Cantice II

Today you get reference to a Paraklausithyron, a style of poetry which takes place outside a lover's door.You can find examples of these from Horace in Odes 3.10 and 3.26, Tibullus 1.2, Propertius 1.16, and Ovid's Amores 1.6. I don't really have more to say, other than I'm going to be doing a lot of community service in the near future, against my will, and will therefore be exhausted by it. I hope you're all enjoying the wayward poet, Cantice.

Soon enough though, they reached the door to the urban villa which he had made his destination. Not the front door. Not yet. They were at the back, at the kitchen, where after drying himself off with his dinner napkin and trying to make himself up to look the best he possibly could in such short time, he instructed his slave as a teacher his pupil, “Now then, you know what to do Famulus. Let the lady know that I am here, such that we may meet.” The slave said nothing, but turned to knock on the door, and soon enough another had opened the door and beckoned him in. Before he could disappear, Cantice interrupted, “Oh, a cup of wine. Diluted.” The slave who answered the door brought him a small ceramic cup which he quickly swallowed and then handed back, otherwise ignoring the slave, who then shut the door, leaving Cantice outside with nothing but the door.

He began to pace back and forth. It had been but a modicum of time, but how such brief passages of time seemed to stretch on unto infinity whence such occasions occur. Oh door, oh doorkeeper, set the hinge in motion and move the stubborn oak. Oh, how love shows man swiftly how to come to thee, even as his very gut churns against the placidity of his serene façade. Even the spirits mock, so sayeth Amora, spirit of love, as a gentle mother cradling her child, “you must become brave.” Thus here I made my way and hence I am here. Oh door, you listen to my prayer, as solemn and filled with sorrow as it may be, but listen with a heart of iron and a countenance of oak. Oh, how locked doors are useful amidst a city at siege, but when all is at peace, why is it that you should keep lovers from one another’s warm embrace? Why is it that even now you still yet fear a reprisal of arms? Why is it that you should dread my ire and hold yourself steadfast against me?

Wait, what’s this? Do my senses deceive? Do the doorposts groan with a driving hinge? Oh. How I have been deceived by a gentle breeze, the north wind carrying off my hopes and dreams, spoils of war to be violently raped. What is it that you want? What is it that shall make you appeased? What yet must I still do; a prayer or offering of some manner to gain your confidence such that I may pass through your threshold unmolested? Must I now arm myself with fire and iron such as to take you by force, oh terrible doorkeeper? By the seven gods that govern you, let them see that I have tried everything, but your insatiable greed and stalwart defense thwart my heart. Alas, ye cruel doorpost with rigid threshold, body of unfeeling timber, I must be away of you, lest you further rend my heart and leave it ragged.