Lines on a krater in the British Museum

Dionysus, panthers and ivy branches
adorn my mixing bowl. Paint of alkali
potash on shaped Attic clay, passed
three times through the fire, this bell jar,
black figures on a blood orange sheen,
they fill our cups from. We are wise men
will empty three jars, one for health,
then for love and pleasure, the third
for sleep. First a libation to my son,
come home in the spring on his shield.
Dionysus has power in life and death,
guide him through gloomy Erebus.
Tonight, flute players, our delight
when young, and we will talk of virtue.
It is not now the modern way to care
for philosophy; like honey the wine
trickles, we forget the world. On
the reverse of the bell men recline
at a party. Twenty have joined me.
Soon we’re laughing heartily. That joker
Philippus is dancing. If my friends cry
for a fourth bowl, a fifth one, prick-
eared silhouettes recall we are men. 

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