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Elaenor Aisling Nov 2021
TW: Rpe, Sucide
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Dionysus wipes his hands
With a wine dark-cloth,
His bar the confessional booth, for gods and mortals.
The absinthe green of his eyes loosens tongues
until their sins fall from their mouths like snakes and stones,
clattering onto the tarnished marble bar.
The stinking incense of each dog-eared dollar,
sustains him in its foul smoke,
the muttered prayers over empty glasses
chants and cries and pains and joys
Falling over each other like drunken feet,
Weaving themselves into stories
He recounts to Ariadne in the morning
As she folds laundry, and he does the dishes.
The threads of small mortal lives hanging around them untethered.
His patrons check their best at the door, he knows this,
Welcomes it,
He still has the best wine in the city
Even if they ***** it into the storm drain outside.

Asclepius stops in after his 12 hour shift
Eyes haggard
The blood of an attempted suicide on his scrubs,
the pull of a thousand witnessed deaths curled around his hip flexors,
Trying to drag him down with every step.
Still, he moves like a snake through sand,
The soundless strength of his movements
Ripple a wake of quietness, hallowed calm
On the floor they call him gentle giant
Always ask him to work full moons.
Artemis never did like him,
But the mortals are stilled
Under his hands.
Cracked and dry from over-washing
His knuckles bleed when he reaches for his glass.
At home Epione will take them in hers,
Rub lotion into the palms with the pad of her thumb, working her way in concentric circles all the way out, tenderest on the backs of his hands and their maze of scales and interstices,
The strong cherry-tang scent of almonds rising from their fingers.
At work sometimes he will feel the ghost of her touch
Crave it, as the sanitizer and soap smart against his skin,
This is an old intimacy they have always shared—the meeting of fingers, the firm pull of her thumb against palm,
And sometimes the way she traces the faded green lines of the serpent tattoos that twine around his forearms,
The slow caress of her index finger, the tiny scrape of her nail
Until her hand encircles his neck, cradles the serpent’s head
And she leans in to kiss him.
He will go home to her in an hour
When he is warm from the whiskey
And his mind is a little softer,
Some of the blood washed away.
He sighs,
Men are curing men
But they always find new ways to **** others
and themselves.

Athena’s seat is in the back, near the fire escape,
Where the shattered vinyl of the seat
Scrapes her thighs like desert sand.
Steel eyes to the door,
She gulps ***** neat.
After her second deployment, it’s the only thing that stills her hands.
Her pearled teeth gnaw the end of a burned cigarette—
If she chews hard enough,
the tobacco replaces the taste of her staff sergeant’s tongue, his breath, his blood.
Bodies in the dark, the vice-gripped wrists,
She bit, she clawed, she kicked,  
the muscles weakened by so few prayers
the dim fire in her eyes could not muster a single flash,
a flintlock in rain,
and she was another nymph, another Cassandra—
No one believed,
no one believed.
She can still feel Cassandra’s arms locked around her calves,
hear Ajax’s guttural grunts,
she understands now.
But for her there was no temple, no statue,
She tries to cling to herself,
But falls away to dust,
The guttural grunts of the staff sergeant echo as
The memories drag her, screaming, across her bedroom floor
Poseidon cannot drown them,
Only ***** can
And no one believes,
No one
believes.
Goal was to write a modern interpretation of Greek gods and goddesses. Title drawn from Niel Anderson's album/song.
Tichozpytec Apr 2021
seek the Well of Wisdom, fellow
one wise Owl once told me
and so I roam the world under the sunlight mellow
to find the land where this magic might hidden be

I drank from a thousand of different springs
I sought the directions of wise old women and men
I listened to every person, to every tale and every song I heard them sing
and that's how I found where the Well hidden had been

there is no magic, no shortcuts, no easy way
you cannot cheat the Goddess of the Greeks
Wisdom is hidden in books, in stories, in chidlren's tales
but you must be the one who wisdom seeks
Sanya singh Jan 2021
Lips razor sharp
Smile more of a smirk
Sword as her best friend
She could take over the world

Goddess of war she was called
But she was a woman
For the times weren’t right
And for them it was all

Had she been here today
Everyone would’ve bowed
Because goddess of war she is
And this time it is all

The epitome of a woman
With bravery , beauty and brain
Curse they considered
As a Boon it will be remembered

They became raged
When Athena shone bright
For what they remember her
They did bow down in fright

Goddess of wisdom , goddess of war
Favourite daughter of Zeus she was
The most wisest , the most courageous
A favour of Hera’s ire it was

Welcome here Athena
For the world now craves you
An example of a true warrior
And an idol to look upto

Most ingenious of Olympian gods
Power ran in her blood
As for war she was born
And as for war she will die

Every girl is now Athena
That is what the world needs
Standing up to the wrong
B’cause that is what Athena means.

Just like everything
times should change
Throne was for Athena
And for her it shall remain.
inspired by the greek goddess of war. its a take on what effect she would've have on the people of 21st century.
lillie Nov 2020
she watches over
those who
plan carefully
and strategically
for the battle
that they
are about to
face within
and about.

overseer of
those pursuing
knowledge,
wit, and wisdom
scattered among
books or
in your everyday
life.

a goddess of
thorough thinking who
has always been
enabling victory
now influences the worthy
abundantly.
Dedicated to my goddess, Pallas Athena, goddess of wisdom and war. ♡
Kelsey Banerjee Jun 2020
directionally challenged
athens is the only city
her feet knows,
she wanders down alleyways
undiscovered
but familiar
and sits beneath an orange tree.
she takes one plump
sunset shaded fruit,
peels back thick skin,
juice gushes down her arm.
yet she smells cypress trees,
olive oil offerings, and cinnamon.
she whispers prayer,
nimble fingers pressing
a golden owl.
Egeria Litha Apr 2020
Bait Bombing from above
Is this love?
His talons crush the meat of my soul
Sharp, vivid, and calculated
Spitting pellets of my nucleus
onto rough grassland
Until I am reborn
into a vessel inept from the hunt
Doomed to weave
Cursed to grieve
Oh Athena Pallas, bestow mercy upon Arachne
Owl Vibes
Amelia Sapp Dec 2019
aphrodite gifted me her beauty
but i call upon her to let known,
the smoke that fills my lungs
and the fire that lies in your wake

ares gifted me her ruthlessness
but i call upon her to let known,
the war you started within me
and how untamed i became

athena gifted me her wisdom
but i call upon her to let known,
the thoughts i still have of you
and how skilled you are at being persistent

eleos gifted me her compassion
but i call upon her to let known,
how i still feel pity for myself
and how i wish to mercy you for your misdeeds

these women do not live within me to make me
a weaker version of myself
they live within me
to make me strong
in your absence
Ackerrman Aug 2019
I am anxious to look or to caress
A beautiful, blooming, illustrious
*****. Vibrant; sumptuous red flower,
I would steal your time if just for an hour.
I swing between clovers, petals shelter
Forever. Woodlands help her. Athena:
Towering stature- plethora- no measure.
Tiny spots, flicking hair, untamed treasure.
Beneath inconsequential ethereal
Is something smaller, a single blue thrill-
Charging through empty halls at solid walls.
But the Devil smiles when an Angel falls.
This was something I wrote for a woman. I never gave it to her. Timing was always wrong.
Jade Jun 2018
The eye of the universe

bats its lashes at a

a single sliver of splintered light

blinking boastfully in the opaqueness–

a crescent m☽☽n is birthed,

carved by the Huntswoman’s

      ➳silver tipped arrows➳

on the night I–

a demi-goddess-

am born.



And this Hunstwomen,

my heavenly mother,

my celestial nurturer,

Artemis

plants antlers atop my

hairless skull in the hopes that I,

her daughter,

will grow wild

as the deer Her Greatness

has vowed to protect;

as the cypress whose limbs

swell with greenery;

as the moon who must wax

as surely as it must wane;

as Artemis herself,

whom they call

“Lady of Wild Things.”



And I too

am a Wild Thing,

for I am a women

of extremity.



How can I not be,

when I come from a long line

of deities,

whose veins palpitate

with the very atoms of chaos?



How else am to explain the fire

the seethes inside of my soul?

A fire kindled by Zeus,

the Lord of the Sky,

the God of all Gods.



Lightning bolts play hopscotch

across my collarbone,

crack against my ribcage

like Poprocks crack against tongue.



Some days,

these flames enable

the crusade of my passions,

accelerating me onwards,

like the wheels of

pegasus drawn chariot.



But there is such as thing

as being too passionate,

for with great passion comes

great emotion,

and with great emotion comes

the capacity for great heartbreak.



I love with the catastrophic magnitude

of a category five hurricane;

it ’s no wonder any other mortal man

is capable of reciprocating my musings,

for there is no emulating this storm,

there is no matching the desires

of Aphrodite’s offspring.





And you should see my heart

when it’s broken–

the way it snaps so eloquently

like the neck of a swan,

how it metamorphosizes,

scorching itself

to a point of  αγνώριστος

(unrecognizable)

blackness.



In the pit of my

cracked palms,

I hold the charred

f

                     r

         a

                         g

m

              e

n

                  t

s

of my heart–

kaleidoscopic shards

jagged enough to draw blood.



When the palpitating ache

in my chest proves to be unbearable,

I sprint to the riverside,

well aware that it is the closest

I will be able to get to the ocean

on such short notice.



I take off my socks and

my worn down Doc Martens

and wade into the water.

Entranced by its

refreshingly cruel coldness,

I baptize myself in its

precarious currents and beg

Poisedon to extinguish the fire in me.



He douses me in his spirit

in an attempt to console the embers

that lick at my heels.

But this attempt proves

to be unsuccessful;

for there is no way of curing

the daughter of Olympus.



Fire and water merge,

imposing on to my being

a molten existence.



I    l~i~q~u~e~f~y.



Tendrils of lava crawl

up my oesophagus,

sear the impression

of a laurel atop my head,

burn so violently,

they turn purple.



“Dear Gods,”

I plead

“Take away this body,

this mind,

this soul–”



“Child,”

a lyrical voice

echoes back to me.

“You must not forsake yourself

like this, ”

she declares.

“The mark of the Parthenon,

of I,

your third mother,

Athena

dwells among your fingertips–

There is

p

o

e

t

r

y

in your bones,

an emblem of my wisdom,

of Apollo’s bestowal of enlightenment.



And so you,

my demi-goddess,

must carry on the legacy

of your ancestors through

your wildness

your extremity

your chaos–

your poetry.



For you were made

in the image of the Gods.”
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