"erato" poems
"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.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
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
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
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!
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
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
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
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.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 4:21 AM UTC
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
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
In your arms I found the open ocean;
Tides, waves, my serene sea,
The most pleasant feeling of a morning breeze.
In your eyes the best night skies;
A Rhythm bright enough to leave the sun behind
and wake up the night in just a heartbeat.
My heartbeats.
Cracked and Irregular by your every move.
In your fingers untold mysteries;
tangled within my own in secrets with the promises of never letting go.
In your hair my favorite melody;
Loud, and ruthless music for my deaf ears:
A Symphony only I can hear.
In your lips my muse;
Better than Erato and Calliope combined,
Carelessly whispering verses
To last me the entire day,
Softer than the birth of Roses.
My Roses.
For they are just for me,
Sprouting from your lips, and blossoming with my touch.
Our touch.
In you I found poetry.
With verses resting at your lips,
My muse
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
Dream a dream.
Make paradise twice as nice.
Take away all ills.
Apollo taught muses their crafts.
While playing on his lyre.
The muses danced on laurel leaves.
Paradise on Mount Helicon.
What was purpose of those muses?
I hear your request.
In land of myth from times long gone.
Nine goddesses,
spirits,
to put the world to rights.
With artistry, music, science and literature.
Linked under the heavens.
Forget the evils of the world.
Music, poetry catharsis.
Thalia.
Hysterical lady of comedy it seemed.
Good cheer and plenty sent.
Clio.
Made her history.
Wanted fame 'twas said.
Tried to keep it cheerful.
Along came Melpomene.
Singing loudly while playing around with tragedy.
Urania.
In celestial style,
glances to the heavens.
While Polyhymnia.
Sings and dances.
Making many songs
Sometimes in a silent mime.
The lovely Erato compiled poetic words of love.
Euterpe.
Made lyrics poetical
Brim filled with joy.
Maybe for Polyhymnia to sing
Calliope.
Her beautiful voice is heard.
Nearly a Nightingale.
Maybe singing bird.
Creation of poems based on epics.
Terpsichore
Danced on and on eternally.
While poets pens write on!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 7:30 AM UTC
Well hello, sweet Muses.
How nice of you to drop by
at four in the morning.
Let me make you some tea.
How are you all today?
Oh, I forgot for a moment
that you are goddesses
and are always
exactly as you should be.
I'm fine except my sleep
has become oddly contrary.
But you all know that and more.
You are the magic that
stirs my dreams until
I give up and get up.
You betray me to nightmares,
insomnia, memories and poems
that could certainly wait
for morning if you so desired.
And where have you all been?
For three years, you've been gone
and I have been left mute.
Such fickle ******* you are,
only bestowing your favors
according to your whims.
But we have all, back to Homer,
known how unfaithful you can be.
Now you've returned and I can't sleep.
You know I'm not so young
as the last time you visited.
I need a little rest occasionally,
but you are working me to death
as if no time at all has passed.
There should be a union for poets.
Of course, I will do your bidding as usual.
Calliope, Clio, Euterpe,
Thalia, Melpomene, Terpsichore,
Polyhymnia and sweet demanding Erato.
It's nice to see you all again,
all so lovely and immortal,
but please remember I am only a man
and a man can only take so much.
So please, try not to show up before 8 AM.
~mce
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 10:02 AM UTC
I call upon their harmony
They honor me with artistry
The pupils of Apollo's
Lyre resonant inside of me
Calliope adventurous,
Intrepid in her recklessness
Emboldening my will to lead
The unenlightened on this quest
Through Clio's scrolls of history
My oracle clairvoyant
She has graced me with the vision
Of the future sky chatoyant
And a buoyant sea of Euterpe
All floating through the lyricist
That synchronizes all of this
Into a metamorphosis
Evolving as Erato's love
A heart as soft as silk
A dove, tabula rasa thirsting for
The Mother Gaea's milk
To rise from Melpomene
Masks of tragic flaws of Icarus
For I divine the comedies
Thalia simply can't resist
Polyhymnia, Terpsichore
My rarest of expressions
Still reveal themselves in forms
Of spirit guide possessions
When Urania in cosmic bliss
Transports me to the stars
Reborn again to join them
As Mnemosyne's memoirs
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 1:11 AM UTC
the only calliope
i ever really wanted
has already decided
she's through with me
without giving me
a chance to speak.
-
and she's polyhymnia
in the comedy of hell,
raising voice in praise
of anything she respects
and in that she garners
all the power intrinsic.
-
no need for erato
when she's around
to keep my arteries
and thoughts clear
of emotional plaque
and writers' embolisms.
-
she is euterpe on a stage
of all the beautiful words
in all the beautiful languages
that can never be explained,
only known, and loved
and said in blissful ignorance.
-
she's thalia and melpomene,
comedy and tragedy,
laughter in her steps,
and springtime song,
and the ache of departure
evident in her wake.
-
terpischore at play
when the music starts,
involuntary, a reflex;
dancing is like breathing
to she who will break
my heart so many times.
-
she is urania --
she keeps my eyes
on infinity and away
from sights that feel
like shaky index knuckles
on unforgiving pistol triggers.
-
she is clio, keeper
of simple night histories,
because those are what
she lives for, and those are
what i've always mused upon
living for -- with her.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
Was Time not harsh to you, or was he kind,
O pale Erinna of the perfect lyre,
That he has left no word of singing fire
Whereby you waked the dreaming Lesbian wind,
And kindled night along the lyric shore?
O girl whose lips Erato stooped to kiss,
Do you go sorrowing because of this
In fields where poets sing forevermore?
Or are you glad and is it best to be
A silent music men have never heard,
A dream in all our souls that we may say:
“Her voice had all the rapture of the sea,
And all the clear cool quiver of a bird
Deep in a forest at the break of day”?
1.3k
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.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 7:25 AM UTC
Morose breath of inspiring gods
forms over the gun barrel gray lake
Awakening Creativity and Conviction
as I discover all the vices that form
in this stagnant pool of a life
which has kept me tied,
face-down,
nose-ground,
and drunk on digression.
Sing to me, Calliope,
something dark and expressive,
something relevant and real,
for the days of late have worn me
thin as this paper’s edge.
My head falls
out,
and my teeth go
bald,
but still I dance
for
the piper.
Please, Erato,
I beg of you, please,
spit some oil paint
wash,
and prime the canvas.
Summon all souls of creativity, old friend –
For no friend
of mine paints the sky today.
So may it be
that passionate poets
bleed
forth through the head of my
pen.
May the
Mad Poets’, Sad Poets’,
Passionate Poets’ cries
be my own.
For if not, then with
sincerity and severity
the envious moon
will
rise,
and
shoot all the stars
dead,
even this Golden Boy.
Blue blood will
flow,
sending all into shock.
As this proxy poet
falls
into
a cave
with fragrant, vacant sign at hoist,
cobwebs
quickly
crawling
in place,
the song poet sings with no voice,
and the Muses all retire.
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 5:30 PM UTC
Called again into the night
by the three am goddess
on her winged flight.
She drapes tail feathers ‘cross my mind;
She rings her bell
and says “its time.”
Who is this waif, just out of sight,
whose siren call
breaks dream’s delight?
Calliope, Erato too -
Sing Euterpe!
I know the tune.
Show the way down night’s dark hall
to the inner hell
where true love falls.
Terpsichore, swoop round me, do.
Dance memories,
each dressed in blue.
Is that you, dear Melpomene,
come to trump
your sister queens?
Your song, of all, so clear and true -
hold tight my hand,
I’ll go with you.
But wait, whose lantern shines ahead?
Dear Clio knows,
she’s made my bed.
And to it now I shall return.
The words are down,
they’ll no more burn.
I’ll lie awake no more to muse
upon the love
I’ve yet to lose.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
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?
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
Nada mejor para cantar la vida,
y aun para dar sonrisas a la muerte,
que la áurea copa donde Venus vierte
la esencia azul de su viña encendida.
Por respirar los perfumes de Armida
y por sorber el vino de su beso,
vino de ardor, de beso, de embeleso,
fuérase al cielo en la bestia de Orlando,
¡Voz de oro y miel para decir cantando:
la mejor musa es la de carne y hueso!Cabellos largos en la buhardilla,
noches de insomnio al blancor del invierno,
pan de dolor con la sal de lo eterno
y ojos de ardor en que Juvencia brilla;
el tiempo en vano mueve su cuchilla,
el hilo de oro permanece ileso;
visión de gloria para el libro impreso
que en sueños va como una mariposa
y una esperanza en la boca de rosa:
¡La mejor musa es la de carne y hueso!Regio automóvil, regia cetrería,
borla y muceta, heráldica fortuna,
nada son como a la luz de la Luna
una mujer hecha una melodía.
Barca de amar busca la fantasía,
no el yacht de Alfonso o la barca de Creso.
Da al cuerpo llama y fortifica el seso
ese archivado y vital paraíso;
pasad de largo, Abelardo y Narciso:
¡La mejor musa es la de carne y hueso!Clío está en esa frente hecha de Aurora,
Euterpe canta en esta lengua fina,
Talía ríe en la boca divina,
Melpómene es ese gesto que implora;
en estos pies Terpsícore se adora,
cuello inclinado es de Erato embeleso,
Polymnia intenta a Calíope proceso
por esos ojos en que Amor se quema.
Urania rige todo ese sistema:
¡La mejor musa es la de carne y hueso!No protestéis con celo protestante,
contra el panal de rosas y claveles
en que Tiziano moja sus pinceles
y gusta el cielo de Beatrice el Dante.
Por eso existe el verso de diamante,
por eso el iris tiéndese y por eso
humano genio es celeste progreso.
Líricos cantan y meditan sabios
por esos pechos y por esos labios:
¡La mejor musa es la de carne y hueso!ENVÍO:Gregorio: nada al cantor determina
como el gentil estímulo del beso.
Gloria al sabor de la boca divina.
¡La mejor musa es la de carne y hueso!
1.2k
Clio, you are part of me.
Euterpe, you are too.
Thalia, you lift me up
when I am feeling blue.
Melpomene, you are close to me
Terpsichore, you were my youth
Erato, touch me secretly
Polymnia, you are truth.
Ourania, comes to me at night
and my soul she does enthrall .
Calliope, I love you most,
but see you least of all.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
The river in my head is a rapid
now, all of this flows in my mind
and I see it flowing faster and faster
in the reflection of the eyes of the teacher
who's face is only inches from mine
as she says,
"Where is the homework thats due today?"
all disappointed head shaking
as the rest of the high school class waits.
Waits
as the ink
beneath my short sleeves,
white collar shirt and skirt
begins to….. burn.
Waits
as my hyperactive ADD branded brain
begins to boil.
Waits as I keep back the bile
and get all choked up on
the prozac and concerta
that have been planted in my throat
But i keep it down and say,
"I forgot it."
Honestly,
I feel bad about this.
I want to tell her I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that after twelve years of learning,
the one thing I haven't picked up on
is how to turn in a freaking homework assignment.
I'm sorry that my head is a broken system
Whose puzzle pieces never learned how to fit themselves together properly
I forgot that it's a crime to not know theorem 6.2 or
what kind of satire Aristophanes used but I think it's
IRONIC that we're supposed to take this work with open arms
and look, I'm being honest when I say I can't remember all the nine muses names but believe me Erato will tell you that I can write one hell of a love poem.
But that doesn’t matter here, no.
because all that mattered was that in third grade
I could never remember my times tables
as if being dipped in the river lethe made you any less of a person
as if the kids who were telling me I was dumb thought I needed confirmation
I’m trying to pull out the lessons we learned at carpet time like
2, 4, 6, 8…?
no one could appreciate that I was trying,
everything would just get swept away
leaving me bone dry and forgotten.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
Oh, faery finch, whose golden form does climb
Athwart the starry bays of poesies, sweet,
I hear your voice, and drown in slumber’s clime,
As I sit, pond’ring in my woolen seat.
My quill spills no sweet word or sweeter song,
For my heart such cloyed passions cannot game,
And doubly more lies speechless my sore tongue,
And triply even more, my soul’s the same.
As hours pass, upon these pages, bare
I stare as if no passion stirs to fly.
To mount into Eutrepe’s mystic lair
I couldn’t, ‘till your tender lullaby
Had touched my ear, and from my breast awoke
Some passioned fire, hearing such sweet voice.
Of Heaven’s bells and Heaven’s harps. Out spoke
Your lilting charms which, magically employs
All of the Muse’s finest strengths and spells:
Eutrepe’s mystic hymn, Erato’s grace
And Calliope’s trance which softly swells
In finest verse, and in such verse does trace
Vast time. Oh, finch, were it not for your song
Nor for you visiting me, worn with age
No words would spill from out my stricken tongue
And writ wouldn’t be to you, my own homáge.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 8:49 PM UTC
Perhaps The Muse,
the White Goddess,
Erato, Melpomene,
Rhiannon, Ceridwen,
becomes, one day,
a late middle-aged
woman with
muffin-tops,
stuffed into
yoga pants she
should know better
than to wear
in public.
No matter.
Even frumpy,
she remains
divine, alluring,
luminescent,
beyond the
constraints of
mundane fashion,
the sharp edges
of mortal flesh,
Still whispering
beauty in the
awestruck
poet's ear.
~mce
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 4:39 AM UTC
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
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 12:47 AM UTC
O Calliope, muse
of epic poetry
and Erato, seducer
of love poems,
do ye know about
the pains of life
or about the
tremors of the soul itself?
perhaps not.
then where shall i find the true museum muse,
that marvelous explorer of the
labyrinth of life exhibits?
if i discover him
will he reveal to me love held and love released?
will he then disclose to me
the pain, pride, and promise of my existence?
will he flash memories affixed in my heart?
which tomb, then, do i want to unearth?
or am i careless or timid when deciding
which episodes i want others to see and
which i hope to bury?
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC
Ma muse, j'ai un tout petit dilemne.
Il est écrit qu'il y a en tout et pour tout neuf muses
Qui ont pour nom par ordre alphabétique
Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe
Melpomène, Polymnie, Terspichore, Thalia et Uranie
Nulle trace d'Aura.
Es-tu vraiment celle que tu prétends être ?
Aimes-tu vraiment le chant de deux voix qui s'alternent ?
Et dans le cas où tu serais bien l'une des neuf
Pourquoi m'as-tu dit que tu étais le huit ?
Si je te pose la question
C'est que j'avais accès à ton site sur muses.com/aura
et j'ai égaré mon mot de passe.
Tu sais, ce mot de passe sécurisé
Qui nous permettait de nous exhiber tranquillement
A l'abri des regards indiscrets.
Je ne me souviens pas s'il y avait douze, quatorze ou vingt caractères.
mais il y en avait plus que huit
Il était fort et aléatoire
Entre majuscules, minuscules, symboles et chiffres
Impossible à craquer
C'était mieux que Fort Knox
Dedans tu avais mis ton âge, ton poids, ta taille, ta pointure
Et les lettres, arbmu et umz
Et un symbole étrange un t avec une virgule souscrite.
J'ai appelé à gauche et à droite les Muses pour retrouver ta trace,
Je t'ai googlisé. En vain.
Es tu vraiment ma Muse ou Furie ?
Par acquit de conscience j 'ai vérifié les noms des Furies
Tisiphone, Mégère et Alecton.
Et j'en reviens à la seule et unique question :
Qui es-tu ? Mon ombre, certes, mais encore ?
J'ai rêvé que tu étais astronaute et moi Martien.
Tu m'avais réduit de la taille d'un minuscule atome
Que tu gardais bien au chaud dans son berceau
Au fond de la planète Utérus.
Et tu m'allaitais d'eau de vie de mirabelle et me berçais
De câlins sucrés. Et je gazouillais
En regardant tes yeux, Aura,
A l'époque rouges jaunes orange bleus
Puis un jour tes yeux sont passé au vert
Et tu m'as sevré sans un mot, sans une parole.
Tu m'as mis hors du miroir
Et tu m'as dit d'aller caresser l'oiseau.
Et depuis j'erre comme un bateau ivre
Mais revenons à nos orphies :
Le mot de passe !!!
Pour simplifier je te propose
Qu'on efface tout ça et qu'on mette à la place
Juste une phrase comme :
Amant alterna camenae (Virg. egl III,59)
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 11:41 AM UTC