Mastodawn

Bullfinch’s Pornography

All very discreet, I assure you.
At one of the better clubs –
The gentleman was waiting for me.
A scowling, imposing fellow with sidewhiskers.
Declines my offer of a port.
“I should like it settled, if you must know.”
He handed over the package,
Tactfully wrapped in brown paper.
He scratched at his temple furiously.
Hounds bayed in the distance.
Terror flitted over his eyes.
A curious sort, as it transpired.

In the study, under lock and key,
I perused at abandon.
The nymphs! What sport we made!
Amazons! I worship at your remove!
And what ravishing youths! Golden-limbed Adonis!
Eagle-borne Ganymede! Petal-soft Hyacinthus!
I confess, my head was turned.
The water-nymph Salmacis fiercely
Embraces comely Hermaphroditus
Until they become one.
The very likeness of my schoolboy friend,
Whose delicate advances I spurned –
I relive, and think more dearly on them now.

And such wanton bacchanals!
Oceans of wine, flesh, and spilled blood.
The Maenads and Bacchus himself
Make of these the holiest sacraments.
Why not the Dionysian Amen to life?
The solemn glories of Christendom
Suddenly seem anaemic and humourless.
Oh, the hectic magic and barbed wit
Of these inexhaustible ancients.
It is too much.
I am Tantalus, who having feasted with the gods
Knows only greater hunger and thirst.

Such delicious revenge!
Juno in her splendid umbrage!
Redressing Jupiter’s betrayals tenfold.
His paramour, Io, now a cow. Callisto, a she-bear.
Their many bastard children scattered to the constellations.
Behold Procne, butchering her son Itys
And feeding him to King Tereus
Because he violated her sister, Philomena.
Hold – I no longer find this agreeable.

Mercifully, I turn the page.
And now I am Actaeon,
In my glittering royal hunting party.
Our javelins slaked with blood,
I wander off to find repose in the sacred wood.
Innocent enough, you have my word.
Now through the boughs I see
Crocale arranging the goddess’s hair,
While Nephele and Hyale draw water for her bath.
Who among you could look away?
So I gazed upon Diana, unclad.
Such a sight – most untoward for any mortal.
My eyes aflame as the nymphs scream in horror.
But their mistress dares with steely calm.
“Now go and tell, if you can,
That you have seen Diana unapparelled.”

Panic. Terror. I now know
From these mercurial, macabre pages,
How the gods heap lurid death and ignominy
On a mortal’s least transgression.
This is fearful doom. The abyss.
Peer not into the affairs of deities.
Or suffer the fate of Niobe,
Whose boast of fertility stirred divine envy
So Artemis slaughtered her children.
Or Semele, incinerated
Upon seeing her lover, Zeus, in true raiment.

How can I unsee the fatal sight?
Who will rid me of this cursed book?
My temples throb as the horns take root.
I hear the hounds’ blood-drunk cries,
Closing in on their master.
I cloak my shame in fresh brown paper.
I am 20 minutes early to the Athenaeum Club.
I pray the poor chap won’t be late.

Craig Constantine has been a day laborer, bread baker, furniture mover, and TV producer. Now a poet, his hardest, worst-paid, best job. His poems are drifting like his younger self, now in the UK, now in the US, now in Australia. He has just been named Editor-at-Large for Poetries in English Magazine.

#CraigConstantine

Craig Constantine Jan 8, 2025

Holiday card

For as long as I can remember, we’ve sent some sort of holiday card to our family and closest friends. Over the years it’s been store-bought cards, then for a while I was custom printing my own cards, but most-recently the professionally printed ones just can’t be beat.

The hardest part is always—of course—getting a photo the two of us can accept. Anyway.

Happy holidays to you and your family, and best wishes for a healthy and joyful 2025.

#CraigConstantine #HolidayCards