Poem: "Ganymede"

Wrote this over the summer. Inspired by Schubert's setting of the poem of the same name by Goethe. Here's a recording by one of my favorite baritones, Bryn Terfel, singing. As always, comments are appreciated.

Ganymede:
Surf lashes gently against the rocks
which bear each silent crack as dawn spreads
lovingly over the far cliffs and the beach,
a blanket of panacea. Slowly, tidal pools
open and reveal their denizens
snoring and dreaming simple-celled dreams
of nothingness beneath a thin, clear margin
of dream-preserving brine.

From above, high beyond human sight,
your form languidly dives down, soundless at first,
then your terrific wings beat
upon the air around me, whipping the surf
into a frenzy, making it lash harder and harder
against Time's unflinching stony scions. Your eyes,
brilliant and smooth as cut glass
on another beach, in a more turbulent time,
pierce to the bottom of that pit
where in a human being a soul might be,
deigning to fill it first with apprehension
of what may come, what promises may be made,
what secret passions may yet be explored
here, in the quiet hours before the youths
come frolicking all over the baking sand.

For now, just you and me are here, my Lord.
Your glossy feathers coating me in silk,
shielding me from the jealous salty sea-air,
cooling one thirst but simultaneously
causing another to erupt, fountain-like,
from that hole which you wish to fill
like builders seal a crack or doctors bandage
a messy wound with soothing balm and gauze.
For now, it's just the two of us, engaged
in dancing on the dawn-lit beach, the sea
looking up and reaching out, its waves
the color of dark wine, the color of jealousy,
its foamy tendrils pulsing in and out,
desperately grasping at what is yours
and mine and only shared between us two.
No trios here, only a minuet
repeating endlessly, a three-four step
of heartbeat against eagle wings transforming
into those limbs that only gods possess:
taut like sturdy rope, cured like leather,
calm on the outside, powered by an ichor
unknown to any here on earth who lift weights,
they are the form of "gorgeous", as Plato might see it.

A flash of light: your eyes still fixed on mine,
unfailing in their caring attitude;
you hold me as is fitting for a lover
who bears your stature and your pure desire,
a fraction of which burns within me, frail
but undying. Surf still beats on the rocks,
keeping a steady undercurrent going
as bodies twist, aligning, hair and fingers
meeting and mixing, bodies falling into the foam,
lips hitting lips, minds senseless to hold back
the all-encompassing lust which surges through
your ichored veins and mine.

Oh Lord and master of my mortal senses,
All-Loving Father of Olympus, take me
to be your faithful servant among the clouds!
Make me your cupbearer, my life be damned:
what good am I, another in a line
of princes who will never see the throne
which Priam bound unto himself by age?
What shall I do but grow old as a prince?
What good am I when others of my race
shall live and die before I'm eligible
to wield the powers which pale compared to yours?
Make me your bearer, he who sits the closest--
no, lays his head upon his master's chest,
secured by passion sublimated
into a love like gold, unburdened by
the dross of mortal neediness. Dear Jove,
I beg you, as we fly upon the wings
of envious Zephyr, to make me eternally yours,
to have and hold as you see fit.
I cannot return to Troy: its mighty towers now
seem nothing more than puffs of smoke
than solid structures.

In this moment, Jove,
All-Father and Creator, as we hover
between the mortal and the transcendent,
I ask you to make this moment last forever,
that we may be united so forever,
two lovers sublimated into one
all-encompassing soul that dissolves
into the sounds of surf lashing the rocks
and dawn spreading her panacea
over the wine-dark sea.