Tag: poetry

maelinoe:

Dearest Mother,

Oh Mother, have you forgotten me?

Do not let the smell of myrrh deceive you, because I have love dripping from my fingers. Dearest Mother, I am not the cursed maiden who devoured six seeds, I may have been a youth, but I am your daughter. You birthed the fierceness of summer, the beauty of a rose, and the cunning of a fox.

Mother, mother, do not weep for me! Oh mother do you not understand? Do you not see?

Perhaps they told our story wrong, lover. Let our laughs reach the ears of Gods and mortals both,

Do they not know that spring is wilderness? Oh lover, only you know these hands can start forest fires and birth fawns, my dark one, only you have seen the shadow in my smile.

Mother those stories are Blasphemy! How dare they reduce my flight to abduction! They do not know that I took the plunge for I could not stand to see to be the shadow of your beauty, Mother; I was no one when you trailed blushes with your bare feet. Mother, I could not fall for the deceit of the light.

Apollo and Hermes were mere boys who blinded women with the hypocrisy, whose tempers raged higher than Olympus. And I detest men who look at me like a conquest.

But him, Mother, he treats me well. After all, when does Death ever make bargains?

Do you really believe that I was more tempted by blood seeds? Mother, how naïve of you. Goddess of Harvest, you create fruits juicier that pomegranates. Oh, it was not a trickster’s greed but his callow smile and hesitant confessions that lured me in. I saw beauty in the dark, just the way you taught me to. I saw the sun in his eyes where the Mortals saw fear and hallow ashes where the Gods saw a monster. 

Let me tell you, hear me as I say,

the God of the Underworld did not abduct me.

You call me condemned but I have Hell on their knees.

It was his heart I feasted on with a grin,

It was his hands that showed me what real fertility is.

He rules with magnanimity and I with ferocious freedom.

I was his iron fist and he was my warm midnight.

Mother, cease your weeping! Do not send me flowers, for your daughter is not dead. No Mother, I killed him, I took his heart for my own when he dared to own me. I burned him down with my fairy tale giggle,

I stole his throne and he called me his Savior.

Do not invalidate me because my name means maiden.

Trust me, Mother; Hades hath no control over me.

 ********

Persephone’s letter to Demeter // Camillea

I just wanted to thank mythaelogy, aestreae and patrocluz for the information that their blogs provided me with, and also for their positive feedback! This one is dedicated to you! You guys are amazing ❤ If you love mythology and want to know more, do go check out their blogs!

 

There is no man in me, only lion.

I bare my teeth and you can see the startled wideness of your eyes in my gleaming canines.

But you surprise me, you do not back away.

You draw close, and with a finger that should tremble, you trace the curve and cut of my jaw.

I do not close my eyes when you press your lips to mine. But the pressure of your pomegranate mouth makes me want to.

My hands are twisted throughout your hair, echoing the pull of my whips against your flesh.

I thought you were frail, delicate like the flowers you wore braided in your hair.

I thought you would break beneath me, an ornamental looking glass.

But like the plants you coax from the stale earth

You bend.

You bend, but you do not break. And when again you spring up, petals torn but not wilted,

I bow my head.

And from it you take my obsidian crown.

It sits far better against your brow then it ever did mine.

How To Catch A Man*

thefrenemy:

Sit quietly with your legs crossed.

Your lips are red! (like rose, the fingers that pricked themselves, Le Creuset Cookware, raw meat)
Eyes round & black, smile slight & suspicious.
The points on your face meet sharp ends: eyebrows, those spider lashes, and the nose.

Better to smell you with, you say, like the wolf in the nightgown.
You are wearing something that shows off your thigh.

Smell of jasmine and something smoky or spicy or the old, musty furs in the attic.
Musk?
You shake your head.
No: Tuberose. Sea Salt. Sweat. Firewood. Down Pillows. Iron. Things you were born to.

Flash of teeth, “Did you go to school on the East Coast?”
Place a napkin on your lap, carve out hearts and eat with the smallest fork on the left.
Read Miss Manners and wipe the pages on the corners of your mouth.
Find a man, quickly, throwing the scraps to dogs!

You have begun to confuse love with power, and you find both delicious.

Look at him like you will take him to bed, like your mouth is full of poison, like you seek cauldrons..
The clock ticking inside of you is a bomb.

“Women are weak”—your teeth are made of bone, your skull comes with a crown.
Underneath the soft flesh lies mettle
Like the lion, like the mountain:
You cannot shrink.

“Be Seen and Not Heard,” you have become the heavy smoke that chokes in the fire.
You walk quiet streets, looking behind you each step until you become the fearless shadow.
You are the loudest you’ve ever been, voice like earthquake and siren and fierce laughter.

But o, what soft skin.

Arch your back where the wings might sprout.
Come closer,

*Eat Him Whole.

into the woods, down the path, to grandma’s house,
a young girl, alone,
walking the forest, light shining down, leaves on the ground,
blood on the bark, blood on her fingers, blood on her knife

crimson cloak weaving through the trees,
a hunter, stalking,
sharpening her blade, snarling a smile,
body of the wolf in her wake

through the woods, to grandma’s house,
an old woman, pleased,
a new huntress in the woods, to replace the old,
raised from the womb to thirst for blood

back home, back to deception,
a mother, content and ignorant,
loving the constructed illusion of her daughter,
unknowing the pelt of wolf on her back,
dead at red riding hood’s hands

young but not innocent || s.d  (via cleopeatra)

persephone sits in a courtroom
dress as green as summer trees
her lipstick red as blood
her golden crown sits on the table
and hermes stares her down

“did you eat the seeds of your own free will?”
a dagger fashioned into a question
hades flinches, front-row seat;
thanatos his defense attorney

demeter straightens in the audience
a flower blooms in her sun-browned hair
her curls a halo round her daughter’s face
and persephone smiles

“i did.”

shocked gasps in the courtroom
the jury whispers amongst themselves
deities, spirits, nymphs, and ghosts
all here to judge the king of hell

“why?”

persephone looks into her husband’s eyes
lord and lady, king and queen
she takes her crown and settles it
upon her summer curls

“centuries ago,” she says, every word
a titan-sized whisper, “i was only a girl.
look at me now.”

persephone stands in a courtroom
and hades smiles

for here, she is
a queen

olympus v. hades | m.j. | commission a poem

my dearest Helen, I was once like you, beautiful and young, full of life, but I caught the eye of the wrong man, if man is what you can call him, defiled in the temple of my patroness, my body and soul torn in front of a statue of my goddess as she looked on, silent.

you know as well as I
that beauty is its own curse.

when Athena construed my skin into scales, twisted my legs into a tail, and made little snakes tear through the skin from scalp, entangled in my curls,
it was not a curse;
it was a blessing for the unlucky and foolish, an apology for not saving me, and a promise that I would never be touched by a man again.

where my beauty had damned me,
it was in ugliness that I found strength, found a haven far away from rushing tides and smug gods with sand in their hair and shells around their necks.

you know as well as I
that beauty is its own curse.

you must’ve been surprised, my dear,
when you tried to mar your skin, sharp knife pressed against cheeks and thighs, to desecrate that same beauty that had tempted your mother’s own rapist, a divine swan with arms as powerful as thunder. did you cry when you watched your skin heal, your skin become flawless once more? did you grow frustrated when you still looked beautiful sniffling with red eyes?

it must’ve been a shock when you cut your long locks of gold, let the strands pool at your feet, only to wake up the next morning with hair even more shiny, glowing like the morning sun, and just as long?

your father left you one legacy: with everlasting beauty, the most beautiful, the kind of beautiful that stops lecherous kings and the brothers of kings and the brothers of brothers of kings in their tracks, the kind that makes them claim you even when you object. I know the pain and horror and disgust that you felt when your fate became the same as mine, as your mother’s, as countless women before you, forced into the bed—or on a temple floor—by a man you don’t want.

you know as well as I
that beauty is its own curse.

they will try to blame you. they will point fingers, tell you that you are the whore, worse than dirt, the temptress who burned down kingdoms, whose smile will lead men to their death.

do not believe them. it is too late for me; I have met my end, have had my body sliced, beheaded by your brother, but you, my dear, are still standing.

when they call you harlot, know that you are holy. it is the only good thing your father gave you, godly blood running through your veins.

when they say that you never suffered, were able to ease through life with your pretty face, know that you are a survivor.

you know as well as I
that beauty is its own curse.

medusa to helen /// h.m.m.

girl,
with an accent of blood
who speaks in foreign tongues
whose vowels are the sound of metal clashing.

warrior,
with fire in her veins
and armor beneath her skin
who crushes the earth beneath her feet.

immortal,
hair streaked with daggers
and iron filling her lungs
each breath invitingly toxic.

princess,
with lips made of glass
and a voice cut from steel
features born from thunder and battle.

heroine,
a grin made for war
and eyes flecked with ash
striding, powerful, into the arms of death.

perhaps she will be the one you follow into battle || [t.r.]

I asked him for it.
For the blood, for the rust,
for the sin.
I didn’t want the pearls other girls talked about,
or the fine marble of palaces,
or even the roses in the mouth of servants.
I wanted pomegranates—
I wanted darkness,
I wanted him.
So I grabbed my king and ran away
to a land of death,
where I reigned and people whispered
that I’d been dragged.
I’ll tell you I’ve changed. I’ll tell you,
the red on my lips isn’t wine.
I hope you’ve heard of horns,
but that isn’t half of it. Out of an entire kingdom
he kneels only to me,
calls me Queen, calls me Mercy.
Mama, Mama, I hope you get this.
Know the bed is warm and our hearts are cold,
know never have I been better
than when I am here.
Do not send flowers,
we’ll throw them in the river.
‘Flowers are for the dead’, ‘least that’s what
the mortals say.
I’ll come back when he bores me,
but Mama,
not today.

Daniella Michallen, “Persephone Speaks” (via ladystigmata)