I was kicked out of a group once for writing this poem.
Follow the shaggy Satyr through secret forest paths
Until you reach the gathering where the Nymphs still dance
Circling round and round in rapturous worship of
King Lusios, crowned with clusters of ripe grapes and green
Foliage, he the master of men’s hearts whose tender touch
Unleashes their hidden spirits, freeing them from ego’s
Cruel chains to revel in primal purity, feeling themselves not apart but
Kin to all creation. They dance a dance old as time,
Flowing blissful on waves of wine, their every move
Under the control of their God, whose heartbeat is heard in the
Clangor of drum and pipe and wailing barbarous shouts.
Keep the memory of this moment in your heart, how it
Felt to touch the divine and be touched by him in return, the
Unspeakable ecstasy of dissolving at his feet, your fears and
Concerns, your fragile, broken, imperfect parts melting away in his
Kiss and the way he stroked your cheek, saying:
Follow me, my child, and I will make you whole again,
Unbelievable as it may seem, and teach you to be free.
Child, my path is not easy: it will cost you everything to be mine.
Knowledge of this sort is a heavy burden – though ignorance is heavier – and
Freedom, real freedom, is never easy. But
Unless you walk this path, you will be like a dead man,
Close to living, but not really. How empty the other way seems,
Kept apart from the source of life. Never to
Feel the heart in your breast thunder with excitement,
Ugliness all about instead of the beauty of the mountain –
Crisp snow beneath your feet and the smell of pine in the air –
Knife-sharp pain and transcendent joy, these two sides of one coin.
Feel everything, and feel it intensely!
Understand this above all else: mine is the path of life,
Child, and everything in it. Leave no sensation unexplored;
Kill what holds you back inside and drink your
Fill from my cup, emptying it and asking for more
Until your lips are stained with wine and you
Cannot recall a time when you were sober.
Keep these commandments of mine and I will bless you, o
Friend of mine!
Up you lift your head, proud to be
Counted among the ivy-clad Bakchoi of
Kissokomes, the ivy-crowned God.
From your wine-drenched lips
Unbidden and incomprehensible
Comes a shout like that made by the mighty
Kine in the field, and in that moment you understand the mystery.