Sacrifices
"Echo and Narcissus" by John William Waterhouse
Beyond the Age of Sacrifice
Just what God needs
One more victim . . .
—Tori Amos, “Crucify”
Narcissus sees only his own perfect reflection
everything that happens happens
outside
himself
I am done with sacrifices
I am done with sacrifices
Echo adores him from beside the brook
Cyrix whispers tunes he hears with no appreciation
Done with sacrifice . . .
with sacrifice . . .
sacrifices done . . .
Still the Cyrix plays to the fell wind
plays to a blue sky
plays to a still pool
deeply troubled
deeply troubled
with sacrifices
done
His brother the moon looks down
from cloud-city heights, aloof
views truth from a different perspective
weeps raindrops to flood the plains, bloat the brook
and dilute the perfect illusion of its perfect lies
hoping, hoping, hoping
to
s
w
a
y
Narcissus
Darkness encroaches, inimical savior
inimical judge
Brother moon in his sapphire temple
chases his Pleiad wife and her two sons
to havens, a poor father need-crazed to save
what can be saved
what can be saved?
what can be saved?
be saved?
saved?
How many nights must Moon surrender?
What is the end of sacrifice?
A time comes when a man
when a man must
a man must
must release yesterdays . . .
release yesterday’s sins
yesterday’s black venom
yesterdays’ brutal childhood
in that house of shame
in that house of violence
in that house of pain
and loathing
in that hell of voices raging
in that hell
that hell
Still the Cyrix plays to the fell wind
plays to a blue sky
plays to a still pool
deeply troubled
deeply troubled
with sacrifices
done
to trouble the moon
trouble the moon
trouble moon
moon trouble
sin & sacrifice
sacrifice
When comes the end of patience?
Patience is the ocean, whispers Moon
the ocean . . .
to wax
to wane
it is the nature and cycle
of all things
of all things
all things
Still Cyrix plays to the fell wind
plays to a blue sky
plays to a still pool
in a yellow minor key
golden minor
deeply troubled
deeply troubled
with sacrifices
done
Tonight’s tide leaves dry all the world’s beaches
Moon withholds his golden brilliance
Am I not beyond
the age of sacrifice?
beyond the age
sacrifice . . .
In drunken chuckle is heard
final echo of the Bacchanal—
final verse in voice of Orpheus:
Self-immolation ends, my friends
in ultimate catharsis
only in apotheosis
David M Pitchford
20 June 2008
Rev 8 December 2008
For Sio (mother2rah.wordpress.com)
Wine Seaside and Love and You
Perhaps a honeymoon, you and me, two
flutes and a bottle of wine. Beachfront, we
dance through this rented bungalow, the sea
swooshing, tide thrumming, moon smiling on true
love as we dance and kiss and toast our true
marriage. Hold this dream. In time, we will see
it to fruition, though it seems to be
merely a dream in these long days. We do
all we can, bide our time and struggle day
upon day to overcome hurdles high
as the surf, deep as the tide, blue as bay
pools and evening sky . . . Never question why,
but push on, trusting we will find someday
on a beach under full moon and clear sky.
David M Pitchford
10 June 2008
Look for our forthcoming book, After the Vows: Poems Between Lovers. Coming August 2008! 130+ sonnets in a dialogue of poems between two poets in love – and with feet on the ground.
Picture: “Flaming June” by Frederick Lord Leighton, 1895
Merlin’s Defeat
Nyneve, What but My Soul Suffices?
You, whom they call the Lady of the Lake,
Nyneve, my love, what shall I offer you
to appease your anger? Can it be true
you knew the Incubus, my father? Take
from me all I have, as though life did not rake
me over hellish coals . . . take then these blue
eyes, take this red heart! Take from me what few
days I boast as mine! But for Pity’s sake—
my soul, oh my soul, my soul, take mercy
on me and leave my immortal self, leave
this soul to wander wide post mortum. See!
Even Dagda grants surcease! Would you grieve
my kin? I forfeit my life’s legacy,
make me servant, but my soul give reprieve!
David M Pitchford
9 June 2008Image depicted: “The Beguiling of Merlin” by Edward Burne Jones, 1874
Lamia’s Tale
Courtesan’s Confession
You brought me here a slave, though I was
a noblewoman in my own land, a fairer land
crowned with mountains and without that stench,
constant reek of fish and brine. Whore for a king—
but far too wise, thus sold as courtesan, no common
whore, but whore nonetheless. And you wonder
at my audacity to despise both king and man? Fools
have no use for a woman of intelligence, a learnéd
whore who can carry conversation as well as water
and the faint heart of a political pedant.
Your physician with his golden needle
pierced the soft mechanism of my fertile
womb, and made me a eunuch whore . . . What then
did you think I would do? Robbed of my self,
robbed of immortality, I cried out
to my goddess, supplicating for life
and vengeance. She heard, oh yes, and cried loud
and long within me even as my own
tears stained the satin settee you thought might
please me. I was never pleased! Your wine-stench
and olive-slick skin repulsed me always!
I learned of your wife, mother of your child,
and listened at Symposium for fear
in your strange tales; naming myself Lamia,
I took the serpent’s way into your wife’s
rooms with poisons of my own. She suffered
little for your transgression—I took mercy
on other victims—but your infant son
shed his flesh for the dish I serve you this
night to celebrate your final birthday!
David M Pitchford
9 June 2008Picture: “The Lamia” by Herbert James Draper, 1909
This is sort of a mishmash of Greek mythology. It is based on the tales of Lamia, and mixed with similar tales of vengeance and such. Apparently, there were multiple archetypes of prostitutes in ancient Greece—one for pleasure only (pornae) both freelance and pimped, and one for pleasure and companionship (hetaera) more comparable to courtesans and often educated. Hope you enjoy the poem.
David M Pitchford
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