Welcoem to posts!!
in the future - u will be able to do some more stuff here,,,!! like pat catgirl- i mean um yeah... for now u can only see others's posts :c
Demeter.
By Madison Julius Cawein
Demeter sad! the wells of sorrow lay
Eternal gushing in thy lonely path.
Methinks I see her now - an awful shape
Tall o'er a dragon team in frenzied search
From Argive plains unto the jeweled shores
Of the remotest Ind, where Usha's hand
Tinged her grief-cloven brow with kindly touch,
And Savitar wheeled genial thro' the skies
O'er palmy regions of the faneless Brahm.
In melancholy search I see her roam
O'er the steep peaks of Himalayas keen
With the unmellowed frosts of Boreal storms,
Then back again with that wild mother woe
Writ in the anguished fire of her eyes, -
Back where old Atlas groans 'neath weight of worlds,
And the Cimmerian twilight glooms the soul.
Deep was her sleep in Persia's haunted vales,
Where many a languid Philomela moaned
The bursting sorrow of a bursting soul.
I see her nigh Ionia's swelling seas
Cull from the sands a labyrinthine shell,
And hark the mystery of its eery voice
Float from the hollow windings of its curl,
Then cast it far into the weedy sea
To view the salt-spray flash, like one soft plume
Dropped from the wings of Eros, 'gainst the flame
Of Helios' car down-sloping toward his bath.
I see her beg a coral flute of red
From a tailed Triton; and on Ithakan rocks
High seated at the starry death of day,
When Selene rose from off her salty couch
To smile a glory on her face of sorrow,
Pipe forth sad airs that made the Sirens weep
In their green caves beneath the sodden sands,
And hoar Poseidon clear his wrinkled front
And still his surgy clamors to a sigh.
This do I see, and more; ah! yes, far more:
I see her, 'mid the lonely groves of Crete,
The wild hinds fright from the o'ervaulted green
Of thickest boscage, tangling their close covert,
With horror of her torches and her wail,
"Persephone! Persephone!" till the pines
Of rugged Dicte shuddered thro' their cones,
And Echo shrieked down in her deepest chasms
A wild reply unto her wild complaint;
As wild as when she voiced those maidens' woe,
Athenian tribute to stern Minos, king,
When coiling grim the Minotaur they saw
Far in his endless labyrinth of stone.
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The Law
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
The sun may be clouded, yet ever the sun
Will sweep on its course till the cycle is run.
And when into chaos the systems are hurled,
Again shall the Builder reshape a new world.
Your path may be clouded, uncertain your goal;
Move on, for the orbit is fixed for your soul.
And though it may lead into darkness of night,
The torch of the Builder shall give it new light.
You were, and you will be: know this while you are.
Your spirit has travelled both long and afar.
It came from the Source, to the Source it returns;
The spark that was lighted, eternally burns.
It slept in the jewel, it leaped in the wave,
It roamed in the forest, it rose in the grave,
It took on strange garbs for long aeons of years,
And now in the soul of yourself it appears.
From body to body your spirit speeds on;
It seeks a new form when the old one is gone;
And the form that it finds is the fabric you wrought
On the loom of the mind, with the fibre of thought.
As dew is drawn upward, in rain to descend,
Your thoughts drift away and in destiny blend.
You cannot escape them; or petty, or great,
Or evil, or noble, they fashion your fate.
Somewhere on some planet, sometime and somehow,
Your life will reflect all the thoughts of your now.
The law is unerring; no blood can atone;
The structure you rear you must live in alone.
From cycle to cycle, through time and through space,
Your lives with your longings will ever keep pace.
And all that you ask for, and all you desire,
Must come at your bidding, as flames out of fire.
Once list to that voice and all tumult is done,
Your life is the life of the Infinite One;
In the hurrying race you are conscious of pause,
With love for the purpose and love for the cause.
You are your own devil, you are your own God,
You fashioned the paths that your footsteps have trod,
And no one can save you from error or sin,
Until you shall hark to the Spirit within.
30 - 2
Selected epigrams from Meleager of Garada
A.P.5.143
The garland around the brow of Heliodora is withering
but she shines forth a garland of the garland
A.P.5.148
I declare that someday in stories sweet-speaking Heliodora
will conquer Graces themselves by her own graces.
A.P.5.155
Within my very heart the sweetly-speaking Heliodora
Eros himself has fashioned soul of soul.
A.P.5.163
O flower-nurtured bee, tell me why on Heliodora’s skin
you touch, and fly away from springtime buds?
Or are you then implying that she’s both sweet and hard-bourn,
sharp always to the heart, with Eros’ sting?
Yes, I think you said just this. Off, O lovers’ flirt, returning
march home: long past we knew your stale news.
A.P. 7.746
Tears to you even down through the deep earth, Heliodora,
I give, all my affection remnants, to Hades,
tears so drearily wept: much lamented on your burial mound
I pour fourth memory longing, memory friendly.
For piteous piteous you, still beloved in death of Meleager,
I cry out, empty grace to Acheron.
O grief, where is the desired child to me? Death has snatched her,
has snatched a blooming flower smudged with dust.
But you I beseech, Earth all nourishing, the most lamentable girl
gently to your bosom, mother, clasp with arms.
15 - 1
Ecstacy
Clark Ashton Smith
Blind with your softly fallen hair,
I turn me from the twilight air;
And, ah, the wordless tale of love
My lips upon your lips declare!
High stars are on the shadowy south—
Unseen, unknown: the urgent drouth
Of desolate years in one deep kiss
Would drain the sweetness of your mouth.
Our straining arms that clasp and close
Ache with an ecstasy that grows,
And passion in our secret veins,
Like burning amber, glows and glows.
This love is sweet to have and hold,
Better than sandalwood or gold,
After the barren, bitter loves,
The mad and mournful loves of old.
This love is fortunate and fair,
Behind its veil of fallen hair;
This love has soft and clinging arms,
And a kind bosom, warm and bare.
23 - 2
“Clio, giver of sweet gifts, sing the praises of the mistress of most fertile Sicily, Demeter, and of her violet-garlanded daughter, and of Hieron's swift horses, racers at Olympia;”
- Epinician Odes, Odes of Bacchylides, 3.1
“I, Clio, dwell by the laurelled tripods of Phoebus, the Muse of prophecy and history.”
- Greek Anthology, 9.505
“They were presented as women because the words for the virtues and for education happen to be feminine, and symbolise the fact that learning comes from staying at home and from stability. They associate and dance with each other to show that the virtues are inseparable from each other and cannot be unyoked. They spend time in particular in singing hymns and serving the gods, since it is a fundamental part of education to raise one’s gaze to the divine, and those who take it as their model for life ought to talk about it. In any case, ‘Kleio’ is one of the Muses because the educated obtain renown, and they themselves, along with others, celebrate them.”
- L. Annaeus Cornutus, Greek Theology, 15
24 - 0
Check out this incredible Satire of my Tarot by friend of the channel RAW-PATH. Lots of fun haha.
1 - 0
Wizard's Love (Latter manuscript version)
Clark Ashton Smith
O perfect love, unhoped-for, past despair!
I had not thought to find
Your face betwixt the terrene earth and air:
But deemed you lost in fabulous old lands
And rose-lit years to darkness long resigned.
O child, you cannot know
What magic and what miracles you bring
Between your dulcet breasts, your tender hands;
What lethal wound your balmy lips have healed;
What griefs are lulled to blissful slumbering
Cushioned upon your deep and fragrant hair;
What gall-black bitterness of long ago,
Within my bosom sealed,
Ebbs gradually as might some desert well
Under your body's heaven, warm and fair,
And the green suns of your vertumnal eyes.
O beauty wrought of rapture and surprise,
Too dear for heart to know or tongue to tell!
Now more and more you seem
Fantasy turned to flesh, incarnate dream.
Surely I called you with consummate spell
In desperate, forgotten wizardries,
With signs and sigils of dead goeties
And evocations born of blood and pain,
But deemed forever vain.
Surely you came to me of yore, among
The teeming specters amorous,
With faces veiled and splendid bosoms bare,
That turned my sleep to fever and delight
In ever-desolate years when love was young.
Or I, perchance,
Begot you on some golden succubus
That writhed beneath me through the Sabbat's night
In earlier lives forevowed to Satanry
And sorcerous dark romance.
For all your heart and flesh are sib to me,
And in my soul's profound,
Your face, an irrecoverable pearl,
Is ultimately drowned.
So thus, delicious girl!
Whether love's destiny be weal or woe,
I hold you now, and shall not let you go.
23 - 1
“I, Polymnia, am silent, but speak through the entrancing motions of my hands, conveying by my gestures a speaking silence.”
- Anonymous on the Muses, The Greek Anthology, 9.504
“Polymnia’ is virtue, which is greatly hymned; or rather perhaps, she hymns many, and hears everything that is hymned about our ancestors and after research from poems and other writings.”
- L. Annaeus Cornutus, Greek Theology, 17
28 - 3
Amor Aeternalis
Clark Ashton Smith
O Love, thou Judas of the martyred soul!
Thou pandar to the painted harlot, Life !
The rankest lies wherewith thy heart is rife
Too fulsomely illume thy lips' red scroll,
Whereon is writ the secret of our dole,
Of mortal woes immortalized by thee,
And wisdom, through thine olden perfidy,
Drawn back to life from some Lethean shoal.
Away! I know the weariness and fever
Kisses compounded of the world's old dust
With fire that feeds the seventh hell for ever!
The grave shall keep a gentler couch than thine,
Though round my heart the roots of nettles twine,
Wreathed in the ancient attitude of lust.
22 - 2
"If in Grecian dress he declaimed the Attic speech of fluent Menander [the writer of comedies], Thalia [muse of comedy] would have rejoiced and praised his accents, and in wanton mood have disordered his comely locks with a rosy garland."
- Statius, Silvae 2. 1. 114 ff (trans. Mozley)
“‘Thaleia’, because their life always flourishes – or because they also have the virtue of conviviality, and conduct themselves with wit and decorum at feasts.”
- L. Annaeus Cornutus, Greek Theology, 16
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