Believing the Myths
“Sing in me, Muse,
and through me tell the story"
of you immortal Olympians
and your continued existence...
if you really do still exist.
I'm sure you do,
unless some new race of gods
defeated you as Zeus led you
to overcome the Titans.
You're immortal though,
so you must be out there,
lying on hidden cloud drifts
under a cool cerulean sky,
humming to ancient melodies
dancing off Apollo's harp.
To say Athena never granted wisdom
and wild Poseidon never thrashed foamy waves
across sailors' paths
would be admitting my G-d
never dried a path through the Red Sea
or descended in a fire-rimmed cloud
over a desert mountain.
After all, He only said,
“You shall have no
other gods before Me," not
“I am the only god."
Are you powerless now
without faithful followers -- your
marble shrines in once-mighty cities
now lying as buried ruins or
archaeological wonders of a time
and people long dead? Do you
regret your prized immortality,
the one thing that separated you
from us lowly mortals -- now
your curse -- doomed
to live forever in a void of uselessness
as we dismiss you
to the realm of fairy tale?
Or are your powers
strong as ever, as you
play with our world
and laugh at those who
call you myths?
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Gods or Monsters?
I know you’re out there somewhere,
lounging on lofty Mount Olympus,
sipping nectar from jeweled chalices,
fanned by sparkling fairy wings,
careless, now as always, abundant
pleasures only a wish away.
Not that life was ever not good for you,
hidden within the high clouds,
appearing to mortals only when you saw profit--
with nectar and ambrosia in abundance,
great feasts in ornate palaces
human eyes could not perceive.
But it must be better now—
you don’t even have to pretend
to care.
Though you didn’t really care
that much to begin with.
You had your loyalties
and prepared downfall
for the unfortunate enemies--
Patroclus, Hector, Odysseus--
who suffered for nothing
but your petty alliances.
Do you like your lives?
Unending, always with knowledge
of lives you ruined, pitiless.
Now nothing left but recreation—
you can’t even torment us,
control us,
because most of us believe
you don’t exist.
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Obsessions
The stories intrigued me—still do
tales of splendor, glorious Olympus,
but the hearts inside it black and cold.
Or is there more to you that I can’t comprehend?
Something fascinating,
electric currents through clouds,
meaning behind your pleasure,
still in control of this world even now,
some higher purpose.
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Home...
Cross the angry seas--
foamy-topped waves tossing
the ships like children,
forceful whirlpools surrounded
by rocky-toothed monsters--
through landscapes exotic and terrifying--
Calypso’s fairy island of immortality
and damning temptation,
the drug-induced dancing haze of the Lotus,
Circe’s human-like animals and sensual curls--
Odysseus’s only hope was home--
his journey made him rich,
but riches without home
mean nothing.
Though no vengeful god hinders
my path, nor does eyeless Cyclops
try to trap me,
the sea ahead churns,
and I hear the Greek hero’s
cries in my longing
for home.
But no Telemachus or Penelope
waits for me--like Aeneas
in his flight from burning Troy,
I must find or create
a new home,
led by the same gods,
with new names.
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Paths
Thunderbolts flash, shooting
from the god’s fingertips
through my soul’s fibers,
sparking unanswerable questions,
conflicting decisions.
Restlessness aches within me
as I hear their voices
contending, striving for
superiority--
Athena, with arms full of books,
admonishing wisdom,
“study.”
Apollo, strumming his golden lute,
softly singly to
my artistic heart,
“dream, create.”
Aphrodite, in her unearthly beauty,
begging me to give my
heart to someone else,
“love.”
Their voices jumble my thoughts,
compromises indecipherable.
If only...
if only...
I could meld them
into one.
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Appear to Me
I wish I could see you--
strong muscles beneath a loose white shirt,
long flowing hair, soft and shining,
leafy crown playing with stray strands,
golden jewels highlighting
your already shimmering skin--
look into your eyes of cold fire
(or maybe not so cold)--
flecks of gold dancing
in the blue and green plains--
feel your soft, burning fingers
against my human skin--
that energy seeping into my
mortal blood to preserve
the fire of inspiration.
I know you’re real--
but proof simplifies
belief.
You used to appear to human eyes.
How can I make such decisions
if I only feel your urgings,
the chains you have tied
around my heart
to pull in all
your conflicting
directions.
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I Wonder
Sometimes I don’t feel you at all--
the fiery prickles underneath my skin,
the flickering light-flashes
that creep in the corners of my vision--
disappear-- and I wonder,
like others,
if I’m crazy
because of my belief and these
sensations of proof.
I know part of me probably it,
but I also know the prickling,
the flashes, are real.
These words are that proof.
Maybe they prove your
existence as well.
Was I free to write this,
or am I too just
a player, a puppet,
while you enjoy
the fulfillment
of your plan?
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Condemnation
People would call me an idolater
if they knew the thoughts
behind all these
rambling words.
The words themselves--
with their radiant accusations,
sacrilegious musings--
condemn me
in the eyes
and hearts
of believers--
who profess love,
but close their
compassion
to anyone
who thinks
differently.
I do care-- even when
I say I don’t--
conformity comforts.
But I can’t ignore these thoughts--
the delicate, angel-hair whispers,
ever growing urgent--
Heavenly calls
from another Heaven
and so few paths
leading
to both.
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Darkness
Wandering again...
like Aeneas and Odysseus, alone
through unfamiliar lands,
frightening yet beautiful.
As they learned their destinies
among the dark, weeping shades
of the underworld,
I too must leave this world
to find something
that will calm
my restless
wandering.
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Jupiter Hymn
(Listening to Holst’s “The Planets”)
Something is happening.
I feel your presence,
a cloud surrounding me,
just veiling clarity.
I see your namesakes in the sky--
Mercury, Venus, Neptune--
Jupiter, master of the vast expanse
as you used to be
king of the gods,
you call me,
your eternally swirling storm
raging in my heart.
Something is there for me--
that I can’t find on Earth
where I don’t belong--
on one of your many
unexplored moons,
under that dust cloud,
or within the dancing winds
of your storm.
I want to dance
where no foot has tread,
my feet lifting to
the joyous music
within the rushing wind,
sing in air that’s never known voices,
harmonizing
cosmic sighs
and galactic melodies,
pray to the G-d I love,
but still believe
in the rest of you
without being condemned.
And if I make it
and find nothing,
at least I’ll have hoped
and believed
enough
to try.
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all poems (c)1999-2000 Ann Lesley Hamvas
