"iphigenia" poems - Hello Poetry

There, she lies on the altar Almost held the sun she— almost in her hands Opened up, a rose-bud chaste petal by petal by blood, with a sting, so sweet and sweet, as sunset reborn a bee; she was gold and silver and black at once. Almost held the sun she— and no wax wings used Oh, Icarus, love you did a wild sky, — yourself a light-licked doom as your father cried, Your father cried for you. A veil as simple sour starlight she wore as wings of wasps as beetles she giggled Icarus, flew that you —and with tongue-tied elation too Icarus, she rambled on for hours long. A letter she held in spring kissed hands —I will wed you to the sun, her father had sworn. The sun—and a sun he was, child of the sea, some sword in honey dipped; now her awaiting. And blushed she did herself a dawn The altar, on the altar. Almost held the sun she— Swallowed a mayhem for the father's sin. Icarus, tell me of the plummet. Tell me of the greens you saw, of blues, of whites, of the whirling world— Men go around around her their soles all ready to crush lost skulls an empty moor. Twirling, the dust, like may have her hair before the wedding day Strands and strands, gently styled— Spears, swords, rubbed to mirrors, to lakes lifeless Armors and ships laden with life, with sails, the fluttering doves; As the winds dance once more— as harbors vacated, as waves torn apart for the horde, as move they on— on too the sun— as She still lies. Icarus, Icarus, was it the ocean that cupped its palms, or did the soil cave in as down into dark's slick throat you slid? Surely, was soft, the sea's well-loved mouth, Surely soft or true She lies on the altar a trinket glossy on a hoof, a ****** in the bell, how does one say— the valley of lilies, she grew it inside. Spilled out on the stones, they are fed to the flies. Almost held the sun she— Icarus, must you know You did not sleep a wretched silence within the womb of war. No crescent blades you drank down a leaking throat— She lies on the altar, vanquished for moon — for metal upon bone for blood, for blood, for blood. A father’s green promise— Seasoned to rust before the king Icarus, on the altar she lies— a ripened land far, far away lures her king to another rosy worship. Icarus, Icarus, on the altar

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Aug 3, 2021

Aug 3, 2021 at 7:45 AM UTC

Ayesha

Iphigenia

There, she lies on the altar Almost held the sun she— almost in her hands Opened up, a rose-bud chaste petal by petal by blood, with a sting, so sweet and sweet, as sunset reborn a bee; she was gold and silver and black at once. Almost held the sun she— and no wax wings used Oh, Icarus, love you did a wild sky, — yourself a light-licked doom as your father cried, Your father cried for you. A veil as simple sour starlight she wore as wings of wasps as beetles she giggled Icarus, flew that you —and with tongue-tied elation too Icarus, she rambled on for hours long. A letter she held in spring kissed hands —I will wed you to the sun, her father had sworn. The sun—and a sun he was, child of the sea, some sword in honey dipped; now her awaiting. And blushed she did herself a dawn The altar, on the altar. Almost held the sun she— Swallowed a mayhem for the father's sin. Icarus, tell me of the plummet. Tell me of the greens you saw, of blues, of whites, of the whirling world— Men go around around her their soles all ready to crush lost skulls an empty moor. Twirling, the dust, like may have her hair before the wedding day Strands and strands, gently styled— Spears, swords, rubbed to mirrors, to lakes lifeless Armors and ships laden with life, with sails, the fluttering doves; As the winds dance once more— as harbors vacated, as waves torn apart for the horde, as move they on— on too the sun— as She still lies. Icarus, Icarus, was it the ocean that cupped its palms, or did the soil cave in as down into dark's slick throat you slid? Surely, was soft, the sea's well-loved mouth, Surely soft or true She lies on the altar a trinket glossy on a hoof, a ****** in the bell, how does one say— the valley of lilies, she grew it inside. Spilled out on the stones, they are fed to the flies. Almost held the sun she— Icarus, must you know You did not sleep a wretched silence within the womb of war. No crescent blades you drank down a leaking throat— She lies on the altar, vanquished for moon — for metal upon bone for blood, for blood, for blood. A father’s green promise— Seasoned to rust before the king Icarus, on the altar she lies— a ripened land far, far away lures her king to another rosy worship. Icarus, Icarus, on the altar

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Iphigenia, with your sloping eyes and tripping, lively, lovely name, blushing bride turned lamb for slaughter, murdered on your wedding day Iphigenia, the favoured priestess devout and born from strength, but it was not enough to stop the stumble that would signify your untimely death Iphigenia, star-crossed with a goddess and double-crossed by a father to be wedded to the best of the Greeks, but the huntress demanded slaughter Iphigenia, can you forgive me? you were only a girl, still tied down by youth, slain on an altar, to be another victim of war and I didn’t stop the hands that grasped you.

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Aug 16, 2015

Aug 16, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC

mia-ivy

Neither of us could have known.

Iphigenia, with your sloping eyes and tripping, lively, lovely name, blushing bride turned lamb for slaughter, murdered on your wedding day Iphigenia, the favoured priestess devout and born from strength, but it was not enough to stop the stumble that would signify your untimely death Iphigenia, star-crossed with a goddess and double-crossed by a father to be wedded to the best of the Greeks, but the huntress demanded slaughter Iphigenia, can you forgive me? you were only a girl, still tied down by youth, slain on an altar, to be another victim of war and I didn’t stop the hands that grasped you.

16

* *She whose born to strength Wet with love for Achilles Her life paid for wind* *

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Jun 28, 2020

Jun 28, 2020 at 4:45 PM UTC

Lyn-Purcell

Iphigenia

* *She whose born to strength Wet with love for Achilles Her life paid for wind* *

5

i think i might be iphigenia. everyone sacrifices me for the "greater good".

0

Jun 10, 2015

Jun 10, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC

glassea

sailing to troy

i think i might be iphigenia. everyone sacrifices me for the "greater good".

3

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.

0

Jun 25, 2021

Jun 25, 2021 at 11:14 PM UTC

wrens_musings

iliad, a poem | no. 7

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.

65