By way of editorial comment: This poem of mine was published in Datura (2010), an anthology of Pagan poetry and essays by U.K.-based occult/esoterica powerhouse Scarlet Imprint.
If the Ides of March are past
whence comes this heaviness of heart?
He said it would be like this
in the silver half-light
the chariot steeds splashed across the waves
then I tumbled headlong into Lethe
No forgetfulness, though,
for She Who Never Slumbers Above
yet she caused the earth to slumber
her own body to be ravaged by winter’s withering
Golden poppy tresses
trembling with rage
as I found a new half-life for myself
the dead populace
and my beloved drank deeply
with my pomegranate juices
nectar more precious than wine, he said
cadaverous eye sockets
the mask of white loveliness
frozen onto my face like the folds of
the himation molded to my breasts
The pillars of this place
gleaming with the hope
of untold dreaming
the quiet denizens of this murk-world gape and shuffle towards me
The curve of the sickle
Warm lap of abundance
Fertile in fallowness
Gaze not with the imperium of the Judge
but as an unconquerable Protectress
He said I was bright
I was terrible
the maw that gapes
in this harsh landscape
And did not the tears I shed cascade also?
Mutely the stirring
lips smacking off hardened nipples
the statue of myself
a gleaming shape
I floated down the corridors of time
with finger upraised to my lips
But who was I warning?
I am an enigma even unto myself.
And what dreams did you have
in the wind that chilled you
lifting up my chiton to reveal my marble-white thighs
whether out of pleasure or distress
I could not say
could not fathom your lidless, cavernous gaze
Weren’t there serpents? Red and green?
I stood on a lowly bridge
and sang to them
they cocked their heads to one side
and strained to hear
in the crystal-clear water
the lamentation before it issued
from my mouth
I peppered my dirges with laughter.
How warily you watched me
from the waning moon
the labyrinth spiraled before me
abdication of my throne
for the unknown
You stirred to lap up my life-giving juices
for those seeds of yours I swallowed
The light so bright it burned
my old self away
in the fields of swaying narcissus
I wept as I thought of my youth
in the satyr-haunted shadows of cypress groves
Can I insert a finger into my own
hush the din of tumultuous tides?
When the sun drips low
the extent of understanding
When my moonblood swells
I drank the kykeon
I played the drum
I made an offering
I will float through silent passageways
with my index finger upraised to my lips
a warning, but to whom?
I am an enigma
even unto my Self.
Pomegranate flowers within me.