Archive for November, 2009

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Hymn to Persephone

November 30, 2009

I sing of Persephone,
With spring dancing in her skin
And the taste of summer upon her lips.

I sing of Persephone,
With sun-kissed skin gleaming gold,
Still hot and lovely from the morning light.

I sing of Persephone,
With lovely, rich hair that falls
In a shimmering curtain, bright as shadows.

I song of Persephone,
With fair Eumenides waiting at her feet
And snakes rippling through their smoky hair.

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Cherry

November 30, 2009

In the cherry flush of pre-dawn light,
Persephone’s skin glinted gold, her smiling lips red.
Her hair was tangled with Aphrodite’s;
They slept side by side, basking in their heat,
In the warmth of divinity and sex.

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Twin Gods

November 30, 2009

Crisp autumn leaves drift down, flowing through the
Winter-tinted streams of silvery air.
Hares, lovers’ gifts, lift their heads and dart out
Across fields, leaving the lightest snow-tracks.

The twin gods, life and death, walk hand-in-hand.

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The Maenad

November 30, 2009

Quietly, quietly, whispered the nymphai with their hands and lips and soft, soft smiles. Come quickly, but come quietly.

Their winged words reached my ears, and fell over my skin as shimmering stars. I plucked a heart from the air and held it to my chest, let the blood drip.

My skin yearned for the explosion; my breasts ached with unfulfilled need. The nymphai danced silently ahead, writhing in wild ecstasy.

Lions roamed at their feet, and bared their teeth when I walked closer. So I danced: I became one of them, throwing back my head, spinning round and round.

I felt his eyes on me, anciently hungry, and I danced faster. I became a rabbit, darting here and there, and when the leopard came I jumped into his jaws.

I opened my eyes. Sweat covered my skin. My body tingled and ached with release and need. I smiled at my god’s statue and stepped back, still trembling with love.

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Adonis

November 28, 2009

Hand-in-hand, the queens of soft roses and
Sharp thorns stand over the youth Adonis,
Killed whilst his face was still as soft as that
Of one of Artemis’ dark nymphai.

Blood and nectar pours down between them, held
Aloft by Peitho and Hekate. Kind
Thanatos waits; Hermes and Iris, the
Messengers of the gods, stand by his side.

Anemones curl over the youth’s body,
Blowing in the gentle breaths of the winds.
Aphrodite and Persephone kneel
And, together, kiss their boy’s dying lips.

Life streams over his face; his eyes open.

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The Songs of Bilitis: III. Epigrams in the Isle of Cyprus

November 26, 2009

Hymn to Astarte

Mother inexhaustible and incorruptible, creatures, born the first, engendered by thyself and by thyself conceived, issue of thyself alone and seeking joy within thyself, Astarte!

Oh! perpetually fertilized, virgin and nurse of all that is, chaste and lascivious, pure and revelling, ineffable, nocturnal, sweet, breather of fire, foam of the sea!

Thou who accordest grace in secret, thou who unitest, thou who lovest, thou who seizest with furious desire the multiplied races of savage beasts and couplest the sexes in the wood.

Oh, irresistible Astarte! hear me, take me, possess me, oh, Moon! and thirteen times each year draw from my womb the sweet libation of my blood!

The Sea of Kypris

I had crouched on the edge of the highest promontory. The sea was black as a field of violets. And the Milky Way was gushing from the great supernal breast.

About me a thousand Maenads slept in the torn-up flowers. Long grasses mingled with their flowing hair. And now the sun was born from the eastern waters.

These the same waves and these the self-same shores that saw one day the white body of Aphrodite rising. . . I suddenly hid my eyes in my hands.

For I had seen the water trembling with a thousand little lips of light: the pure sex, or it may have been the smile of Kypris Philommeïdes.

The Priestesses of Astarte

Astarte’s priestesses engage in love at the rising of the moon; then they arise and bathe themselves in a great basin with a silver rim.

With crook’d fingers they comb their tangled locks, and their purple-tinted hands twined in their jet-black curls are like so many coral-branches in a dark and running sea.

They never pluck their deltas, for the goddess’s triangle marks their bellies as a temple; but they tint themselves with paint-brush, and heavily scent themselves.

Astarte’s priestesses engage in love at the setting of the moon, then in a tent where bums a high gold lamp they stretch themselves at random.

The Mysteries

In the thrice mysterious hall where men have never entered, we have fêted you, Astarte of the Night. Mother of the World, Well-Spring of the life of all the Gods!

I shall reveal a portion of the rite, but no more of it than is permissible. About a crowned Phallos, a hundred-twenty women swayed and cried. The initiates were dressed as men, the others in the split tunic.

The fumes of perfumes and the smoke of torches floated fog-like in and out among us all. I wept my scorching tears. All, at the feet of Berbeia, we threw ourselves, extended on our backs.

Then, when the Religious Act was consummated, and when into the Holy Triangle the purpled phallos had been plunged anew, the mysteries began; but I shall say no more.

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Enchanted

November 26, 2009

Erato and Peitho dance, hand in hand,
To the songs of sex, heat and love; they kiss
The brows of lovers with enchanted lips
And adorn their skins with passionate need.

They are the heralds of Aphrodite,
That laughter-loving, blood-borne Queen; they send
To her the smiles of midnight lovers, and
Warm their bodies in Selene’s soft glow.