These passionate verses were published in Paris in 1894 as the lost works of a disciple of Sappho. Between their open celebration of lesbian love and the eventual revelation of their true authorship—the verses actually were written by French novelist and poet Pierre Louÿs—they became a succès de scandale. Although debunked as a work of antiquity, TheSongs of Bilitis remains a classic of erotic literature. More than 160 sensual illustrations by the famed Hungarian-born American artist Willy Pogány grace the pages of this lovely keepsake edition. Reprinted from a sensitive translation of the original French edition by Alvah C. Bessie, it features extensive annotations. Contains adult material.
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Yes, you can access The Songs of Bilitis by Pierre Louÿs, Alvah C Bessie, Willy Pogány in PDF and/or ePUB format, as well as other popular books in Literatura & Poesía. We have over one million books available in our catalogue for you to explore.
Mother inexhaustible and incorruptible, creatures, born the first, engendered by thyself and by thyself conceived, issue of thyself alone and seeking joy within thyself, Astarte!
Oh! perpetually fertilized, virgin and nurse of all that is, chaste and lascivious, pure and revelling, ineffable, nocturnal, sweet, breather of fire, foam of the sea!
Thou who accordest grace in secret, thou who unitest, thou who lovest, thou who seizest with furious desire the multiplied races of savage beasts and couplest the sexes in the wood.
Oh, irresistible Astarte! hear me, take me, possess me, oh, Moon! and thirteen times each year draw from my womb the sweet libation of my blood!
HYMN TO THE NIGHT
The midnight masses of the trees move no more than do the mountains. The stars are crowded in a spreading sky. A breeze warm as a human breath caresses my cheeks and eyes.
Oh! Night who gave birth to the Gods! how sweet thou art upon my lips! how warm thou art in my hair! how thou enterest into me this evening, and I feel that I am big with all thy spring!
The flowers which are going to bloom will take their birth from me. The wind which breathes so softly is my breath. The wafted perfume is my own desire. All the living stars are in my eyes.
Thy voice, is it the murmur of the sea, or is it the silence of the fields? Thy voice, I do not understand it, but it dizzies me, and my tears bathe both my hands.
THE MAENADS
Through the forests that overhang the sea, the Maenads madly rushed. Maskale of the fiery breasts, howling, brandished the sycamore phallos, smeared with red.
All leaped and ran and cried aloud beneath their robes and crowns of twisted vine, crotals clacking in their hands, and thyrses splitting the bursting skins of echoing dulcimers.
With sopping hair and agile limbs, breasts reddened and tossed about, sweat of cheeks and foam of lips, oh, Dionysos! they offered in return the love that you had poured in them.
And the sea-wind tossed Heliokomis’ russet hair unto the sky, and whipped it into a furious flame on her body’s white-wax torch.
THE SEA OF KYPRIS
I had crouched on the edge of the highest promontory. The sea was black as a field of violets. And the Milky Way was gushing from the great supernal breast.
About me a thousand Maenads slept in the torn-up flowers. Long grasses mingled with their flowing hair. And now the sun was born from the eastern waters.
These the same waves and these the self-same shores that saw one day the white body of Aphrodite rising. . . I suddenly hid my eyes in my hands.
For I had seen the water trembling with a thousand little lips of light: the pure sex, or it may have been the smile of Kypris Philommeïdes.*
THE PRIESTESSES OF ASTARTE
Astarte’s priestesses engage in love at the rising of the moon; then they arise and bathe themselves in a great basin with a silver rim.
With crook’d fingers they comb their tangled locks, and their purple-tinted hands twined in their jet-black curls are like so many coral-branches in a dark and running sea.
They never pluck their deltas, for the goddess’s triangle marks their bellies as a temple; but they tint themselves with paint-brush, and heavily scent themselves.
Astarte’s priestesses engage in love at the setting of the moon, then in a tent where burns a high gold lamp they stretch themselves at random.
THE MYSTERIES *
In the thrice mysterious hall where men have never entered, we have fêted you, Astarte of the Night. Mother of the World, Well-Spring of the life of all the Gods!
I shall reveal a portion of the rite, but no more of it than is permissible. About a crowned Phallos, a hundred-twenty women swayed and cried. The initiates were dressed as men, the others in the split tunic.
The fumes of perfumes and the smoke of torches floated fog-like in and out among us all. I wept my scorching tears. All, at the feet of Berbeia, we threw ourselves, extended on our backs.
Then, when the Religious Act was consummated, and when into the Holy Triangle the purpled phallos had been plunged anew, the mysteries began; but I shall say no more.
EGYPTIAN COURTESANS
I went with Plango to the Egyptian courtesans, far above the old city. They have amphoras of earth and copper salvers, and yellow mats on which they may squat without an effort.
Their rooms are silent, without angles or corners, so greatly have successive coats of blue white-wash softened the capitals and rounded off the bottoms of the walls.
They sit unmoving, hands upon their knees. When they offer porridge they murmur: “Happiness.” And when one thanks them they say, “Thanks to you.”
They understand Hellenic, but feign to speak it poorly so that they may laugh at us in their own tongue; but we, tooth for tooth, speak Lydian and they suddenly grow restless.
I SING MY FLESH AND MY LIFE
Certainly I shall not sing of celebrated mistresses. For, if they live no longer, why speak of them at all? Am I not quite similar to them? Have I not enough to do to think about myself?
