Table adorned with instruments of death
and thrones crafted from mythical bones
of magic; the secret dwells in each breath
as my blood burns in fear, but I am alone.
The curtains are dripping. The table round
where murder holds court and submits to fear.
The unknown keep quiet, dead at the sound
of a voice, a whisper, whimpering tears.
My brothers would have me dead if they knew
of my power- destiny in my veins.
In the hollow hall where no trials are true
and the blood falls and I stand in the rain.
I know my purpose now; Arthur must die.
And magic restored to it’s purpose divine.
As Sophocles in the stands
watched golden chariots fly by;
in the dust of Athenian sand
tragic imagination flies-
As Virgil by his passions pen
allows for travel back in time,
to days when Rome was but two men,
and constructs city walls in rhyme-
As Shakespeare’s sonnets weave his heart
through painted leaves of lovers’ words,
where music is the food of art
and timeless ladies can be heard-
As Aemilia fights her war,
and Eve gives her apology;
she takes upon the women’s cause,
where Adam picks fruit from the tree-
As Milton takes the devil’s fall,
armies storming down into hell,
when Eve, she hears the serpent call
and Felix Culpa breaks our cell-
As Swift and Pope bring their satire
to our table, classically strewn,
with distaste for bourgeoisie fire
and language for ladies so lewd-
As Wordsworth’s daffodils delight
the idyllic land of the lakes;
Romantic looks at country life
and poetry for poets sake-
As Browning tells us his dark tales
of poisoned ladies at the kings;
the murderess behind the veil
and o’ how jealous love can sting-
As years of verse today is read,
and still the story must go on,
good Literature, she bows her head,
to the ode to her daughters and sons-
Note from the poet: Hey guys! So I wrote this poem in honor of World Poetry Day as a celebration of all the poets who have inspired me over the years! I’d love to hear back from my fellow poets/poetry lovers on who inspires you so please comment with your poetic recommendations! Happy World Poetry Day!
Dear Cupid, how could you just let my poor heart bleed itself to death?
I, under your watchful eye, have longed for lovers’ breath
but you have hurt me; have stolen my own innocence from me
leaving me with nothing to show but my heart as it bleeds-
When I first saw your love, you captured my affection with your eyes,
making me fall for your sweet, musical lullabies;
played on a harp- carved from heavens own gold- to woo a girl so young,
and strung with her heartstrings; till the war was won.
So now I lie drowning in a pool tainted by my eyes gaze upon pain;
Death, though, is easier than living on in vain.
I will go quietly to the grasp of Hades’ Underworld- and to hell-
Dear Cupid, I hope my lonesome heart has served you well.
Trees, green with envy, frame the mythic scene
letting light shine through on our heroine;
and there she stands in the glow of a dream;
She’s as gorgeous as desire and sin.
I watch Aphrodite enter the play;
she comes in, from stage left, in jealous rage;
and poor Psyche will suffer her display
for a wise man said ‘all the world’s a stage’.
So sad Eros must play the mother’s fool,
yet from the stands we seek out thy hero;
though the play is subject to tragic rule,
in life, as in myth, there is always hope;
so Aphrodite – the Goddess of Love-
thaws her cold heart by Cupid’s light above;
I watch Apollo move across the sky,
drawing his chariot through heavens fire,
under his rule the sun must burn and die,
and in the night Apollo plays his lyre;
pink light drenches the rivers in its bliss,
and washes waterfalls with wond’rous glow,
so upon the rocks I feel twilights kiss,
and in peaceful night I am not alone;
fireflies can bring the woodland night to life,
where nymphs dance below their sparkling cover;
where the humming of the Gods brings light,
and for ev’ry girl there is a lover;
so worship the festival of the moon,
for the sun will end our fun far too soon.
Tall trees doth frame the hefty hall,
and dim sunlight creeps through the walls;
the steps do climb upon the hill,
where faceless nymphs sit cold and still;
no breeze can touch this sacred place;
no rain can fall upon my face;
a booming voice doth shake the leaves;
his words through silent air it cleaves;
on empty ears the voice preaches,
deathly to the farthest reaches,
as winter frost settles around,
and flowers bury in the ground;
voices fade into the bright snow,
but still the words doth shine aglow,
and my mind it yearns for the love
of literature’s swaddling dove;
so as the winter melts away,
and through the trees the light of day
brings back to life this old playhouse,
and the chandelier lights do rouse
the children from their schoolyard dreams
to walk away from this scene.
The cavern still is enticing to me,
drawing me in with its pitch black embrace;
stony walls behind the arms of the trees,
and mossy curtains do frame his dark face;
thorns paint his eyes red with the blood they steal,
and the cold forest floor licks at my feet;
though ice touches my skin I do not feel,
so I sleep in his watch in woodlands seat.
I look on as Orpheus comes and goes,
and I too do weep at his mournful song,
and He does pity the boy’s sad sorrow,
but by poor Eurydice he did do wrong;
By the love of hell, by the gates I rest,
by Hades touch I swear my heart is blessed.
I sit silent on the banks of the Styx,
one toe dipped into the fiery waters,
and watch the boats as they float through the mist
as Hades emerges from his quarters;
I lie in a dreamland at my lords feet,
submissive, just waiting to be taken,
but my lord bends down and he speaks to me,
for I have not yet been forsaken;
Though Hades may be a cruel dictator,
none could ever deny that he is wise,
and on the edge of his burning crater,
his arms still, to me, are kinder than life.
But I walk, barefoot, by the river Styx,
and by Satan’s mercy emerge from the mist.
In the lakes the water sparkles
even as the sky grows darker,
and moonlight reflects in the hills
where midnight trees are holding still;
Silence descends upon the land
and we all rest at Hypnos hand.
The stars alight our quiv’ring sky
under which night creatures take flight;
Fairy tales alive take control,
they breathe the very mountain’s soul;
princesses dance through villages;
adventurers do climb the ridge;
dragons swoop down through blazing fire
burning through Orpheus’ lyre;
red dancing shoes claim the forest,
and stories end in sorrow’s jest.
As day breaks our life does awake,
and dreams return to mystic lakes;
the land is kissed by warming sun,
and rain caresses farmers young;
memory of the magic does cease
but a lucky few still can see
the mystic power of the scene,
and gift to you, in words, our dreams;
Bring forth more wine!
we hath reason to celebrate
Our king and God so free and great
brought forth by Zeus from Hera’s watch
and kept away by woodland lock
drunkard and a genius too
loved by the great romantic view
we feast on literature and song
and wash it down with Antigone
Sophocles is his prophet great
and Oedipus became his babe
we dance through our lives in the woods
and on the mossy ground make love
in passion we can’t help but sin
to naughty nymphs we are but kin
outcast from autocratic rule
so we drown in alcoholic pool
but we are free not tied by law
run feral on the forest floor
the wild cult of sex and drugs and
rock and roll, this here is our land
our art is born from his nature
and literature is his nurture
we rise above our civil hate
bow down to human love innate
so join us in our festivities
to Dionysus! Toast to thee!