The Movable Feast

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In the forest clearing

In the urban warehouse

In the suburban living room

 

 

 

The Bakkhants meet

They pour out water and wine for the land, for the dead

And they call Them in

 

In rush the Maenads, Thyone dancing among them

In rush the Satyrs, Silenus staggering and weaving among them

Their stomping feet clear the floor, wheeling dance defines the edge

 

The Bakkhants pour a cup and offer a plate to Them

Crying Euhoi and dancing with Them

And that mortal space sprouts immortal life

 

In stalks the panther, in slides the snake

In grow the ivy and the grape, in walks the Starry Bull

All is riot of life irrepressible

 

In comes Ariadne of the Starry Crown, with her Maenads attending

In comes Dionysos of the Feast, with amphora ever-full

They take the thrones prepared for Them, and the revelry truly begins

 

The Bakkhants pour out wine to Them, and offer them the best of the feast

Singing the names of their Undying guests

And offering their cups to receive the God’s gift

 

Seen in double vision, with eyes of flesh and eyes of fire

Carpet, concrete, bare dirt overlaid with Her ancient dancing ground

Walls, rafters, fire-pit and trash-bin overgrown with His leafy vines

 

All fetters fall away, all chains are broken

Heavy masks are set aside, naked faces shine

Skins are shed, soft new flesh bathed in oil and wine

 

Naked-souled the Bakkhants dance, mortal and undying together

Claws and wings and horns unbound from shrouds of mundane life

And secret monsters offered up, sacred chimerae made holy in Their presence

 

Alive, in joy of flesh and feast, souls aflame with rare ecstasy

Alive, despite the narrow lanes laid from birth to death

Alive, remembering the eternal feast yet to come

 

Ariadne arises from Her throne, her Maenads rise with Her

Dionysos arises from His throne, shoulders His amphora

They depart the dancing-ground, as the feast winds down

 

Out the panther, out the snake, out the Starry Bull

Out the leaves, out the vines, out the ancient sands

Sleepy lids close the eyes of fire

 

Thyone calls a new hunt, Drawing the Maenads away

Silenus, dreaming adrift on tides of wine, by Satyrs carried away

Carpets and concrete, fire-pits and trash bins cover the subtle world

 

The Bakkhants pour out water and wine

Crying farewell to Them, giving thanks to the land and the dead

And gather up their fetters, their shrouds and their skins

 

Once more into the ways of mortal life, on the entropic march

Ever aflame, the true self within dances toward the eternal feast

Leaving vines in their tracks, living a life irrepressible

 

In the forest clearing

In the urban warehouse

In the suburban living room

About Lon Sarver

Lon Sarver is a polytheist priest of Dionysos, living in the San Francisco Bay Area and contemplating (with a healthy amount of dread) making a second attempt at a career in Marriage and Family Therapy. View all posts by Lon Sarver

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