Thursday, February 16, 2012

A Plea to the Horae

Yes, it's a poem. It rhymes in four places! [Name that movie!] Well, actually a few more than four. Being sick in February moves me to write elegaic couplets. Ok, bad elegaic couplets but cut me some slack. Did I mention that I'm sick?


A Plea to the Horae

Hear me, you Horae, gamboling in your endless gyre,
While flesh-bound mortals churn through frozen mire.
Alcyone has returned from her solstice nest, tho’ fierce Boreas still holds sway
And daughter Chione’s cloak on the Cascades whitens our still-short day.
It is the time of the Black Horse and the Pale Green,
The corpse-colored flesh and the Nyx-cloaked, unseen
Rider gathering customers for Charon, endlessly plying his way
From shore to shore, ‘cross the Styx, for those with the pennies to pay.
Our gods seem more Norse than those soft Greco-Romans. We hail Ullr and Skadi
Here in Seattle, Gateway to the Pacific, soi-disant Emerald City.
Locked in this season’s gods’ and goddesses’ relentless embraces
Our stomachs cling to our backbones while living color runs from our faces.
Limos requires our worship and sacrifice and Alphito calls us her own.
Their stay with us is a conclusion foregone; it seems our destruction is sown.
And she snips and snips and snips again, like a longshoreman earning overtime.
Atropos is a busy girl now, clipping thread after thread, but not mine!
“Not mine!” I say, you damnable bitch! Not mine, not today, not tomorrow.
I reject you. I dismiss you. I cast you out. Find a demesne else to spread sorrow.
Sweet Horae!, I beg. I implore. I beseech. Please, heed this entreaty from me.
Speed the arrival of Flora and Chloris and fair Persephone.
Printemps! O sweet season, I could write you a song and sing it up high and down low.
The words might be poor and the scansion quite weak but the joy that it shared would just FLOW.
It would have a drumbeat you could feel down in Hell and a funky bass line that would match,
Guitar riffs to rattle the pillars of Earth, and some sweet synth. With Leslie sounds? Natch!
I could sit on the tramp on the front of old Gort with the wind in the jib tight above,
The horizon as empty as name-your-own-metaphor and the ocean as blue as true love.
O! to be on the beach with the ones that I love, my Ronnie, my MJ, my Chloe,
With the sand underfoot so squeaky and white that it looks much less sandy than snowy.
Ah, but snowy is the spacetime that holds us close now, with Ullr and Skadi transcendent.
Horae, dear Horae, m’aider!, if you will and bring us to Flora ascendant.
I call on you deities, present and past, and those yet to come, if I may.
Speed us to Springtime, and free us from Winter. For this boon, we poor mortals pray.
If you ignore us, we’ll put our heads down and just go do what we do.
We’ve done it forever and we’ll do it some more. And meanwhile, here’s a “FUCK YOU!”




Ronnie, MJ, and Chloe on the beach at Destin

No comments:

Post a Comment