Ode on a Kava Bowl (warning: intellectual nudity!)

Ode on a Kava Bowl
(with apologies to John Keats and gratitude to Trader Vic)

Thou still unquenched vessel of quietness,
Thou shiney ceramic of silence and slow time,
Beachcombing sage, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our ryhme:
What gardenia leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of sailors or maidens, or of both,
In thatched huts or the golden sands of Polynesia?
What mortals or gods are these? What moralists loath?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What rums and nectars? What wild ecstasy?

Exotic melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft ukelele, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but more endear'd,
Strum to the spirit hulas of no tone:
Languid youth, beneath the coco palms, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
White trader never, never canst thou kiss
Though forever embracing thy goal - yet do not grieve;
Her bosum cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy palms! that cannot shed
Your fronds, nor ever bid the Spring Adieu;
And, happy hula girl, unwearied,
For ever swaying dances for ever new;
More happy love! More happy, happy love!
For ever shapely and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever smiling and forever young;
All breathing human passion far away,
That leaves a heart high-longing and joy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are those sailing to the Trader's hut?
To what bambooed altar, O mysterious priest,
Leades't thou that wahine with brown thighs,
All her raven tresses with flowers dressed?
What little village by waterfall or sea shore,
Or sleeping volcano with peaceful abode,
Is emptied of these girls, this playful morn?
And, little village, thy paths for evermore
will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O blossum shape! Fair arrangement! with brede
of wistful men and maidens overwrought,
with rum kegs and jungle fruit;
Thou, silent form, does't tease us out of thought
as does sobriety; Cold Paradise!
When drunken lust shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth Beauty", that is all
ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

-KailuaGeoff

[ Edited by: Kailuageoff 2005-11-12 07:57 ]

For comparison...

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN
By John Keats (1820)
Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
Thou foster child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit dities of no tone.
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal---yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unweari-ed,
Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
Forever panting, and forever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

KG

Brilliant!