"galatea" poems
O Great Goddess
I
Your true worshiper
Crawl before your altar
To beseech you
Grant this poor
Suffering soul
Even a moments relief
From the crushing weight
Of this great love
Its sweet agony
The crippling despair
All melded into one great mass of feeling
O merciful Olympian
Great passionate Goddess
Provide succor
To this lost and wand'ring devotee
A glimmer of hope
To tether my soul
And keep the Furies at bay
In the same way
You granted Pygmalion's request
And brought to life
His marvelous statue Galatea
Answer my desperate supplication
Goddess of Beauty
I offer my self to you
I shall strive to restore
Your true worship
In this cursed world
That has forsaken the true gods
I shall bring whatever sacrifices you require
If only you grant me this boon
Quench a dying man's thirst
Bring me up from Pluto's realm
And lay me in the Elysian fields
Great Goddess
Hear my plea
As a follower still of your descendant
Gaius Julius
A follower during his lifetime
And a follower ever to this day
I always serve your great name
O Great Goddess
Hear my plea
Great and wonderful Goddess
Venus.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 5:39 AM UTC
David, like David and Goliath, like the statue
was made in 1501 by Michaelangelo.
A fatherless son, born perfect to the world. Full Grown.
But in Italy, they'll tell you that Michaelangelo
never wanted to be a sculpter;
That he was an artist but that his gift was his curse.
Yet he still managed to create this marvelous marble masterpiece.
Gave the world beauty to call it beautiful and behold it for hundreds of years,
because heaven knows he never would.
But sometimes I feel like you see yourself more like Galatea.
But a rose by any other name might smell more sweet than thee,
My fair, dark lady,
Only to be loved by those of your statue.
I mean, stature.
My fair, dark lady,
who chased me from the light in spite of just wanting to help
the charity case.
My fair, dark lady,
I made you to be a hero,
But a villain you became.
How can one love the name of a rose proud enough
To ***** the finger of tender green thumbs?
Still, its handed a clean slate for the sake of soft petals.
Justified by sweet smells and vibrant colours.
Excused.
Just, if only I could forget the thorns,
I'd have spoken "Love" differently.
I wanted to love you like no other sister would,
but couldn't.
I wanted a savior to stay even when things are okay,
wouldn't you?
When the giants weren't around.
Well, who's hero are you now?
Tell me how a statue saves lives,
rather than turning to stone when the sun rises
And I will eagerly believe.
Or don't.
Strike your pose.
Bask in the spotlight.
It's what you wanted.
It's what you got.
Hear them say "Galatea."
Not marble but ivory,
"Eliza."
"Aphrodite."
And believe them.
"Perfection created."
But I'll call you David;
Never abandoned,
forever alone.
Because humans don't need solution or heroes to depend on.
We need friends.
Well, congratulations, beautiful.
Everyone loves you.
Except, the people who should.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 9:11 AM UTC
Standing resplendent in a baroque topiary,
Under a florid arbour as an arched canopy,
Her pulchritude in moonlight, is the plenary
Picture of, the muse, the Goddess Calliope.
My heart’s reminiscence of our first encounter,
Like a fragrance in my mind wafts around,
Whose Pareidolia in every-thing sketches her
Face, to which it is entirely spellbound.
Were the Fates to keep us apart,
As the sculptor Pygmalion I would be.
But Aphrodite won’t breathe life into my art,
For not my Galatea, I love my Calliope.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
He slid his arm around
The coolness
Of disdain,
Felt the distance
Of an Arctic plain,
Rested his hand
Upon an alabaster
Thigh,
Saw eternal haughtiness
In stony eyes.
Human heart
Has he;
She
Heart of stone.
To tempt a man
To be so close,
But always so alone.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 7:45 AM UTC
Such a classic mortal blunder to lay
my spine as it erodes, graceless, inelegant
on Galatea’s cold, ivory arms;
such delicate carvings can never be human, look human,
feel human under my lonesome bones.
I long to see you flinch and break
into fine, liquid, rain of dust blinding me,
covering the walls of this room
in a blameless shade of white: a new asylum ward
for my kind of insanity,
you say.
It envelopes like light around my awe
and my forlorn limbs,
tangled with Galatea’s unmoving ones.
I look for comfort within brittle carcasses
scraped of everything they could ever give.
The quiet persists eerily.
But here, Pygmalion’s gifts remain untainted:
the apex of auger shells, the beak of a songbird
the blunted ceriths, the rusty chisels
all impaling my spinal bones.
Yet the sculptor’s kisses, long erased,
the careful carvings, long defaced,
long reduced into a Grecian ruin.
I bury my body on your arms yet they find no rest
against the ghostly pleas of mammalian tusks.
How many for your fingers?
How many for your hair?
Tell me, Galatea, were you carved to bear the weight of
all the sea salt I swallowed as I drowned?
Soften under my meandering thoughts; I long
to see you flinch and break — like all the dead elephants —
any reminder that you yield pliantly to the voice
of the love goddess, that you were once turned human.
Break now, your solid arms, under my own collapse
over the sea foam caught on fire.
I am no longer bending and weeping to pick myself up.
Here it all goes down and ends:
my bones,
and yours,
burning,
snapping.
Nothing —
nothing less glorious will last after us.
— Fray Narte
Dec 5, 2022
Dec 5, 2022 at 10:05 PM UTC
At the end of my name
follow three letters
right now they spell
"mop".
folks say it ain't the
way it used to be
jobs- like there's even such a thing as
"beneath me".
I'm a clever little phoenix
I have my flight plan
not an android, nor
academia didn't make me
Galatea
I can wait and remember
I can serve you an ice cream
without forfeiting intellect in
a flurry of sugar cones
I pick my battles gracefully
so I remember what I was taught.
Curl up.
Pay rent.
Rebirth,
then-
pounce.
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 10:15 PM UTC
Pygmalion beseeched Aphrodite:
"Goddess, please answer my plea:
Give life to my dear Galatea,
that she may live always with me. “
The goddess, in a generous mood,
animated your figure Divine.
Your ******* generous in proportion,
Your bubble **** one of a kind.
Your skin is a fine alabaster;
Like marble, but warm to the touch.
Could your sculptor have done any better?
No, I’m sure there is only one such.
With golden, shoulder length tresses
and lips, apple red, candy sweet.
It’s not much of a mystery, really,
That Pygmalion was swept off his feet.
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 8:07 PM UTC
June 16, 2017
My love is not that simple and shall not be something that is easy to belittle
It is the bright lights that prance gracefully around when going on long walks throughout the city
It is what gives people life and will not leave them with a heart that was shot by a pistol
It is not used to pity
It is the bright blue moon that shines brightly on those that wish to stand out on a dark and rainy night
To bring out the glistening eyes, silky smooth skin, soft hair, and sweet essence that emits from the neck that I am addicted to
Tick tock, time was beginning to feel tight
Patience was not a virtue of mine, but I was waiting for the sincere love to come out of
the blue from you
My love is not that simple and shall not be something that is easy to belittle
It is the kisses that the sun gives when you go outside to sit
It is just like a beautiful song being played by a fiddle
The type of love that roars to many hearts that are in need and those who crave for it
The love that comes out of me, is what makes up your desired fantasy
Even the living dead would be able to soar because of my love
The love that restored your sanity
Just like good times when we would be surrounded by doves
My love is not that simple and shall not be something that is easy to belittle
During those cold nights when the moon yearns for the clean and clear aqua sea
I’m not sure why I want to taste your sweet love, even if it is just a little
I barely know you and you barely know me
My love is the fine red wine that your lips touch whenever you have a horrible day
Leaving my deep red marks onto your mouth, which can make you speechless
Just like when Pygmalion made Galatea, I want you to create a new me and let me show great affection towards you, so please come my way
I promise that if you return my feelings, my love will never make you dreamless
My love is not that simple and shall not be something that is easy to belittle
This portion is dedicated to the one that made mirrors scream as they shattered when my love was being abused
You think I am a simple woman, but I have bones that do not easily become fragile and brittle
I despise you, because my heart was bruised
However, the damages have been made and I have healed because I have learned that my love is not a simplicity that is ignored
I have been made stronger than before
My heart is now wiser and can protect me like the pen and the sword
And for my new future lover, I will meet you at the shore
My love is not simple and shall not be something that is easy to belittle
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
Having fallen enchanted with terabytes
And crackle static audio that
kissed my cochlea
at arms length a thousand miles away
i realized with fear my folly
And the cursed blessing of feeling your butterflies.gif
As pixelated and intangible as
your portrait freezing before me
a betrayal to our union
a betrayal of our humanity
full of blood and heat and scent
when warmth is plastic beneath palms
when the fan cannot keep up with fervor
when solace is typed in syllables, sacred,
that do not err or lose their way in translation
And now i am Pygmalion
prostrate before his masterpiece
Clutching his beloved rock
And waiting for lightning.
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 7:14 PM UTC
There’s only a dew of elixir in the bottom of the empty cup sleeping as lamb
Now they call it heart, I call it polluted spirit, and you may call it ruby pomegranate granules
But we the simplest so called human entities jointly may only Love and this is sufficient
To suffer for the thousand years and a day more
The one who cares not is the luckiest mundane ignorant but I’m the one alike who outpours his quintessential not knowing for whom
Not knowing for what reason a purpose never show its glamour in advance
For warning, for love or even for sake of its purest manifestation
In times when words were queued in the thread abundantly curved in bobbin from the human scalp
The necklace of verse is fading its shine no sparkling truths gurgles from its spring to obey our thirsts
We the thirsty souls for divine morsel wandering in here as the spirits of suicide victims
Empty stomachs of enfant terrible only for the grasp of the truth they never hear even as the sound of insect
Never as the sound of falling frozen spirit in jade that you may later see as the Galatea of divine maternal essence
A cornucopia of latent blessings waits
A deficit of Love outbursts proudly displaying its genitalia without a drop of shame
I wander as a working bee searching for the nectar of wisdom to feed my Queen bee
And bestow her eternal life with the royal jelly leaking elegantly from the bottom to the navel
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 7:35 AM UTC
An all-white angel approaches
A pale-armed Athena to dress my wounds
in sympathy
She cannot stray from her war
For it is what she loves,
and what she loves
is to burn
with an intensity reserved
for the start of
something new
A clearing away of
tired wisdom
Today, she runs her fingers
through my wild mind
Tomorrow, she walks alone
through sun scorched dirt,
dry as the oldest bones
Everyone is ***** and no one
can escape the dust of time
But once in a while, she lets out a smile
that makes us feel new
and clean
like her
shining
ivory
skin
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 1:21 AM UTC
You were so beautiful,
Like a marble statue
Behind millions of dollars of security.
But now your insecurity
Has defiled your purity;
The glossy perfection
Turned rotten
At your crystal lips of limestone;
You flawless face, now
Fouled by fatality;
And worst of all:
Your once sweet words
Are now rancid with
Distaste of me,
And it simply destroys
The beauty I see in you,
A beauty greater than
Any Greek statue
Carved eons ago.
You don’t see that your ego
Sped up time’s flow,
Faded your glow.
You’re rubble, my friend,
You’re nothing but old.
My fires of love
Are suddenly cold.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
Once again
I am captured
Struck by the rose,
enraptured by the thorn.
I see your reflection in
ivory paper,
and the crown of your sweet head
like a blanket of fallen snow.
Does it matter, I wonder,
if you were truly alive or truly living?
For in these pages I can see your image
as truly as if it were a branding in my head.
The gentle slope of your shoulders,
the dark and twisted curls-
Now see, you begin to see her too-
the small & delicate hands,
with crooked ring fingers,
the intuitive eyes.
And perhaps if I call Aphrodite,
down from the sea foam
and have her fair lips kiss these words,
I can have you materialize in my breath
and echo into my arms,
a statue no more.
Or perhaps I will lie a fool
my thumbs and forefingers obscured by ink
and your skin that of clay
detached and resolute.
Dec 27, 2020
Dec 27, 2020 at 2:09 PM UTC
When a poem comes alive
I might be like Pygmalion
Not sharing her with anyone
Gently adoring her all my life
Yet, relieved from her laces
Doesn't a poem's magic lie
In that through the reader's eye
She may reveal her many faces?
So I charily hand her over
To the public domain
As however much I love her
It would be a thoughtless sin
Not letting you discover
What I never did put in
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC
I made you love me
With treacle, tricks and tonsure.
I was so sure of myself
I could dissuade you from anyone else
And elves would come
In the night to bewitch you more deeply.
Sleepy, sleeping, not seeing
You would fall under my loving spell.
And well would I use you
Truly dragging you along unaware
Of my witchery, jiggery-pokery
Jokingly, or seductively
Instructively guiding you to please
Easing you into your role;
Solely in charge of the play
Saying sweet, flattering words
Heard in clutches and hugs
Drugs for the lonely, the needy.
And you became convinced
Since I am so good at my craft
I drafted you into my dream
Seemingly all your idea.
My Galatea of sweet, smooth skin;
Sin for me to commit gladly,
Madly, I did not care what you wanted
I flaunted my talent brashly
Trashily uncaring of the scorn
That might be born of my ego;
My need so ugly to see:
Me, playing god of love.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
How tragic that I have fallen for
my peacock colored angelic
poetically created fantasy,
how her lips are rainbows
and hair falls fancy
full of vibrance,
though she is written in silence,
hazel eyes always focused
in some far-off distance
behind me,
the man who longs to be
the one she is truly seeing.
Galatea to my Pygmalion,
though I know there are billions
of possible lovers out there,
I do not care or dare
avert the heart I share.
She is my obsession,
and I am her devoted
poet possession.
-2022 December
Dec 2, 2023
Dec 2, 2023 at 4:54 PM UTC
Rings around the head are not a halo
Its all illusion
A planet of confusion
I hold back my wreaking havoc
I love Despina
I'll do anything to set her free
From the gravity
Of her tragedy
A girl with a halo is not an angel
Im standing on the furthest moon
Aiming for neptune
Im singing songs by psychic pisces feeling pain
I love Galatea
I would gladly die for her
She'll turn my blood into a river
My spirit immortal
An angel without wings is my protector
She cannot fly to me
But I feel her touch
And every bomb I drop
I love Thalassa
I am happy to drown in her spirit of the sea
I know its only the winds
Which make her not be at peace
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
whenever i find myself
placing you in words
so simple
so short
so few
in the only way i know possible,
i'm just drawing
the closest i can to you.
and each single time
i paint your image
in every tint
in every shade
in every hue
in the best way i know,
i'm just showing myself
how forever i'll be with you.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 9:07 AM UTC
"Galatea is the name popularly applied to the statue carved
of ivory by Pygmalion of Cyprus, which then came to life."
34 / pre [3] (2 ,,,,,) English / 1 View
Colorful color and Bush color. Take
that easy, 1500-3100 departs from
the US and Spain, in Bulk Packing
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life a created imitation of production
problems. It will be another reward. ||
Therefore, | | she is a woman. Greece,
Italy (USA) 20, 2018 (62) 12, 100 ||
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 5:10 AM UTC
he sculpts his perfect woman out of marble
drapes her in silks and jewels
fits his hands around her waist and kisses her cold lips
venus blesses their union and one day
she is warm underneath him and naked and afraid
he asks her why- she was created by him
for him
why does she shy away from the hands that formed her?
she puts the distance of a city-state between them
"you created me to love you
but you kissed me when i had no voice
you dressed me when i had no choice
you loved me, but never asked if you were lovable."
and this was the hand of venus, then.
love is not love when it has to be carved out of stone.
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:46 PM UTC
Call me when you can hear me,
Visit when you can see,
Touch me when you can feel me,
Inhale and you can scent me but
Come to me when less petrified.
You've held me and dropped me,
Cold on the ground used up.
*** toy, Doll!
I wanted to be so much more.
Bit on the side, the other "woman!"
But I wanted to be so much more. Cold, used up, on the floor again reduced to be your faithful *****
Call me when you comprehend my words,
Lay with me when you can finally see me,
You can touch me all over when you feel me,
Become intoxicated when you finally smell me,
Like Galatea I come to life in your arms, don't leave me petrified.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 11:54 PM UTC
Applause to this object
A star to look up,—
But stands lower than a house
Who gathered all the fantasies— of hopeless travellers,— Which seek for devoted fancies.
Sparkling garlands,—
Simply, a life of itch
Flashlights everywhere on the platform,— Inutile to its basis
I memorize the trades of their toasts—
One day, I shall have my own boast.
After wiping spots on gold bars,—
I am still not a debauchee of love;
Even if they buzz,— Beehives— Are not mine to offer,—
But a gourmet to their stomach.
Assets clothing their merchants—
Reserving the furnitures—
To show the best features
For myself, I want a slammed window,—
Not some firm statues
"Galatea, we all desire Galatea!"
How adorable when 'twas knotted,
Lovely, but not loved,
Sheltered, yet not protected;
Paid, but not proclaimed
How many landlords will adapt me?
There is a target—
To a sudden stampede—
Oh, how startling!
Please, capture me
I will submit to your traps!
This bird is willing to be caged— Away!
I may now have my arrows— To run the bay!
Flipped death is my reward..
May 21, 2020
May 21, 2020 at 2:56 AM UTC
she awakes.
her ballerina toes are poised, her nose is scrunched -
she is – what’s the word – alive.
her powder fingertips crease mechanically like a hydraulic press.
she has a beating chest with the calibration of cast iron.
her feet can climb Mount Olympus and higher.
she is limber.
she is – what’s the word – living.
her name is –
her skin has the swirl of a gleaming cantilever.
her head teeters.
she is speechless.
her lips are soft, her hands touch her face like it is a monument,
like she is a strawman.
is she a –
her spine has a curve, she can bend into geometric shapes, her arms are straight
but they encircle her.
galatea.
he whispers her name to her.
or maybe he names her.
she can choose a name herself, maybe.
she is – what’s the word – a woman.
her hair can swim through the air, her curls have strands that brush her cheeks
and her cheeks can color in the blank space left behind
by words.
galatea, she whispers.
her tongue clambers in her mouth, for some purchase,
for some worthy noise.
she searches herself for a – what’s the word – idea.
you are mine, galatea, he says. i made you.
do not be afraid. i will bathe you, dress you, anoint you.
i will worship you, and i will save you.
he caresses her hand.
her palms are dry as sandpaper.
she is – what’s the word –
her eyes have the shutter frequency of a lens.
she bends.
she is awake.
she does not remember a before.
she does not remember a maker.
she hasn’t yet made any mistakes.
her name is galatea
but she is no longer milk-white.
he says, you are my wife.
she says, i am alive.
he says, i gave you life.
she says, yes, you are right.
you gave me life,
and i won’t return it
because you gave it,
because it’s mine.
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 12:53 PM UTC
chasing a fantasy
of an ideal
never to be seen
in this world
existing only
in my mind
personified
with pen and paper
and tears and liquor
Mar 3, 2022
Mar 3, 2022 at 11:07 PM UTC