Phoebus: Four Encounters

Erin Claire Madden

 

Pythia

On the eve of the Oracle,
my hair tangled and limp,
my eyes only half open -
I listened for your voice among the heavens;
with the fumes,
like love, gliding up my bare legs
and stinging my nostrils.

One priest handed me a cup of
water and told me to drink.
Another brushed the hair off my sweaty face.
The night air was warm,
eager to reveal as, finally,
your voice poured into visions
that danced between my fingers.

The silence of your words
dug into my skull,
and I laughed, so overcome
and maddened with your
blinding power.

Even as my jaw dropped open
to allow heavy declarations
to fall into the priest's scrawlings,
I could feel your grip upon
my heart, urging it to beat a little faster.
I felt your fingers on the skin of my neck,
tensing rhythmically, just to make sure
that I could feel your strength.

I screamed as a faceless priest
pushed me from my perch
along the rift in the stone.
Your ravenous predictions laughed
while Delphi turned upside down
and my eyes closed with your lips,
enveloping your temple in darkness.

Lyre

Music falls from the fingers
of one who seems possessed.
Chords stream in a sudden madness
unknown to any man.
It struggles to the strings
in distant moans, betraying
a sun-god's evening nightmares.
Pleaing notes of momentary siblinghood
encompass the air and squeeze,
the musical juices flowing
in the quieted wind
like the victory blood of an ancient tree.
He sways as it takes him -
up and over himself to
another time where
he alone is God,
a being in justice,
rhythmically sound
beneath a forever glowing,
sunny sky.

 

 

Noon Heat

The sun glistens like liquid gold
and he is suddenly near,
that coltish amble making him seem
every bit the passionate young man.
But humanity is whitewashed
in his father's favor;
his mother happy enough to
bear her godly children,
whose gazes char the open sky.
He roams about,
brazenly meandering
in hope of finding some haphazard virgin to love,
some human to find grace in.
Enamored mercies appear in the pattern
of his touch...rectifying fingers tracing circles along
the skin of our mortal race,
even as their tender strokes
seem to slaughter children in their sleep.
He is one encompassed in light so brilliant
that it, itself, is hazy,
pausing momentarily in the sky
to stare down in wonder
at all that lies beneath him.

 

 

Daphne's Song
(Acid Apollo)

How could you be a god?
Your heat comes towards me,
searing the air and
eating my clothing;
ripping into the context of my skin.
Your whispered laughter sings across my lips,
burning chafed skin
and storing my pleas for later.
Blister into me, that liquid flame
that once stood for touch and healing,
surrendering your artist's hands
to the crush of my struggling weight.
I shudder to unfold you -
the mystery of your sun-deity strength
sweeping over moments
and almost placating my wild, tempted heart.
I can beat the ground
with my racing feet all day,
but still your scorching fingers
follow with ease. Your useless cries, themselves,
seem to tear at my maidenhood
as this constant struggle
drains me in more than one way.
At the water's edge,
your heat the blaze of apparent glory,
my father's name lights from
my trembling lips, begging
him to twist his pity into action.
My words unbind me from
your branding embrace.
Skin ripples into bark,
hair clings together until it is leaves,
and my arms lodge heavily with branch weight.
Tired legs stiffen -
the roots of my own being (once toes)
curl around earth
till they find the cold wetness
of my father's gentle grasp.
My small twigged fingers
are broken off to adorn your hallowed head.
As you move to kiss
the hardness of my animosity,
it is the last reminder of
what I once was -
that sweet sweet smell of smoldering flesh,
condensing on the clear glass
of your fire-carved face...