Issue 45: Spring 2019

Two Poems

Keyed up by the Festival of Naked Youths, and having eaten a / particularly suggestive fig, Sophocles let drop his celibate resolve

 

Young cuckoo seeks nest, bring own feathers

Keyed up by the Festival of Naked Youths, and having eaten a

particularly suggestive fig, Sophocles let drop his celibate resolve

and roamed the edge of the clothed spectators where he found

Petros, a youth of cheap tunic and fine features.

The boy was extraordinary about the eyes and had a fluid way that

made of poverty grace. Sophocles recalled the youth’s delicately

muscled abdomen and his fine heft, hew and girth. The price was

agreed and Sophocles led the beautiful youth beyond the walls of

the city. Petros was curious about the latest plays at Epidaurus and

made puppy dog eyes all the while asking about them.

Sophocles was getting worked up in a very pleasant way when the

boy spread his tunic on the turf so that they might lay upon it.

It had been a while, and recent excesses made Sophocles worry.

They covered their gambol with the playwright’s luxurious

cloak—light through the rich purple stripe casting itself athwart the

boy’s chest making him some envoy from a peaceful kingdom by a

quiet sea. Despite the wine orgies, everything went just as planned

and Petros made wonderful moans that seemed crafted in the north

country where they have fewer vowels. He was a sweet boy with a

whiff of pine to him. Sophocles doted and stared at the boy in the

dim of their love tent. Petros said he’d forget him, as he was

a mere rent boy, and that there was nothing worse than being

forgotten by the great—history being the only thing great people

could give that really mattered. Sophocles mused on this, probably

Petros was right. But then again, in the afterglow, anything at all

seemed possible, forgetting, remembering, time stopping, the sun

exploding. The boy rose hurriedly, while Sophocles sleepily lost

himself feeling his testes furl and unfurl based on no logic he could

discern. Broody, but lightning fast, the boy snatched the rich cloak,

and running away toward the city walls, shouted: Now. You.

Won’t.

 

Sophocles was, for the first time, in love.


 

You forget it in people

Like most alcoholics, Bacchus had a difficult childhood. His mom,

burnt to cinders upon seeing her husband’s true self, and, his first

boyfriend: killed by a jealous moon. Typical AA stuff. But unlike

most alcoholics, Bacchus invented wine after turning his murdered

boyfriend into a vine. For this reason alone, he never tried AA:

blowback. Anyhow, he grew up like we all do and like all of us

had to bring his mother back from hell.

There are various ways to hell. Handbaskets, good intentions, wide

gates open down broad avenues. But Bacchus had heard tell of a

promising hellmouth at Argo, known for its wool and its fig stews,

and he had a thing for fig stews. There he met many shepherds,

one after the other said: talk to Polymnus with the goats. Polymnus

made a mean fig stew. And while Bacchus gorged himself on the

stuff, making appreciative sounds at regular breathing breaks,

Polymnus described how the bottomless Alcyonian Lake wasn’t

bottomless for nothing. And how he could take him to the most

bottomless part of the lake, where Bacchus could skin dive to Hell.

Upon saying skin dive, Polymnus felt really sexy. It was like this

every time he said those words and he wasn’t sure why. The idea

of nakedness: sure, but also: the uncertainty of the meaning of the

phrase. Couldn’t it just mean, no scuba suit no oxygen tanks. Or

does it have something about the skinness of the skin diving

through the wateriness of the water, one sliding sure and itself over

the other, also sure and even more itself. And the whole thing just

stinks of exciting sex. Bacchus, looking up from his meal, now

bebearded in it itself, caught Polymnus’s eye just then. It was a

nice eye, a green eye. It twinkled a little with skin diving.

They flirted for a while about goats. Polymnus took the chance to

guide Bacchus’s beautiful effeminate hand here and there around

ears and over hinds and highlight things that no non-goatherd

could know. Guild secrets. Bacchus liked how Polymnus cared for

his goats, I mean the way he cared about them, remember, his own

first boyfriend was a satyr, a good part goat. But it was time to hit

the lake. Bacchus watched Polymnus’s broad back row. He had

gorgeous form and the oars never splashed. Bacchus wished his

errand was not as pressing and archetypal. But as they neared the

center of the bottomless lake, Bacchus flirtingly asked if there’s

any souvenir Polymnus might like from Hell. Or a favour? I’d love

to fuck you, the face facing away immediately said. Bacchus

smiled. So you shall! upon my return! Thereupon, Bacchus undid

his cloak and skin dove straight to hell. The adventure following

was typical, there were twists and turns, but let’s say that after

predictable plot development to make the whole thing worthwhile

enough to be called a plot, involving as it does immortals, Bacchus

returned his mom to Olympus. Installing her and getting her

comfortable took a while, but then, when she was settled, his mind

turned to Polymnus and his promise. He set for Argo but could not

find his goatherd. He asked around. And was shown a grave.

Polymnus had died in the late summer, just as the pastures rotated.

No one could say how. Bacchus had cured himself of his mother’s

death, turned his first boyfriend into balm for the soul, but now

was caught up short in honouring a simple, solemn promise. He

found the grave, still just loose soil rung round by rocks and fig

trees. He broke off a branch and started to carve. First he made a

little turtle, which he placed at the head of the grave. Then he made

a hare, which he placed at the foot. Then he made a rather thick

dildo. Now, the Christians who have kicked this story down the

alleyway of history say that what he did next was sit on the stick to

honour his promise. And to be sure, spitting on it copiously, he did

do that, gently but certainly, but being Bacchus, he also fucked the

grave with it, and being Bacchus, he didn’t just fuck it

 

with the funny little stick.

 

About the author

John Emil Vincent published his first book of poems, Excitement Tax, in 2017. It was shortlisted for the Quebec Writers’ Federation Concordia First Book Prize. His second book of poems, Ganymede’s Dog, will be published in the fall by McGill-Queen’s University Press.