Poem #78

Argument for matriarchy…

…[W]e are gifted, even in November
Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense
Of her nakedly worn magnificence
We forget cruelty and past betrayal,
Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.

from “The White Goddess”, by Robert Graves

I. Haunting by an Immortal Princess…

Exordiri: En personae of a weary warrior
at the spectacle of female cycle
and genesis of myth-haunt;
prisoner to a Sumerian dream and ritual…

By the gods, may Inanna absolve?
Madam Venus, upon celestial plane!
Having taste of mortal wine
fallen on an ailing field below her knees,
only then, shall she lie with men.
Heroic men made kings.

Vexed am I when I see them run into the spears headlong,
knowing it is not love of that fiendish courtesan,
nor lack of why she, them, had flung.
Oh, but now? Yes, like the settling of desert sands
once the wind lifts off the barren land,
is seen this hollow plague of greed!

From eight reflecting spider rays of said star shuns none
which conjures barns perennial with grain.
Pray I may die, before her virgin mind
crowns any throne again!

Oh, yes.
There have been many deaths.

II. A proem: evocation of money…

for Homer and Virgil

Exordiri: in the vexing voices
of dead Romans and dead Greeks
some tyrants taught us lesson this…

Emerge empress: malign Moneta, jezebel Juno,
garish guardian, animus angel, cancerous crone!

Evoke your evil from thine purse to most poisonous pit!

To the north pierce the peacock,
to the north wreck the weight,
to the north cut the cuckoo and the cow,
to the north anneal and melt most sinister silver

singing circle of currency down, down, down.

No need to labor in the tumultuous town.
Mighty muse, make me your champion;
the time to train hath come again.

In the sea, we remember passions past
each Penelope.

III. Argument for matriarchy…

for Micah, Tank, and Chase

The clouds churn into cumulus, cast away
from their royal abode, to somewhere hidden in the sky: clearing;
the monkey, the serpent, the wolf, the dolphin,
and an arrow let loose from Apollo to the air,
over the triple goddess, over the fool,

over the man whom isn’t there (whom is there
and so much more). Out the frame for a door,
into the azure celestial sea, behind the egg shell of our sphere,
behind the wide-world, the scarring shape sees
the universe is a sphere, the universe is a womb.

We would begin by closing the wound:
we would begin by holding the hell,
we would begin by seeing the sexuality of our sin,
where we would begin in the sound,
the mellow moan of sadness we had found.

Yet we would weep, why weep in the welcome wealth of warmth?
We wake from the belly in smiling spirits we would drink.
The aggressors: the mad-made males, the sour selves,
the machismo men, educated in jealous jokes,
educated in edifying each end of the equator

in her execution: in the execution of Venus.
We are so ill. Women help us. Why make a fuss
of muscle sucking on a stick, that  made men so zealous?
We forget, we forget the eyes of our mothers,
and may the world help us.

31 May 2015
Revised, 1 November 2016


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