"heracles" poems
XV. TO HERACLES THE LION-HEARTED (9 lines)
(ll. 1-8) I will sing of Heracles, the son of Zeus and much the
mightiest of men on earth. Alcmena bare him in Thebes, the city
of lovely dances, when the dark-clouded Son of Cronos had lain
with her. Once he used to wander over unmeasured tracts of land
and sea at the bidding of King Eurystheus, and himself did many
deeds of violence and endured many; but now he lives happily in
the glorious home of snowy Olympus, and has neat-ankled **** for
his wife.
(l. 9) Hail, lord, son of Zeus! Give me success and prosperity.
7.7k
Hellenic days of poetry,
From a land of myth,
In legend dwelled the child of Zeus,
Head of the gods,
Zeus created ******* child in tryst with mortal chick,
Alcemene was the name,
Hera, wife of Zeus got angry at his infidelity,
Alcemene expected two, twin boys were on the way,
One baby conceived of Zeus the other was a mortal's son,
Hera had a consultation with Lithia, goddess of childbirth,
Hera twisted Lithia to prevent the childrens birth,
Alcemene's legs were cross locked to stop the birth ocuring,
Zeus declared in oath, child of house of Perseus born that night,
To become High King in place of heracless,.
Hera made Eurytheus, arrive too soon in premature immaturity,
Athena, half -sister of Heracles,
Protector of Gods, tricked Hera into nursing child,
Known as Alcides,
Real name Heracles,
Hera nursed him out of pity,
Heracles gave Hera pain on suckling,
Milk sprayed the heavens,
Hence there created, The Milky Way.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
Beyond the massif peaks of Europa,
Above the ancient pillars of Heracles
Where rain and ocean are weaving,
Lays a fabled kingdom born of waves
And noble strands, my beaten hearts
Haunting, the lost, lush sylvan lands
Of Galicia.
Where Incomparable, dark
Haired women, mythic, of Amazonian
Fairness, side the valleys and moors
Of soon forgotten dreams and secretive
Wolves slide amongst warmed runnings
Of the ram and moans of ewe, where
Way bountiful seas are over spilling,
In octopus and pearly gemmed shells,
The scalloped pilgrimages unfolding,
Where incense burns with under stars
Encased, the lost Atlantean temples
Of Egyptian sands and storied Gaels,
The clad forests of wandering Titans,
Where snow white beaches end forever
Unmapped in told footsteps, castaway,
As was the magi gift of treasured yards,
Enlightenments, of old and golden isles
Pearling the coasts, sailing the sweet airs
Crossing Iberian gates, to Elysian, eternal,
Galicia.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
Beyond the massif peaks of Europa,
Above the ancient pillars of Heracles
Where rain and ocean are weaving,
Lays a fabled kingdom born of waves
And noble strands, my beaten hearts
Haunting, the lost, lush sylvan lands
Of Galicia.
Where Incomparable, dark
Haired women, mythic, of Amazonian
Fairness, side the valleys and moors
Of soon forgotten dreams and secretive
Wolves slide amongst warmed runnings
Of the ram and moans of ewe, where
Way bountiful seas are over spilling,
In octopus and pearly gemmed shells,
The scalloped pilgrimages unfolding,
Where incense burns with under stars
Encased, the lost Atlantean temples
Of Egyptian sands and storied Gaels,
The clad forests of wandering Titans,
Where snow white beaches end forever
Unmapped in told footsteps, castaway,
As was the magi gift of treasured yards,
Enlightenments, of old and golden isles
Pearling the coasts, sailing the sweet airs
Crossing Iberian gates, to Elysian, eternal,
Galicia.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
‘Allowed Rockies, I understand the empyrean choice
for Olympus—why Jove barred all mortals from knowing the wondrous
high atop a peak—the clear air—thin crisp, ever present
breeze that cuts through the body.
Heracles—transcender from human
to god; immortal fire setting his mortal flesh to ash
to scatter into the dirt so he may sit high upon
deathless Olympus—above man and woman. As the Rockies
stand above the new world—unlike Olympus, the Rockies stand
indiff’rent to the affairs of men and women.
Heracles—
who in wake of Asia’s venture to the cave where the protean
spawn of Jove’s lust upon Thetis befell to veil—unbinds
humanity’s one true immortal patron: Prometheus—
whose only want, and whose only single fault: bestow upon
humanity immortal fire—the spark to enlighten
mental parity with gods.
Embers that burst to flame in the
heart and mind of such a fiery thinker as Zarathustra:
who taught to go over not under—over humanity,
transcend the status quo—climb! Rise above—where the
crisp clean air can whisk away the smog of congestion—congestion
of thought—congestion in all form. Zarathustra who showed
us the bellows to fuel our Promethean gift.
For the
Rockies are not ephemeral; they will stand tall long after
humans are gone; fire will raze their trees without human prevention;
like Heracles, the flames will only burn mortal evergreen
flesh to ash, and the mountains will endure immortal—from that
ash, that darkness life will arise as it always has for millennia.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
Sometimes I forget that you
cannot absorb as much
as you like to say you can.
I forget that you are human, and not more,
not the impassive statue that you
would like to be.
I have seen you
in your weak points and I
have helped you through
some bad days and I
somehow forgot
your true form.
Forgive me, I
am so full of words tonight that
I overflowed and nearly
drowned you, even as you stood
ready to try and help me safely swim
the dangerous currents
of my own disintegrating being.
Forgive me, I
would mop up these streams and
plug up these holes and even
divert rivers in the tradition of Heracles
to clean out the accumulated grunge
of everything I have dumped on you.
I would let my mind
stop burbling and my words run dry
if only you will
forgive me.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
Beyond the massif peaks of Europa,
Above the ancient pillars of Heracles
Where rain and ocean are weaving,
Lays a fabled kingdom born of waves
And noble strands, my beaten hearts
Haunting, the lost, lush sylvan lands
Of Galicia.
Where Incomparable, dark
Haired women, mythic, of Amazonian
Fairness, side the valleys and moors
Of soon forgotten dreams and secretive
Wolves slide amongst warmed runnings
Of the ram and moans of ewe, where
Way bountiful seas are over spilling,
In octopus and pearly gemmed shells,
The scalloped pilgrimages unfolding,
Where incense burns with under stars
Encased, the lost Atlantean temples
Of Egyptian sands and storied Gaels,
The clad forests of wandering Titans,
Where snow white beaches end forever
Unmapped in told footsteps, castaway,
As was the magi gift of treasured yards,
Enlightenments, of old and golden isles
Pearling the coasts, sailing the sweet airs
Crossing Iberian gates, to Elysian, eternal,
Galicia.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 1:29 PM UTC
I see you in the stars
Somehow you have been changed
From how the mortal eyes have seen you
Your mouth which used to speak
Of hatred and hope oblique
Becomes a beak without your teeth
Rage was born
But it will die
When its thrown into the fire
A brittle constellation
An ancient observation
You invite your guest to **** them
The poison of your being
These wounds caused by your sword
Let Heracles avenge them
All night
I look at you
Such beauty born from hatred
The knives in your hands
Cannot be be held by wings
Your arms that change until you drop them
The blasphemous skin
And fingers meant for ripping
These are the feathers that replace them
The sound of blood
And ugliness
Becomes beautiful music
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
Beyond the massif peaks of Europa,
Above the ancient pillars of Heracles
Where rain and ocean are weaving,
Lays a fabled kingdom born of waves
And noble strands, my beaten hearts
Haunting, the lost, lush sylvan lands
Of Galicia.
Where Incomparable, dark
Haired women, mythic, of Amazonian
Fairness, side the valleys and moors
Of soon forgotten dreams and secretive
Wolves slide amongst warmed runnings
Of the ram and moans of ewe, where
Way bountiful seas are over spilling,
In octopus and pearly gemmed shells,
The scalloped pilgrimages unfolding,
Where incense burns with under stars
Encased, the lost Atlantean temples
Of Egyptian sands and storied Gaels,
The clad forests of wandering Titans,
Where snow white beaches end forever
Unmapped in told footsteps, castaway,
As was the magi gift of treasured yards,
Enlightenments, of old and golden isles
Pearling the coasts, sailing the sweet airs
Crossing Iberian gates, to Elysian, eternal,
Galicia.
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
And so, with him, the marble body of Apollo would not be so easily outdone.
Look how Hephaestus' muscle-clad arms would not surrender,
nor would his.
Look how Dionysus would weep at the acid in his vineyard veins,
eyelids struck with Zeus's violet lightning,
And so the blood in which Ares bathes drips down the fault lines in his chalky palms,
lips pinker than the silk of a woman, smoother than Eros's thighs, feet bruised like Heracles's would have been.
Our modern day Paris, gorgeosity incarnate,
even in that livid instant of death.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC
He shakes the snow from his fur and tastes the air
A young boy leans against an oak
A rusted sword at his side
The wolf leaves the warmth of his den
(They listened to the old man around the fire
His words hang in the air...)
The wolf bares his yellow teeth
The boy would lie beneath the stars
Imagining the tales
Heracles wounding even the gods
The metallic lure of blood. Skades' perfume was heavy on the morning fog
He slept and drempt
He was in the vale again
Leaning against the old oak
His father's words were harsh-
Only a coward would run from such a glorious death
The hunger was, unbearable now
The wind pulled at his hair
In the cold early morning fog
The spear was heavy, but he was strong
The sword was rusted, but he had cunning
They were alone in the valley
Where the morning fog will never lift
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 6:23 PM UTC
Do not find love
For it finds you
And find you it did
Like the first beams of dawn
Kissing the dew
On the slumbering meadow
And what was once
A verdant vale of calm
Is now a riotous explosion
Of cerulean and crimson
Caressed by the velveteen kisses
Of the eastern breeze
The languid shore
Now a maelstrom
Of spraying foam
A gale of berserk fury
Poseidon thundering
Confronting
The forbidding cliffs
Of time
O maiden
Sighing into
The lonely watches of the night
For whom are those tears shed?
Tarry not
For Helios comes
To take you in his embrace
And within the tongues of immolation
Is purifying salvation
That even
The Twelve Labors of Heracles
Are impotent to redeem
And you are no frail Icarus
Jesting and boastful
Impertinent in his youthful optimism
Who eludes and placates
The assault of the elements
Now take the plunge
O Athena
Laughing into the depths
Of the mercurial Aegean
For she who dares the fates and furies
Commands Olympus.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 1:05 PM UTC
I've been stung by a wasp on the same part of my heart
so many times that this familiar
disappointment shouldn't hurt anymore.
Gardeners develop callouses on their hands
because nurturing others to life with love
is the hardest thing they will ever do.
I can show you the rough patch of tissue
and muscle, right on the epicardium; I've cut myself open
time and again for others to peer inside, that it has
become automatic, synchronized with each beat
and thump. I don't know how to become close
to people without bleeding for them, but none
yet have been able to withstand the sight of
a brilliant crimson geyser showering
from my chest. If day after day I continue getting stung,
suffering like Prometheus when the eagle tore at his liver,
I know that I'll get rescued like him, too. Only I won't
be looking out for Heracles and a centaur- just a person
with open, calloused hands.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 9:51 PM UTC
You didn’t just grant me lessons
You gave me first hand experience
You raised me above other sons
And it never did make much sense,
I was no prodigy,
No young Heracles,
Going the distance
Bringing new hope
For your great resistance
Just a hungry child
Who you left to the wild
-He's never forgotten
The aches of first begotten.
Aug 3, 2010
Aug 3, 2010 at 6:53 PM UTC
When clouds upon the summer breeze all rest
And easeful, take upon their faery flight
Into the paling crimson of the west
Where noonday dreams wilt in the breath of night,
I look into the east, and try to bear
No more a single thought of gloom or tear
For tangled comes my heart in wreathes of drear
For seeing just the day lie on its bier.
Up at the twinkling summer stars I gaze
And far as any falcon, swift, may spy
Lie constellations whose postures can trace
A story of some wild ecstasy;
A tale of unworldly days of yore
When wine flowed free and through the earth did seep
And Heracles stood tall and Phobetor
Was purely myth to scare the young to sleep.
And as I stare upon these stars, my eyes
Close then and open to new morning skies.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 7:22 PM UTC
A hole in my heart exists
Where once you resided.
An aching loss
A tingle where once
Arms encircled me
And I felt wanted
Loved
Needed
Adored
Necessary.
I don't think it's you I miss
For our last kiss was
Like the kiss of a stranger.
No.
I do not miss you.
I miss what you were to me
My darling
My Heracles
The moon that I circled,
A twinkling star,
In the dusk that was my life.
It's night now.
And you remain gone.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 1:46 AM UTC
.
Beyond the massif peaks of Europa,
Above the ancient pillars of Heracles
Where rain and ocean are weaving,
Lays a fabled kingdom born of waves
And noble strands, my beaten hearts
Haunting, the lost, lush sylvan lands
Of Galicia.
Where Incomparable, dark
Haired women, mythic, of Amazonian
Fairness, side the valleys and moors
Of soon forgotten dreams and secretive
Wolves slide amongst warmed runnings
Of the ram and moans of ewe, where
Way bountiful seas are over spilling,
In octopus and pearly gemmed shells,
The scalloped pilgrimages unfolding,
Where incense burns with under stars
Encased, the lost Atlantean temples
Of Egyptian sands and storied Gaels,
The clad forests of wandering Titans,
Where snow white beaches end forever
Unmapped in told footsteps, castaway,
As was the magi gift of treasured yards,
Enlightenments, of old and golden isles
Pearling the coasts, sailing the sweet airs
Crossing Iberian gates, to Elysian, eternal,
Galicia.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 10:47 AM UTC
The medication isn’t working. I’ve tried to explain to the concerned faces, but the weight has worn me to silence. I tried my best to give the Prozac a shot, but it was like tying a helium balloon to the top of a boulder; the effort makes for a pretty sentiment, but the burden remains unmoved.
The heaviness makes my brain move slowly, my smiles infrequent, turns my words into mumbles. I try to think about when this all started, to reach through the fuzz of time past and memories lost. The concerned faces encourage me to look back and find the ‘why’, to find the big bang of the world that I carry upon my shoulders.
I remember flashes and feelings, times where things felt normal, where the apples were shiny and red, crunching between my teeth. There was a time when I trusted the less-concerned-at-the-time faces to help me carry the weight, which used to be far less heavy, the balloon rather than the boulder. However, no matter how hard I try, I cannot pinpoint the precise time when the heaviness became solely my own.
The medication isn’t working, but there is some part of me that keeps searching for that Heracles drug that’s going to build my pillars again, that’s finally going to help me stand up straight. Maybe it’s hope, maybe it’s actually the Prozac, afterall - hell, maybe it’s just naivety - but I’m going to keep trying, and for now, that has to be enough.
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
GULA
Castor and Pollux
joined forever at the hip.
I could split myself
into two halves just
so they could each get a taste.
I will etch into
both their ribs and lungs
so when they exhale, it’s my
name that warms their breath.
ACEDIA
I have done nothing
but consult oracles to
find a solution
and like Oedipus
I will sit here on my throne
to repeat fathers'
sins. Dear God, am I
the miasma that reeks here?
Would I change, if so?
LUXURIA
Eros and Psyche
have yet to match us, dear boys.
In confessional,
I speak of the flesh-
bruised like rotting fruit, marks
of desperate youth.
Heads bowed in prayer,
this is Dionysiac
ritual madness.
AVARITIA
Will Hades greet me?
If I spit coins from my mouth,
will the ferryman
take pity on me?
He must know my odyssey.
This is déjà vu,
a fable passed down
by generations. A hymn,
Homeric and worn.
IRA
Adonis river
runs red like veins filled with blood.
The anemones
for my two brothers,
a crown for each of them to
decorate their heads
before guts are spilled.
I know this will end in war,
no glory for me.
INVIDIA
Heroes never die,
they say. So was Heracles
jealous of Linus?
To know forever,
to escape the throes of death
sounds like Hell to me.
What lives on except
curses and their tragedy?
I am no hero.
SUPERBIA
I will take my fire,
let it blaze until I die.
Prometheus would
have been proud of me.
Maybe from this, I will kindle
something from the heat:
Write poems in ash,
for the ones I have scalded,
or the ones I love.
(Maybe those two things
are not unlike after all.
Maybe so, maybe not.)
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 1:35 PM UTC
I notice the night's no longer whole because you never call
yet a big part of me still wants to see your face...
just so you know I still hear your voice down the hall
and smell your fragrance in the air polluted by the flowers
with the part of me that still believes my arms are your place
your final destination as you're my constant hallucination
so I spend every little micro second of my daily hours
hoping for a miracle, wishing I were an endless tentacle
or even Heracles, to divert the Augean of your Heart
and have the magma of your passion flow back into my soul
so that I can once again be the whole
__________________________________________________
You were right and I was wrong, without you I ain't strong
Am tired of waiting for a tomorrow, that's free of you and free of sorrow
Tired of holding my breath, it ****** feels like the sigh of death
And my mind wandering, why won't you come and save me?
come and save me, save me love..
___________________________________________________
I have run, from wine to *** to every end of this cold earth I could roam
your silence is deafening loud, hitting my ears harder than echos of a drum
hanging on perilously like a derailed speeding Tram...
for am out of ways of lulling my mind from chaos back to calm
My life's a dark night without a single star, my soul a million a scar
you were not my world, I was wrong about that too
you are my galaxy and there's no existence without you
I'd surrender all this to just one more time hold your hand,
a thousand years to see your footprints next to mine on the sand
for a minute with you, I'd give away forever, be it for a second or less
after all momentary completeness I guess is better than a lifetime mess
you should see me now, shredded like a sensitive document no longer needed
maybe you succeeded
_____________________________________________________
You were right and I was wrong, without you I ain't strong
Am tired of waiting for a tomorrow, that's free of you and free of sorrow
Tired of holding my breath, it ****** feels like the sigh of death
And my mind wandering, why won't you come and save me?
come and save me, save me love..
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC
What could come next on this life-or-death quest;
femmefatales around every corner & turn;
‘Delicious,’ thinks Medea, staying below
in the hold; only one Hero need be
willing to offer himself for sacrifice. . . .
but which; Asclepius, Heracles, Orpheus,
Argus, Tiresias, Theseus or perhaps
even Jason himself
Medusa, a ravenous wild thing, smells invasion
‘This spoils my plans & it stops here and now,’
Ever the rebel she'd been planning a new temple,
Unknown & in secret to be dedicated to nature;
for so long viperous and royally maddened,
now at midnight she hears the mystical lyre,
one string or one thousand, playing near;
Medusa feeling molten, suddenly must stop
gyrating on drunken satyrs’ laps as they throw
Leaves & make it rain on every nymph
throughout her dripping wet forest playground
lying down, she calls for her helpful maidens
Who sweetly rub her from temples to toes
With Nectar of Tiger’s **** and Librium,
which causes true disaster, her legs shuddering,
Her body quakes; the earth itself erupting
with quivering pulsations; the heroes knowing
Well what this all means as all has been
foretold on the ancient stone tablet;
For now though, the heroes of the Argo have
yet to encounter Calliope & the other
nefarious goddesses of her retinue; Muses,
fairies, furies, harpies, nymphs, queens, witches, etc....
by Medusa & Johnny Noir
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
He told me that the world was good.
Maybe was carved from ball of wood.
Sadly 'twas invaded by wood worms.
Who spent hours daily nibbling.
However: it isn't really wooden.
Despite the pain 'tis really good, good as gold.
Our world protected, loved so dearly.
Close to ending,
Only nearly.
Protected by the word of various lords,
And mythical souls.
Hercules in full support,
The weight of the world on his shoulders.
Heracles despatching lions, well only one to my knowledge.
Gods and prophets will do their best.
Adam and Eve conceived their sons and Noah's floods and Lot's salt pillar.
Angels soothe minds of the troubled.
While gorgons, witnessed turn to stone, their snakes are hungry their dying for rats.
Samaritans will save the world, not just lonesome travellers.
And Jesus, he turned water into wine, not mine, loaves and fishes to feed them all.
Let us pray.
(C) LIVVI
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 1:49 PM UTC
Alguien recorre los senderos de Ítaca
y no se acuerda de su rey, que fue a Troya
hace ya tantos años;
alguien piensa en las tierras heredadas
y en el arado nuevo y el hijo
y es acaso feliz.
En el confín del orbe yo, Ulises,
descendí a la Casa de Hades
y vi la sombra del tebano Tiresias
que desligó el amor de las serpientes,
Y la sombra de Heracles
que mata sombras de leones en la pradera
y así mismo está en el Olimpo.
Alguien hoy anda por Bolívar y Chile
y puede ser feliz o no serlo.
Quién me diera ser él.
450
VII. mitosis
i...
i love him
and i will pay with fire and brimstone
maybe i’ll realize
that the plot arc of my life
doesn’t really make any sense anymore
that i don’t know where i’m going
(i never really did)
and i’m falling i’m ******* falling
the potter's wheel lays in disuse
the clay has cracked
much like ourselves
crazed in the heat of our crucible
the teacups are but shards
and no golden lacquer remains
to mend, to smooth sharp edges
we cherish things until
we can replace them
"fragile, handle with care"
i didn’t test in an inconspicuous spot
i didn’t reset to factory default
i didn’t come assembled
but i didn’t come broken either
we were dealt the cards before
we even knew we were players
and i cry for innocence had,
and innocence lost
innocence misplaced,
and innocence taken
my nightmares lathered
in sterile surgeon cyan
after all, we lobotomized machines
could never feel
what pleasures lie,
in those frosty windowed wards!
arched backs, bucked hips
gossamer cauls of flesh unwillingly broken
bulimic hearts, skinny love
i need not drink but the viscous
milken nectar of our lust
what pleasure, achilles!
what pleasure?
what pleasure is there in
the supplication of sutured flesh?
iphigenia, astynome...briseis—
flesh blemished, removed, replaced
housing haunted souls
heracles, phaethon, oedipus, icarus...
are we too consigned to eternal song,
that bitter deathless death,
like our tragic forbearers?
our glory, our hamartia
lies only in our love, philtatos
when wisdom brings no profit
to be wise is to suffer
the proud will be humbled
and the humble will be exalted
quell your arrogance
mitotic spindle
my name means glory to the father
and i am the prodigal son
all is equal in the chaotic omniscience
of mitosis, of death, of entropy, of war
we? we are indivisible.
Jun 25, 2021
Jun 25, 2021 at 11:14 PM UTC
I take a breath and I feel hollow
Your absence causes unfathomable sorrow
I have once again become a slave to the Dark Pit
The shackles that bind me are still the same fit
It's like they have never been taken off...
ENOUGH!
Back to the fields of torture
Above my head return the hungry vultures
that can't wait to taste my liver again
Back to the rock that I have been
chained to; End of vacation!
Stop getting ideas above your station!
Your Heracles won't come!
End of love; end of happiness; end of fun
Apr 3, 2021
Apr 3, 2021 at 4:35 PM UTC