Miscellaneous Verse by Areia Daphnaia
Goofy Hymns to the Immortals
(written one very silly night)
-To The Twelve-
I love you guys,
I think you're swell!
I seek you as a Frenchie
Would seek the Pimpernel.
You swingin' cat,
You're so divine!
(I sing this though
I don't drink wine.)
O, groovy chick,
Your hair's so pale,
And your head is covered
With a dark black veil.
But you look pretty good
In your sparkling gems
And I get the feeling
You and Hades are--friends!
Hey, Big A,
You're outta sight!
So, where have you planned
Your next big fight?
Let's all now praise
Our good friend 'Dite,
'For She goes off with Ares
To spend the nightie.
Those Who Call
(inspired by a lovely card I have)
Beneath Her place so high and mighty,
Along the shore lies Aphrodite,
And as She bathes in deep sea water,
She is, again, the ocean's daughter.
Above Her, magnets pull the tides
And silver-white Selene rides
And to her left the Huntress waxes
While waning Hekate, right, relaxes.
Below her, speeding through the waves,
The grand Earthshaker misbehaves.
But soon He calms His wild domain
And nymphs disperse like gentle rain.
For the Glory of Hera
(Note: This poem has a lot of eighteenth-century references, so beware!)
I must strive to be a better poetess,
And today I do so for the glory of Hera.
Herakles may be that by name, but not by nature.
He denies the peacock's eyes
While I, I take the white arm and
Place it gently between my hands.
So lovely and bejeweled, white arms intertwined
With ingenious snakes, golden scales and ruby eyes,
Mouths that open and snap shut. Circling around
The model of queenliness, they twinkle with knowledge.
Glorious rings, clinking bracelets, diadem, and magnificent
Necklace-- all the work of the Divine Smith, who now
Enjoys the true Mother-Love. His brother never will.
The poem shall not end there.
It does not give Her full credit.
No-one ever does,
And nothing is ever enough,
for the Granddaughter Goddess
Granddaughter of Gaia, the abundance of earth,
the warm heart often spent, often exhausted by men.
Regal always, the spirit of royalty,
The very dilution of an aristocrat.
She is wary of Kypris, the young coquette.
Flitting in Air, She laughs.
She walks beside Her in a delirium,
A precious Rococo fantasy.
Rustling peach silk brocades, ruffled petticoats
Collapsable panniers, frothy engengeantes,
Echelles and pearls and lace and love,
Little pretty shoes for flirting with nature.
How different a figure She makes beside the Baroque matron!
Velvet and voluptousness, richness and darkness.
Still beautiful, but a grave sarabande
And not a sprightly badinerie.
But Mother Hera still sparks the flame,
Of desire, of anger, of passion, of spirit.
The cool marble never hides the copper bursts.
The formalities ease Her countenance.
Some Select Haikus
The bloody ragings
Of You, the lonesome War God
Haunt me to the depths
The Maiden Huntress
Now hitches up Her chiton
And joins the dancing
Foam of the bright sea
Echoes in Her laughing eyes
And Her caresses.
Cold, gray stone Goddess
yet still crowned with daffodils
clean another dish
God on the mountain
Through the blooming pasture flies
Bringing nymphs His charms
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Tue Feb 2 16:01:18 EST 1999