Medea

Medea

In her cold bed by the Black Sea's shore

the niece of Circe stirred and felt

her fate, rushing over the wine-red waves.

She slept no more.

The world was still wet in its placental caul

new and vast as the unbordered sky

when she its deep daughter dressed herself

and came to the hall.

The Thief of the Fleece stood proud as the sun

all sweet smiles in a home she must leave

as Eros bid. Her eyes blinked once

and so it was done.

All that tale of love and death

of blood and flight, that was yet to come 
took form there then behind her eyes 

in a final breath.

She beat for him the killing ox,

the drake's quickened teeth. The dragon itself

she charmed  to sleep so the Fleece rode to Greece

between the oar-locks.

They sailed in a darkness rigid and blue,

flickered by death. She cast her spells,

she learned to kill, to make him king

for a year or two.

She poisoned, scried, and hexed to shore,

bore two strong sons to the Argonaut thief,

knowing he’d leave her as thieves always do  

for a princess whore.

The weapon children she drew from their sheath,

the boys he loved and left behind. 
Their blood was hers as it dripped from the knife. 
Their hair lay soft

as a golden fleece.

originally posted May 2011 at one Stop Poetry

 

 

reposted for Friday Picture Prompt at Real Toads 

No time this weekend for anything fresh, but I couldn't let that picture pass by and it really reminded me of this poem, rather a quintessential anti-fairy tale, so apologies to anyone who's already read it; I did revise it slightly.

Medea

For those who might feel the tale below is too dismal for this day, here is also a triolet lullaby:

Medea’s Cradlesong

So sleep my babes, and dry your  eyes

for yesterday’s gone and tomorrow’s not here

you’ll dream of frogs and honey pies

so sleep my babes and dry your eyes

just hear the bird that sings as it flies

I promise to keep you safe from all fear

so sleep my babes and dry your eyes
for yesterday’s gone and tomorrow’s not here.

Medea

In her cold bed by the Black Sea's shore

the niece of Circe stirred and felt

her fate, rushing over the wine-red waves.

She slept no more.

The world was still wet in its placental caul

new and vast as the unbordered sky

when she its deep daughter dressed herself

and came to the hall.

The Thief of the Fleece stood proud as the sun

all sweet smiles in a home she must leave

as Eros bid. Her eyes blinked once

and so it was done.

All that tale of love and death

of blood and flight,that was yet to come 
took form there then behind her eyes 

in a final breath.

She beat for him the killing ox,

the drake's quickened teeth. The dragon itself

she charmed  to sleep so the Fleece rode to Greece

between the oar-locks.

They sailed in a darkness rigid and blue,

flickered by death. She cast her spells,

she learned to kill, to make him king

for a year or two.

She poisoned, hexed, foresaw, fought to shore,

bore two strong sons to the Argonaut thief,

knowing he’d leave her as thieves always do  

for a princess whore.

The weapon children she drew from their sheath,

the boys he loved and left behind. 
Their blood was hers as it dripped from the knife. 
Their hair lay soft

as a golden fleece.

May 2011

Posted for One Shoot Sunday at the inimitable OneStopPoetry

Image: Jason and Medea, by John William Waterhouse, 1907

courtesy wikimedia commons