good advice
with which The Bible's filled,
to dig right down to solid rock
before you start to build.
That sounds too much like work to me:
I've built my house on air,
and like a soaring wind-borne dove,
my home is everywhere.
I cannot bear austerity,
and, since I am confessing,
the gravity of saints has always
struck me as depressing.
Virtue is a tedious job,
love's work is sweet as honey;
the riches that Queen Venus gives
mean more to me than money.
So down the open road I go,
exulting in my youth.
I flaunt my weaknesses with pride,
and if I search for truth,
I'm likelier to encounter it
in one beguiling face
than all the monkish breviaries
imploring heaven's grace.
Bless me, father, I have sinned,
or curse me if you'd rather.
Our fate is ashes, dust, and night;
theology is blather.
What fun can an angel have?
The flesh is sweet damnation,
so let me glory in its joys,
and you can have salvation.
Each creature needs its proper food
to keep it flourishing:
our youthful flesh requires the same
for proper nourishing.
The world is filled with lovely girls,
our prime will soon have ceased:
with such a splendid banquet spread,
why not enjoy the feast?
Hold a hot coal in your hand:
you think that it won't burn you?
If you think you're chaste, Pavia's
fleshpots soon will learn you.
There, each day's a holy day,
the Feast of Saint Carouse;
the streets are lined with palaces,
and every one's a house.
Take a youth so pure, he looks
on sex as an infection;
set him in Pavia and
he'll be one big erection.
There, Venus smiles from every door:
Pavia! where you'll see
a monument to every vice,
except virginity.
A further accusation lodged
is that I like to gamble.
Well, what do you expect from one
whose whole life is a ramble?
And if I have to pawn my cloak
and shiver in the cold,
that gives me the asperity
to keep my verses bold.
The third indictment, please. Ah yes:
it's that I've got a thirst.
The tavern is my second home,
they charge. No, it's my first.
They tell me to abandon it.
I say, "don't hold your breath.
Can you think of a better place
to wait around for death?"
And when he comes, I'll greet him as
a friend should, with a toast,
and may my fellow drinkers cry,
when I give up the ghost,
"Our comrade's gone to his reward,
so throw him on the wagon,
while we drink to his memory.
Innkeeper, a flagon!"
Now I have done: I have confessed
to what's been charged of me,
admitting guilt of every sin,
except hypocrisy,
so judge, my lords. I have no more
to plead but this alone:
consider what's in your own heart,
before you throw that stone.
--
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Jon Corelis http://jcorelis.googlepages.com/joncorelis
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