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Trevor Blevins Dec 2015
I.

My blood was glistening meteor glows after
        the modern jazz I spent all night trying
        to carve into genius.

Hanging on the the blue notes of
        saxophones like a madman hooked to
        his syringe, and then you petrified me...

But I began to shake.

The spirit of all my ballads has returned to
        me at last.

Dug yourself out of my past, into the
        bedroom thought fractures — I call
        them modern art — but plugged into
        your Dada spirit, the abstract turns into
        star clusters,

And I'm burning for that cosmic wishing well.

Just hoping for your radiation to spread over
         our lightyear gap, that gap that always
         made coexistence so impossible.

When Calliope calls,
     I'd advise anyone answer...
      But you're twice as golden
       And thrice as red
         As Calliope has ever been.

Torn in your sandstorm.
Blinded by this vision of your second  
        coming.

Back in one piece, one whole, one complete
        consciousness, and all after I tried my
        damnedest to rip you apart, poetically.

Only in reflection and confrontation did I see
        how wrong it all felt.

That is not poetry
There was no peace.
That does not spawn Justice,
And you did not warrant my contempt.

I idolize you for you are what I am not.
I am mesmerized as we are exactly the
        same.

II.

The things you do not know.

I must have started typing you fifty times,
        never hitting send since my dark
        Crispin's Night.
I never hit send.
Not once.
I built imaginary worlds where you were my
        abuser, with my loneliness a
        pawn, but a crucial one.
Those thoughts that latched on to the back
        corners of my insecurity, and reassured
        me I was void of worth most every
        night...
I turned those thoughts into you—
Spilled those ******* thoughts into reality,
        and it took your shot of venom to place
        it all back into perspective.

If you're wondering what I've been up to
        since you left, my calendar hasn't
        hasn't moved a single page.

III.

The mythos never told me that Erato could
        address me back—
Muse that I pray on.
Muse that I mull over with Whitman.

I take this chance to lift you up, as you've
        been floating me over this rural skyline
        for months now.
Let me see the city.
I only wish to live.
I see governments toppled in the tint of your
        face, with the lights low, the air quite
        heavy for me.
You had to feel like a Goddess,
Even your distant screams had your mark of
        perfection.

IV.

You're the one I envy.

Dozing off under the anger of conservative
         politicians talking about life...
Erato, darling, what do these guys know
         about life anyway?
To lie as profession
Lie for the masses
Lie for the wealth of corporations
Lie for self-justification
Lie for the war effort
Lie for the public spectacle that can be
        reduced to little more than fetus magic.

I'd rather be haunted by anything else.

Emigration sounds so lucrative.

V.

It's time to cut open the system.

I wish society, when cut open and guts
        hanging, strung up in a gallery, looked
        like the spirit of a Scrabble screaming
        match, less like estimations of
        "necessary" civilian casualties.

It's time to piece in your abstraction.

Let's flip the script from faith-lit sketchbook
        into reality.
Let's show the world the graces of speaking
        in comedy, the asset we lost when we fell dark under our lack of communication.

Blessed to reestablish what we cannot take for granted.

Iris bonfire to highlight your drive,
But it's only determination,
Your gift of beatitude.

You can move through mazes with such precision and grace.

I should have never let my admiration pull me under a tide of greed.

As much as I value the ability
        to cut away at masses of abstraction,
Still covered in their vague seal of illusion
        you don't condone,
I'd submit to trade for even a bit of your  
        structure,
And let you have the absinthe that coats my
        soul.

VI.

Drink on how we are in harmony.

I'm already drunk on your hesitance.

Everything about your being is skewing my world.

I feel the changes, while the cold sets in,  
        across their javelin flight path.

These aren't the kind of thoughts you can't
        damp down with epilepsy medication.

I'm nearing clarity.
I'm inching in on human purpose.

VII.

I locked you away on my nightstand,

Next to Jailbird, in great irony.

I never let you argue your rights.

I wasn't just being inhumane, it was
        borderline unconstitutional.

Anger from hate, as always.
Coping in flawed fashion, yet smiling at your
        likeness.
Condemning you at public displays of
        Satantic litany,
Fell broken when you were in attendance.

Never again will I carry that false prophecy.

I couldn't escape your sway if I tried.
Lynn Al-Abiad  Nov 2016
Erato
Lynn Al-Abiad Nov 2016
The waves found the shore, at last.
Poseidon laid a kiss on my heart and went to rest and I took a walk down the shore, singing him a lullaby, wearing Rhodus' dress.
The sand is soft and warm.
Terpischore found my arm and invited me to dance with her the dance of survival. We were stepping in the water, splashing our skin and laughing so loudly, so happily, that Poseidon smiled in his sleep.
The sand lured me again. I laid on it and felt the salt drying upon my skin under the warmth of Helios.
The sound of the waves soothed the blood in my veins.
I closed my eyes and rolled in my usual foetus pose.
Hypnos found me as the sea softly landed on the shore to cover me up.



- LynnAA
The sea is a happy place.

29-30/11/2016
Mike Essig Jan 2017
Kiss me Goddess.
I want your tongue
in my human mouth
filling it with words.
I want your breath
in my lonely lungs
inspiring me.
Haptic Lady,
I want your legs
around my waist
urging me to creation,
undulating ecstasy.
Make me dizzy
with your passion
and I will sing
your holy songs
to flawed creation.
Oh ****** Muse
of the holy body
and the broken,
profane heart,
come with me,
and laugh aloud
when you do.
We will name
our children poems
and send them
into the mortal world
where they will
walk in beauty
and make us proud.
Riz Mack  Mar 2019
Erato
Riz Mack Mar 2019
blood drips
from your lips
to my fingers
my hands
stealing kisses
leave stains on your cheek
I see you, you swear
in the way your gaze lingers
as your tongue
Erato is one of the Nine Muses but I'm pretty sure I met one of her descendants
Tryst May 2014
Oh sweet Erato, whither wanders thee?
Once fertile leas lay arid near the shore,
The ripened fruit now withers on the tree
And shadows linger ever at the door.
Did ancient Colchis summon thee by name
To strum a lyre and sing for Argonauts?
Wouldst Rhodius be aught of any fame
If not bestowed resplendent with your thoughts?
Or yet - perchance you ride a chariot,
Thru roses red and myrtle evergreen,
To find the place Leontichus was set
Eternally beside his love Rhadine?
        Oh sweet Erato, whither would you choose --
        Be free for e'er, or else to be a muse?
Beaux  Aug 2014
Sweet Water Nymph
Beaux Aug 2014
My sweet water nymph
...earlier?!
You wished for me to arrive "earlier"?!
By your side be my life.
I carry your heart through realms of chaos.
Beg my pardon for the lapse in minutes..
Reliving your love can ****.

You are thy muse.
Enchanting and mischievous and empowering is your being.
Your aura bleeds ecstasy and grace.
Calliope, Clio, Euterpe, Erato, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia, Urania...
Collapsed in a single body.
What a body.

My sweet water nymph. . .

Carrying inspiration in those stems.
We can't help but bow to you.
Give me your ripened fruit of art.
You poor soul.

. . .
my sweet water nymph
*tear me down*
Tryst May 2014
"Come, thou clear-voiced Muse, Erato, begin thy song, voicing to the tune of thy lovely lyre the strain of the children of Samos." (Stesikhoros, C7th-6th B.C.)*

Upon a dim and distant telling,
Fared a maid of noble dwelling;
Rhadine was so beautiful,
Her suitors fought to claim her hand.

Unbeknownst, her father sold her
To a vile old tyrant soldier;
Rhadine sobbed, but dutiful
She boarded ship to foreign land.

Leontichus, her secret lover,
Swore an oath that he'd recover
Rhadine from the tyrant's grip;
He took the task of a deck-hand.

Many moons would find him weeping,
Ever watchful, never sleeping,
Till the day his mighty ship
Reached distant shore of foreign land.

Leontichus planned and conspired;
Cunning schemes would see him hired,
In the palace of the tyrant,
Where he could be close at hand.

There he watched, and there he waited,
As the nobles congregated
For the wedding, where defiant
Rhadine stood on foreign land.

Songs were sung and vows were spoken,
Then the tyrant brought a token,
Glinting in the bright sunlight
He offered it to Rhadine's hand.

Leontichus was gripped in sadness,
Taken by a sudden madness,
Running forth to save her plight,
He held Rhadine on foreign land.

Anger swept the tyrant's features,
Ridiculed by worthless creatures!
Taking sword, its sharp edge keen
He ran them through with his own hand.

As they lay there, deathly dying,
Midst the nobles, wailing, crying,
Leontichus held his Rhadine
And there they passed on foreign land.

The tyrant ordered their remains
Should scatter over hills and plains,
He placed them on a chariot,
And sent it with no guiding hand.

Late that night when all were sleeping,
Still the tyrant's eyes were weeping,
Knowing he could tarry not,
He ordered search of foreign land.

Days had passed when news arrived,
The chariot had still survived;
A soldier brought it to his door,
And placed the reigns into his hand.

The two were buried side by side,
Their hands were clasped, their arms entwined,
And there they rest forever more,
Two lovers lost on foreign land.

Leontichus and his Rhadine,
The greatest love the world has seen,
True lovers laying hand in hand,
Forever lost on foreign land.
Tryst  Aug 2015
Thy Tallow Flame
Tryst Aug 2015
Thy tallow flame burns brighter than the rest, my love,
Warming the jealous heart within my breast, my love!

Thou art the envy of all lovers' lovers eyes,
Thy whim commands me unto thy behest, my love!

Arcadia proffers to thee her beauty throne
Where shepherdesses gather to attest, my love!

Wild winter plants her lilies over autumn crown,
Setting pure ice born crystals for thy crest, my love!

Yggdrasil bows and offers thee a fledgling branch,
A gnarlèd sceptre, life and spirit blessed, my love!

Erato guides old Argo unto Colchis bay,
Thy stately robes to fetch from hydras nest, my love!

All-seeing Delphi Oracles gaze heavenward,
To beg thy wisdom (or they lied and guessed), my love!

And I, your humble servant Tryst, declare to thee,
Thou art my sacred never-ending quest, my love!
Mike Essig  Apr 2015
Antipodes
Mike Essig Apr 2015
A pirate sailed south, but too far.
The good ship's prow found
harbors filled with icebergs,
frolicking penguins and walruses:
it began to snow inside his mortal soul.
He dreamed of perfect white beaches,
warm sand, sunlight, palm trees
and (perhaps) a lovely French poet in a slight bikini
lolling like Erato on holiday.
He could taste the sun and coconut on her skin.
It was only a vision, but one worthy of a quest.
He preferred living dreams to dead conclusions.
Many people told him he dreamed too much,
to accept this landfall and be content.
But cold and darkness are not a pirate's lot
and contentment does not appear
in the official pirate's vocabulary.
Even an aging pirate holds true to course,
pinned like a medal to his longing and desire.
More sail, he cried, and turned the helm
toward the islands of his heart,
toward a landfall of warmth and color,
toward hot and willing flesh,
toward parrots and monkeys and blue skies.
Leaving the nay-sayers in the cold,
he headed the only direction a pirate can, further.
- mce
Again, my pirate persona.
Sing, Goddess, a poem worthy of my love
As beautiful as Venus, lady of the dove
Sing, Goddess, for my muse has run dry
Yet the muses are immortal, never to die
Sing, Goddess, Erato hear my plea
I need a poem good enough, for my love to see.
Mike Essig  Apr 2015
Antipodes
Mike Essig Apr 2015
A pirate sailed south, but too far.
The good ship's prow found
harbors filled with icebergs,
frolicking penguins and walruses:
it began to snow inside his mortal soul.
He dreamed of perfect white beaches,
warm sand, sunlight, palm trees
and (perhaps) a lovely French poet in a slight bikini
lolling like Erato on holiday.
He could taste the sun and coconut on her skin.
It was only a vision, but one worthy of a quest.
He preferred living dreams to dead conclusions.
Many people told him he dreamed too much,
to accept this landfall and be content.
But cold and darkness are not a pirate's lot
and contentment does not appear
in the official pirate's vocabulary.
Even an aging pirate holds true to course,
pinned like a medal to his longing and desire.
More sail, he cried, and turned the helm
toward the islands of his heart,
toward a landfall of warmth and color,
toward hot and willing flesh,
toward parrots and monkeys and blue skies.
Leaving the nay-sayers in the cold,
he headed the only direction a pirate can, further.
- mce
I love pirates; always wanted to be one. Almost made it but ran out of time. Argh!

— The End —