Posts Tagged ‘Reality’

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Equals

March 3, 2010

Reality – oozing,
Dripping from his fingers
As though it was blood
Spilt from the wounds of men.

The rages and passions
Are his; he, simmering,
Darkest lord, controls most
Of that which we hold dear.

Yet we reject him:
We hide our faces and
Harden our hearts against him.
He is war, we say—

How can we trust him?

But Aphrodite did not suffer thus;
She, who some call the softest
And most beautiful of the gods,
Took him into her arms – her equal,

In all things.

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Short – The Fey

November 14, 2009

Fey live in worlds that humans can only
Ever truly visit in their dreams. They
Linger in the hearts of those who love them;
In the threads that bind humans and the gods.

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Fiction: Pasithea: Restless

October 15, 2009

The cream walls melt beneath her fingers, gliding down and settling over the carpet. Brown and cream mix together, circling her feet and then spreading up over her bare calves, thighs and hips. The colour clings to her, a second skin of delirium, as she walks silently through her husband’s halls.

“Hypnos?” she whispers, forcing each reluctant word out of the warmth of her body and into the chill night world. There is no answer, and she tries again: this time slightly louder. Still, though, he does not answer; she does not know if he even remains among the living, or if he has once more drifted to the world of the sleeping dead.

The hall hums with energy – it pulses under Pasithea’s restless worry, lending further agitation to her uncharacteristic state. She begins to move more swiftly, shoving her delicate, white feet through the streaming rivers of murmuring colour.

She finally reaches her husband’s door, her limbs heavy and quivering with tension, and Hesykhia, guardian of the sleeping Hypnos, is beside her immediately. Pasithea whispers wordless pain against Heskyhia’s silent lips, softness yielding to harsh as the need to rest overwhelms her spirit. “My husband,” is all she manages to say, her tongue barely able to wrap around the word and force it from her trembling lips.

Soundlessly, Hesykhia takes her into her arms and pushes open Hypnos’ door. The lord of sleep is tangled in the sheets once placed down by careful hands – he stirs as Hesykhia carries his Kharis wife through the room.

“Insanity,” Pasithea breathes as Hypnos stands, his eyelids barely open and his shoulders sagging with exhaustion. Hesykhia, as silent as a gargoyle, hands her to him and they sink, together, to the bed. The door eases shut behind Hesykhia as she leaves; Hypnos kisses his wife’s cheek, breathing in the scent of lilies that lingers constantly against her skin. She continues to whisper: “Madness, delirium, blood, death.”

He, smiling, kisses her eyelids and interrupts: “Love.”

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Read Write Prompt #17

October 10, 2009

Read Write Prompt #17: Dream Prompts For A Long Winter’s Nap.

Hypnos and Pasithea.

You exist in the spell of sunset hours:
The softness of silken sheets, freshly warmed;
The slow, steady shine of a candle’s flame,
Gently soothing away all earthly ills.

You exist in the spell of sunset hours:
The whispers between lovers, the smiles, sex.
The soft-burning love of childhood sweethearts,
That sensuality, awaiting sparks.

You exist in the spell of sunset hours:
The sympathies of nurses, breathing soft
So as not to disturb the sleeping child;
His glassy eyes reflect the world of dreams.

You exist.

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Aphrodite and Roses

August 14, 2009

‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.’

Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2), Shakespeare

The prickles on a rose can cut. Blood can spread across pale skin, marring it forever; or bruises can form, shaped like flowers, spreading their prickles out to cut, cut, cut. Love is much the same: sensuous and beautiful, but deadly. Roses are seemingly delicate, but this natural protection cuts and bruises those who would harm them, who would pluck them from the earth before it is their time. It is Aphrodite’s love, and her son’s fertile earths, that give the roses this double edge: beauty with a price, beauty that bleeds.

Aphrodite and, thus, love, were first associated when she heard of her beloved Adonis’ mortal wounds. She ran, blinded by love, and thorns sliced at her feet as she moved. Her blood mixed with the thorns, bound them into a new shape, dangerously lovely: the red rose. She flew to Adonis’ side, but not fast enough; and she wept as he died in her arms.

Roses are one of Aphrodite’s sacred plants – perhaps she, filled with fury and sorrow, rushed back to where the thorns had cut at her and snatched roses from the earth. Perhaps she thought that they would bring her beloved back, that her blood—mixed with Gaea’s pulsing energy—would be enough to return him to life. Perhaps it worked; perhaps it did not. But roses have since had a history with Aphrodite – and with love.

Other stories tell of how Aphrodite presented a rose to her son, Eros, who in turn gave the rose to Harpocrates to induce silence regarding Aphrodite’s sexual indiscretions. Harpocrates agreed; and in turn the rose became the symbol not just of love and desire, but of silence and secrecy. In the feasts at Athens, young men and women would dance naked together, wearing crowns of roses: and so roses came to symbolise the duality of sex and innocence.

There is no doubt that roses symbolise Aphrodite and her train: thought to be soft and gentle from a distance, but fiercely dangerous when brushed against. They laugh and tease and smile—that much is known, for Aphrodite is nothing if not the goddess of pleasure—but what is truly known of them? Little: they are not slaves to passion, and they are not whores: they kiss and touch at their own discretion, falling in love again and again, revelling in living, revelling in the blood and the sex of the world. They live, then, as roses: swelling, spreading their petals, smiling with dew-coated lips, kissing the skin of those who touch them – and then cutting, bleeding, crackling with blood. Perhaps they are born again and again, perhaps each prick of a finger against a rose spins them into infinity and back – and perhaps not.

They are who they are, though: Aphrodite’s roses, her darlings.

And one would do well to remember that – or the next time that one brushes against a rose to coo over its beauty, one might stumble, fall; and slice one’s throat on the ever-waiting, ever-laughing prickles. Such is the nature of beauty; such is the nature of love; and such, then, is the nature of Aphrodite, heavy-eyed and laughing as she bathes, a crown of roses upon her head.

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Thoughts on Aphrodite

August 11, 2009

Aphrodite is the goddess of love, beauty, pleasure and procreation. She is the kisses between lovers, the smile on a newborn’s lips, and the endless beauty of all. She is present in anything and everything, and she is a goddess both divine and strangely mortal. She averts unlawful desires and puts a stopper on age and death. She is common to all, the blush in the cheeks of never-been girls and boys alike. She is armed with her unstoppable love, and yet she does not create it: she does not create the spark between lovers, but she massages it, soothes it, until it blazes like a bonfire. She is sensuality and hunger, she is addiction, youth and bounty. She is the goddess of all, of mortality and infinity alike, and she strikes with hard kisses and unrelenting love.

She is not brainless and foolhardy. She is Apatouros, the deceptive one, and she is Makhanitis, the deviser. She laughs and loves with equal vigour. She repays ills in the way she best knows how; she loosens her children on those who would take advantage of her laughter-loving nature, and she presses hazy kisses to those who ask for her love. She does not accept the uglier things; simmering rage and poisoned words have no place in her house. She forgives with readiness and golden smiles, and she plucks at the heartstrings of humans and gods alike. She is born again and again, in the hearts of men and women, in the laughter of babes. She is ever-present, ever-strong, and ever-ready to fall in love, time and time again.

She is not weak. She is a force which threatens even the oldest of the gods. She is born of heaven alone, of fate and prophecy, of the endless sky and the brilliant day. Even the dead cannot resist her touch, her whispers. She is the most loyal subject of Phanes, reborn as her most loyal subject after Zeus devoured him. Perhaps she is Phanes: perhaps she truly is everything. She is music and sex, blood and honey, life and death. She is the climax of passion, she is the beating of hearts. She drives everything, kisses everywhere, touches everyone.

Her children drive the world. Without her, and without them, there could be nothing. There would be no children to spread their fingers and wave at their anxious parents, hovering nearby. There would be no laughter, no desire, no love. Her children and her train are her better sides: it is easy to overlook her birth from fury and blood. She is drawn to the soft curves of her own vengeance – to Adonis, her beautiful hunting boy – and, simultaneously, to the violence and hatred of War. She explodes with life, fills human shells with richness and longing, and she softens it all with her golden laughter. She is guilty of all and yet entirely blameless, a child and a mother, a lover of all.

She brings reciprocal and unrequited love, Anteros; terror and panic, Deimos and Phobos; longing and desire, Pothos and Himeros; harmony and strife, Harmonia and Eris; seduction and fertility, Peitho and Priapos; and love, Eros.

She is the goddess of prostitutes and hermaphrodites, of anyone who would dare to be different. She commands respect without inspiring terror, and she blesses marriages and heroes alike. She is the ally of any who would ask, she joins the Mousai in their dances and song, she plays a role, even, in the workings of the Moirae. She is the unavoidable love, the unstoppable kiss, the endless passion and desire. She is the war and the peace, the terror of oneself and the greater world, she is the child and the crone, the always-ready nursemaid and the patron of voyagers and brides. She pushes for individuality without alienating oneself from one’s family, and yet she smiles and accepts when one reaches one’s limits. She is cruel and gentle, lovely and hateful, and she brings victory in love and war alike with her soft hands and ready smiles.

She is Aphrodite.