Dionysia

 

 

 

 

 

 Dionysia

 

 

In another century

I was a girl of a certain flavor

grown to twist and pruned to bear

a fruit never eaten, only pressed.

 

You were the satyr,

the goat-song in the convent, a

dovecote of vestals who cooed as you

taught them to break their glass vows.

 

At the bacchanal we all danced

indifferent to stares of the Keres. You stole

the god's thyrsos and wound it with lamb's ear,

soft and treacle sweet as your smile.

 

That cup that was

filled then to overflowing

is broken now, but too late, I think

for those who've already drunk.

 

 

 

 

November 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 posted for

The Sunday Muse

 

 and

earthweal's Open Link

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

thyrsos:  a staff or wand of fennel used in Hellenic ceremonies, espec. Dionysius ~wikipedia

Keres:  female death spirits who roamed freely during the yearly Athenian festival of  Anthestria .~wikipedia

 

 

 

 

 

Images: Wine glasses, author unknown, via Sunday Muse  Fair Use

Marble relief of a maenad and two satyrs in a Bacchic procession. AD 100, British Museum Public Domain

Carnival Night

Carnival Night

You come for me

always on carnival night

after the bark of the midway stills.

We're not meant for the light.

Our act is all torches

juggled in shadows fooling

to the foolish, invisible by day.

Day is for hunting

working the marks

big guns and high flyers

after the tigers, the drilling of oil

the milling of coin, the candy-coated crowds

 mice in the grain to be

 poisoned again.

We bring the doves 

we bring the flutter

and sigh of their unexpected

wings, dazzling soft rockets

that burst from our hands,

born for last grace escapes

from an unseen cage.

We are announced

when evening turns dark,

when all that's left of the sun

is a dead tiger in the sand,

and a high-wire hawk

tricking the sky

in a blind noon. 

~April 2017

posted for Kerry's Picture Painting









Optional Musical Accompaniment 

"In history, we've painted pictures grim
the devil knows we may feel that way again
the big wind blows, so the tall grass bends
but as for you, don't push too hard my friend.."

Images: Carnival Evening, 1885, and The Tiger Hunt, 1895, by Henri Rousseau

Public Domain via wikiart.org

The Whiteness of Doves, Part II

Child with a Dove~Marc Chagall

Part II.
Dove's Song

I was white

as doves in snow,

soft as their ruby coo to you

in the muffled morning of latter days

when the misty world

wore winter but we

glowed still

a coral lantern

at the heart.

You brought the blue

to me, the open sky, then
cold dissolve and clutch,

wound your kelpen legs
around me in riptide's ebb,

down to the drag of dead-sand

white washed wild,

dove among gulls, mazed,

too wet to fly.

But sun comes after storm

and feathers dry.

~April 2013 

This artwork may be protected by copyright. All copyright belongs to the copyright holders.

The Whiteness of Doves, Part I

A black bird with snow covered red hills~Georgia O'Keefe

The Whiteness of Doves

Part I

A Sonnet of sorts

Slippery on the branch, one white dove sleeps

near seven fog grey sisters' nodding beaks

while blackbirds gurgle, bubbling at her feet,

formation fly, knitting in stormcloud sweeps

a ruffled skirt that covers and uncovers

the chilblained ankles of winter's frozen lovers.

One white dove is fluttering like my heart.

 

By bending to the snow she stands apart.
She watches from her bright carnelian eyes

until the blackbirds call her and she flies.

The others never miss her white on white;

they only fuse and flap a scarf of fright

as Shadow passes endlessly above,

famished as the memory of love.

~April 2013

Part II will post tomorrow, in the spirit of a poem a day for April, as long as I can stand it.

Image may be under copyright. All copyright belongs to the copyright holders.