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Man 1d
I scream so silently
That the voice is loud
Enough that others might hear,
In this state like a snake
My tongue is forked
So that when I speak
I am having multiple conversations
Slithering across many fields.
Like the ocean tortoise laying eggs
Ever near the shore,
My children join me in the waters
Only after they have fully formed.
You say,
Nature is yet cruel
And shall lay claim
To many of your young.
And yet,
Is it not nature who spawned them?
Man 7d
Think it a wound
That has been cut open,
All of this
Pouring out of some person.
As blood like ichor.
Of Uranus a pouch, a receptacle, a quiver;
Time in consumption,
Like an arrow autochthonic
In the breast of existence.
Nursing the young.
Of Cronus a reflection, a refection, a ripple;
Time in digestion,
Like an innominate derivation
From the navel of continuance.
Bringing them up.
Of Zeus a reverberation, a spark, a sliver;
Time in expression,
Like an aborted secret
From the honey of speleothemas.
Shaping them out.
Of Apollo a radiance, a ray, a participle;
Time in extension,
Like an auspicious countenance
From the mucilage of angiospermae.
Birthing the echo.
There was more to this, perhaps I'll finish it.
Athena turned ’round her head
like a night owl on the sly
and looked up behind her
as gold Apollo crossed the sky,

riding with his four coursers’
flying gilded manes and hooves.
Their silver flanks and quarters
thunder across the earth’s blue roof.

The rhythm of their beat
stamps a lyric all their own,
blood coursing with the heat
of the sun-disk they all towed.

The she-god of the wise
observes this cloud-streaked scene,
the man-god shining out,
casting shadows ’round Athene.

Apollo’s path is sinking low
as the winter months advance.
The frost now blurs his glow
and bare forests fall into trance.

It’s in this creeping night
that Athena finds her time.
She draws her wisdom in twilight,
no need for blinding light up high.

For she shines not with a sun.
Instead she lights her own pathway.
By her craft and wits she’ll run
her own trail she blazed today.
Inspired by a statue of Athena in Park Sanssouci in Potsdam. She is posed looking over her shoulder, and at the moment I saw the statue, she seemed to be looking at the setting sun.
O, night, why give life to such being
whose existence ends one with a swing of a scythe?
As one lies on a bed that's all white--
food for worms, as they rot in a blink of sight.
An inevitable end:
fate that no one could bend.
A helpless gasp for wind—
as the blue road pumps the last flow of bleed,
the question: what is life?—will be filled.
Xiola Nov 14
She was the arms he took up
when the viper robbed his lyre of its muse

She was the devotion he carried underground to bring her home again

She was the mourning sonata that caused Hades to weep

She was the echos of longing that made him turn back

She was the immortal whisper in the dark of his guilt
That said
Orpheus
Don't forget about us
Seren Nov 4
I am as hot as the hellfire because of your love.
Are you willing to burn in the hot flames of my heart?
If you are, you will be the most precious gift I have ever had.
You worth more than diamonds.
Your light shines brighter than the shiniest start in the darkness of the night.
When you are ready, your light will collide with the hot flames of my heart.
We will merge into each other.
Only then your ice will melt and you will not belong to the high mountains where it only snow.
Let the heat of my heart devour you.
Do not be afraid to become one with me.
I want to drown in the depths of you.
I dream of a perfect universe where we are intertwined, living happily ever after.
Even when we die, we ought to die like Baucis and Philemon.
Bound together.
Entwining into eternity.
Once, stood I
by this sleepy sunset sea.
His sour gaze gone,
the sun;
eventually on his knee,
in mellow mutiny
upon molten melancholy.

Calmly, buoyed he
her creamy dreamy canopy
in colored, cuddled company
on the momentary brink
of honey coated eternity.

Gently,
         the ***** of Rán
his flames of mead swam;
         Kvasir's mythical lore,
         dripping the mead of yore
o'er her pewter poverty
mulling the briny sore
of this late afternoon sea
from divine a golden door.

Thus, poetry laden
this marine a maiden,
now merry and awaken,
mulled with love molten,
sprawled into eternity,
in resplendent mutiny,
haunting and holden
with heavenly honey…
Rán is a mythological Norse goddess, whom I alluded to with deference when I had to close in on the intimacy between fire and water in the poem. Though not related to the depicted serene panorama in the poem, she has nine daughters, who personify waves. Hence, the phenomenon of the 'ninth wave', I guess.
Kvasir, on the other hand, was born of the saliva of the two warring families of Old Norse Gods, Æsir and the Vanir. When the war eventually ended, Gods from both lineage chewed berries and spat out the mush into a cask. This is how god Kvasir was created in the tale 'Mead of Poetry'.
Being the wisest one in Midgard, extraordinarily perceptive, sophisticated and poetic, he traveled far and wide, learning evermore and spreading his art. As fate would have it, his itchy feet brought him to the two murderous dwarfs Fjalar and Galar, who killed him afor his divine blood. Then, the notorious duo mixed it with honey, thus creating the Mead of Poetry.
Odin eventually redeemed Kvasir's legacy, the Mead of Poetry, after long a journey through testing tribulations. Since then, it is believed that Odin shares part of this drink with the very privileged human beings, bestowing upon them the divine ability, poetry.
Etymologically, Norwegian 'kvase' and Russian 'kvas', both mean 'fermented berry juice'.
:))
PERTINAX Oct 26
Nature's Retreat

My heart sings songs parallel to the dance of rain
Where lyrics speak true to nature's mighty chorus
Of colorful leaves burned from early frost
Where green becomes gold and gold turns to red
And the animals, both big and small, hurry to get to bed

My heart speaks to these changes all around me
Embracing Fortuna as if she were my mother
Wishing that I, like the leaves, could also fall and be free
Released from loose bonds that sway with but a breeze
From mighty ******, third of his name, God of the wind
Who that deceitful Juno deceived, to blow steadfast
Aeneas away from hearts true love, to a bigger purpose
His own Goddess to please

Yet... It was not to be for me
Too strong were the currents from that vengeful Neptune
Who then commanded blue Oceanus to summon the monstrous gray Charybdis
Pulling down on the brown oars of my life, seeking to consume
That which I thought mine, as if spoken by an Oracle,
A future as free and varied as a rain soaked forest in fall
Before all falls to rest within the spiteful white teeth of winter
Leaving me to dance in the decay of nature's retreat

I then cry with Terra Mater, reminding her of the days
Where our hearts sang and we spoke in hushed whispers
Excited for the seasons change and the chance to rest
Yet... I am not prepared to say goodbye to her
Her beauty, to me, shines brighter than burning Sol
Me, a moth to her flame, is lost when she is away
Tormented by the memories of life living only to die
An endless cycle of pain that numbs the days spent waiting
For spring to rise once again and refresh my heart
From the desolation of the icy purgatory
And empty forests, skeletal in appearance,
A drab contrast to the songs of revival and lush trees
That are a favorite of the myriad dryads and nymphs
Whom orchestrate the natural melody of the Earth
While patiently awaiting my summer heat

I miss them like I will her, for soon I shall fall like the rain
Patiently awaiting my rebirth so that I might dance with her again
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