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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: poem

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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Tags

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

quartz and tin and star dust 1

quartz and tin and star dust 2

quartz and tin and star dust 3

quartz and tin and star dust 4

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.”

the way love dogs bark

03 Thursday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Feminism, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

blood sisters, huntress, love dogs, poem, Poetry, rites of passage, sonnet, waiting for Lilith

It’d been a night without words she hunted
in the dark gazed at the stars stared into
the flames she turned the spit among her blood
sisters who were now her companions, who
had been her rivals: girls’ blood, bloody souls.
Now the beast had been driven from hiding
and its fat sizzled and sparked in the coals
the way love dogs bark. One girl lay bleeding
near by, having stumbled during the hunt.
Rites of passage must always end bloody.
Tonight she’d taste another’s mouth, cast doubt
aside, grip their hips feel the heat, the weight
of one different than her; nervous to see
if she could make another soul cry out.

in love with sword blades and poppy seeds

02 Wednesday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Amy Lowell, bisexuals, clit, fuck Ezra Pound, grandmother, honey slur, Il Duce, Modernism sucks, poem, Poetry, sonnet

Almond’s almond husk, the green husk, the black
and the mottled underclothes still called kink
on you, beloved. Your crevice, your mossback,
exposed to light one more time. Let me think,
Amy Lowell called it fingering the smooth
kernel, grandma for all I write. Yes, fuck
Ezra Pound and all those who try to soothe
over his fascist ways. They’re just bollocks,
dear Il Duce. My grandma would never
put up with that bullshit. She knew the worth
of an almond, a clit, Modernist swine
who made hate new. I call you honey slur,
Mama Amy. Men laughed at your wide girth,
but fuck them, I call you poet divine.

only human

02 Wednesday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

betrayal, get over it, only human, poem, Poetry, rant, scars, shame, sonnet, taboo

I.
These scars exist to show that I survived.
That the things that you prized I overcame.
Only those of us who have been deprived
their hearts know their weaknesses. And the shame
that you called puberty, you called hormones,
was a door that I walked through on my own.
I’m still changing. You said that flesh and bones
can’t be denied; yes, the pain that you’ve shown
me, the scars that you’ve cut into my skin,
I can’t deny. I’m still changing and you
fight with dirty tooth and claw, since you can’t
change—you’re only human. What you call sin
is faith. What I call love you call taboo
and what I call my prayer you call a rant.

II.
so sad too
bad get
over
it

asshole …

lowland: prelude of things to come

01 Tuesday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Uncategorized

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Tags

fingers sticky, hands, masturbation, poem, Poetry, small death, sonnet

I am in love with your hands, your fingers,
they have brought you more pleasure than I will
ever. Swift movements in the night where blur
and swish is called for, touch and stir, until
a coast of flesh, repeated broken beat
your chants, your prayers, bombastic solitude
when no one else would have you. Your discreet
pleasure, because it always is. Prelude
of things to come – like you. Show me your hands,
let me praise what you do effortlessly.
Grasped at length stroked, stroked – liquid gasp, your breath
in twos, threes, fours. Downs. Down in your lowlands,
where no one goes, I call that mystery.
Show me how you pray. Show me your small death.

war queen

01 Tuesday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Uncategorized

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Tags

alea iacta est, crossing the rubicon, Jezebel love, Julius Caesar, Orpheus was my godfather, poem, Poetry, shy girl, sonnet, war queen

 

Come, find me: others might have promised you
love but I’ll be the one who goes to hell
to win back your soul. Julius Caesar, who
crossed the Rubicon, loved a jezebel,
a war queen, a shy girl, promised as such
— “alea iacta est” — now the die is cast.
This is a promise I’m staking so much
on. War queen, Jezebel, Love: Hell is vast
and I am small, but I will go looking
for you. Orpheus taught me where to go.
I can fill the gods with tears. Our dreamland,
even our dreams, knows this song. I’m singing
you back, love. What is love to a shadow?
I’ll show you when I steal you from death’s land.

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