The Jennifer Narratives - - - A love affair between those who are old enough to know better... and really could care less.

The Jennifer Narratives are written by Elizabeth Randolph and tell an ongoing story of the relationship of Jennifer with her lover Dale. Both in their 60s, they rediscover the passion and lust they thought was left behind in their youth. These stories are dedicated to Dale - the wondeful man who taught Jennifer how to love again. Copyright (c) 2008 by Elizabeth Randolph All rights reserved.

The Regiment of the Senses - A Prose Poem by C.P. Cavafy

 
Speak not of guilt, speak not of responsibility.
When the Regiment of the Senses parades by, with music, and with banners;
when the senses shiver and shudder,
it is only a fool and and an irreverent person
that will keep his distance,
who will not embrace the good cause,
marching towards the conquest of pleasures and passions.
 
 All of morality’s laws – poorly understood and applied –
are nil and cannot stand even for a moment,
when the Regiment of the Senses parades by,
with music, and with banners.
 
Do not permit any shadowy virtue to hold you back.
Do not believe that any obligation binds you.
Your duty is to give in,
to always give in to Desires,
these most perfect creatures of the perfect gods.
Your duty is to enlist as a faithful footman,
with simplicity of heart,
when the Regiment of the Senses parades by,
with music, and with banners.
 
Do not confine yourself at home,
misleading yourself with theories of justice,
with the preconceptions of reward,
held by an imperfect society.
Do not say, Such is my toil’s worth and such is my due to savor.
Just as life is an inheritance,
and you did nothing to earn it as a recompense,
so should Sensual Pleasure be.

Do not shut yourself at home;
but keep the windows open,
open wide,
so as to hear the first sound of the passing of the soldiers,
when the Regiment of the Senses arrives,
with music, and with banners.
 
Do not be deceived by the blasphemers
who tell you that the service is dangerous and laborious.
The service of sensual pleasure is a constant joy.
It does exhaust you, but it exhausts you with inebriations sublime.
And finally, when you collapse in the street,
even then your fortune is enviable.
When your funeral will pass by,
the Forms to which your desires gave shape
will shower lilacs and white roses upon your coffin,
young Olympian Gods will bear you on their shoulders,
and you will be buried in the Cemetery of the Ideal,
where the mausoleums of poetry gleam conspicuously white.

 Translated by Manuel Savidis

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