H.D.’s The Huntress

08 Tuesday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Illustration and art, Poetry

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1916, art, Artemis, H.D., Hilda Doolittle, poem, Poetry, reblog, Sea Garden, The Huntress, Xena reference

Come, blunt your spear with us,
our pace is hot
and our bare heels
in the heel-prints—
we stand tense—do you see—
are you already beaten
by the chase?
We lead the pace
for the wind on the hills,
the low hill is spattered
with loose earth—
our feet cut into the crust
as with spears.
We climbed the ploughed land,
dragged the seed from the clefts,
broke the clods with our heels,
whirled with a parched cry
into the woods:
Can you come,
can you come,
can you follow the hound trail,
can you trample the hot froth?
Spring up—sway forward—
follow the quickest one,
aye, though you leave the trail
and drop exhausted at our feet.

(1916)

pantariste’s labrys

08 Tuesday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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battle ax, Greek myth, labrys, old truths, Pantariste, poem, Poetry, sonnet, the problem with history

Every myth speaks, every way, every lost
path that wanders off to the last hill’s crest
must, at last, speak. It was there, as I crossed
the ridge, in pink clover, border pinks, blessed
lilies and sweet cress, that I found the ax.
The head, bronze tip, like the fingers that once
choked life, stuck up out of the greensward. Wax
pears hung nearby in witness. The grievance
we call history is that even when
I dig you up, dear ax, I will be told
that it was some man’s name, man’s arms, man’s face,
that bore you and that bores me once again.
Please, dear ax, speak. I listen for the old
truths found in these pink wind-tortured places.

][][

notes:

When Hercules’ soldiers fled from the Amazons’ attack Pantariste lead the chase after them. Two Greek foot soldiers turned to attack her but she killed them both (legend has it she broke the neck of one with her bare hands). She then threw her spear at Tiamides, who blocked it with his shield, but the force knocked him to the ground. Pantariste then beheaded Tiamides using her labrys, a double-headed ax.

dusk and the marpesian cliffs

08 Tuesday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Armenia, Capsian Gates, Caucasus Mountains, Ephesus, Greek myth, Marpesia, Marpesian Cliffs, poem, Poetry, sonnet

I have lived in the shadow of the Rocks
of Queen Marpesia, followed ruined
dusk, passing from ridge to ridge. Like beanstalks
and mad giants, men called you legend,
but they never followed where I followed;
from bud to bud—to apricot blossoms
in twilight gone faint—the petals tips glowed,
their pink hearts bending out. Once your war drums
beat here. Once you made brute northerners curse
the day that they headed south. Now cliff birds
are just shadows lost among the far cliffs.
I will never lose you; the universe
does not need grudging legends, myths and words
to see and name all your wisdom and gifts.

][][

notes:

Marpesia was an Amazon queen who ruled with her sister, Lampedo (“Burning Torch”), the city of Ephesus (Efes in Turkish), on the coast of Ionia, near present-day Selcuk. Greek myth states her building a series of mountain cities hidden within the Caucasus Mountains, which were referred to by the Greeks as the Rocks of Queen Marpesia or the Marpesian Cliffs. The Caspian Gates, a legendary barrier supposedly built by Alexander the Great in the Caucasus to keep the barbarians of the north from invading the south is said to be a continuation of what the Amazonian queen started. Marpesia’s name means, “The Snatcher.”

my lykopis, my she-wolf

07 Monday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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amazons, archer, art, Lykopis, poem, Poetry, She-Wolf, sonnet

She-Wolf, slashed and torn. Mother of archers
letting loose the great arrow heads as you
backed your way up the temple steps. Fingers
drew the iron bow string back and men, who,
moments ago mocked you, now lay shattered
in the wind; pomegranate’s blood pooling
by their heads. Lykopis, there is no word
to help me find your grave. Even crafting
arrow heads is a lost art, nothing glints
like flint taken from a bright stone. She-Wolf,
even as you stood by the temple’s gate
and struck down Theseus, Athens’ cruel prince,
I lost you—-I love you—-I need no proof.
I burn for you—-beyond faith—-beyond hate.

][][

note:

Lykopis was an Amazon archer who fought under Andromache. Her name means, “She-Wolf.”

at the temple of eurybe

06 Sunday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Auntie Walking Death, Celano, Eurybe, female warrior, Greek myth, Phoebe, poem, Poetry, sonnet, taekwondo

Is your shrine a shelter for girls to train
in the craft of war? have you sent mothers
in bronze to battle? Are the names of slain
sisters, etched in stone, preserved? Warriors
like my aunt, whom they once called Walking Death,
followed you; forgive me for presuming.
I have followed you, too, felt the sword’s breath
arch down upon my bowed neck, felt the sting,
great, fierce, strong—you are hand-swung—of others
who have perished. Celano and Phoebe
fell by your side. Their names are forgotten.
Soon mine will be too. I’ll be no sister’s
pride, no walking death’s child. I am sorry.
My aunts are dead. My mothers have fallen.

][][

note:

In Greek myth Eurybe was an Amazon who was a master with a spear, fighting with her shield-guards, Phoebe and Celano. Unfortunately, all three were killed by Hercules, when their spears broke against the lion’s skin from his 1st Labor. Legend has it that they were all killed with a single sword stroke. Her name means “Grand Strength.”

martial gifts

06 Sunday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Feminism, Poetry, sonnet

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Aello, amazonomachy, Bremusa, Greek myth, martial gift, poem, Poetry, sonnet, woman warrior

The men fled to the coast with their meager
flocks. We had cut them off from the marshes
and mud of their homes; springing down from fir
hills and scrub oak tangles, carrying axes
and cow-hide shields. Bremusa and Aello
led us. The men had worshiped swamp phalli
and called warrior women a hollow
myth, our Amazonomachy a lie.
So we came down; cleft in the hills, the slope
between tree and tree. We called, O be swift,
drove them from their waddled huts and cast down
their gods, creatures of leaf-mold and earth. What hope
was there against those blessed with martial gifts
except to flee down to the coast and drown?

][][

notes:

In Greek mythology, Amazonomachy was the portrayal of the battle between the Greeks and the Amazons. Many of the stories and legends portrayed were that of Hercules’ 9th Labor, which was stealing the girdle from Queen Hippolyta; as well as Theseus’ later rape and kidnapping of Hippolyta. Another famous myth is that of Achilles’ battle against Queen Penthesilea during the Trojan war.

Aello was one of Hippolyte’s body guards. She was the first to attack Hercules when he came for her queen’s girdle. Unfortunately, Hercules wore the lion skin he had acquired during his 1st Labor, making him untouchable. Aello was thus killed by Hercules. Her name means “Mother Whirlwind.”

Bremusa was an Amazon who was one of Queen Penthesilea’s twelve companions at Troy, where she fell in battle. Her name means “Raging Female.”

andromache’s bronze leaf

06 Sunday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Amazon queen, ancient sword, Andromache, bronze leaf, Homer, poem, Poetry, sonnet

Queen, harsh queen, fighter of men, you are marred
with cracks in your blade, meager blade. No son
of man swung you. More precious than the scarred
dreams of Homer— you have been forgotten
in the earth. Stunted, bronze leaf, you were flung
down on the field, trampled, lost. For how long
have you slept? What did you dream when your young
mistress held you up? Sing to me the songs
that her war priestesses sang about you;
songs that could slice open the south and north
winds. The love that poets have for war’s grief
have not been honored the way that you, who slew
Athens’ king, have. What poppies can bring forth
such blood lust as Andromache’s bronze leaf?

][][

note:

Andromache was an Amazon queen who fought in the Greek myth, The Battle of Attic. Her name means, “Man Fighter.”

quartz and tin and star dust

05 Saturday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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art, Babieca, El Cid, poem, Poetry, quartz, seraphim, sonnet, star dust, tin

Seraphs stalk us, sleek and hungry, sublime.
From our loneliness they cut rainstorms out
of our shadows. Blood scent becomes nighttime,
we are dusk’s bad weather. With tusk, with snout,
with sneer they hunt, the burning ones, bastards.
From our loneliness a stone bridge is built
for them to cross. They burned down our orchards,
slaughtered all our wooly-down lambs and slit
the throat of Babieca, El Cid’s white horse
from green Saragossa, blue wind, red sky.
From our loneliness they shall mine quartz
and tin and star dust and craft a blade, source
of their will—-for this is how we shall die;
honed by the moon, they shall cut out our hearts.

all erotic rebels

05 Saturday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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don't curse love, erotic rebels, holy sex, poem, Poetry, power of grief, sonnet

Don’t, they say. It’s fantasy. They don’t want
to know, they say. It’s dreams where everyone
suffers from plastic, Victoria’s gaunt
secret and sex is hot simplex-free fun.
Honey, they’d never let you in our hell.
Salvation for me ain’t no damn haven
where the saved are all erotic rebels;
always wet, always hard, always molten
fucking. Because when love fills you with grief
that can’t be consoled they say don’t. Their dream
demands that everything be mind-blowing
for minds that never are. Here’s my belief
that there is an end to hell. Don’t blaspheme
holy sex, don’t curse love, don’t damn dreaming.

roots

04 Friday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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bisexuality, brothers, Camp humor, fathers, grandfathers, Oscar Wilde, poem, Poetry, roots, sonnet, Stonewall

“Then,” my grandfathers wrote, sweet, sweet men, “I
wiped my/ 9 year old ass I was/ bloody
copiously. ‘Congratulations,’ Sly
said, ‘you’re/ a man.’” That was what poetry
was like back then: lists of fucks. Oscar Wilde,
save us. And he tried. My fathers, sweet, sweet
men, heard him. Stonewall, being the grandchild
of the divine, brought forth Camp and the Beats
and cute men in natty dread suits. But once
I came to be the plague had destroyed fuck
all. I was raised by their ghosts so I walk
alone. I love ghosts, their sweet, sweet essence,
but one love is not enough. “It’s my luck,”
he said, “that I talk of both cunt and cock.”

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

H.D.’s The Huntress

pantariste’s labrys

dusk and the marpesian cliffs

my lykopis, my she-wolf

at the temple of eurybe

martial gifts

andromache’s bronze leaf

quartz and tin and star dust

all erotic rebels

roots