Friday, May 17, 2013

Aergia Will Rest

The sun is up and Horme is moving about.
She never rests.
"Zing, zing," her blade sings
on the sharpening stone.

The sun reflects her face in the killing steel.
A tight smile, she is to her task,
hilt to stinging tip,
grinding the length of the blade's edge
for battle this day.

Eager, Horme sees the battle as a dream -
     rehearsing her moves like
     virgins dancing for the gods.
     The field just over
     the shallow river is her temple.
     Men rush to meet her,

     beauty, they try to embrace her beauty
     - a long reach for them,
     lying on her green altar,
     sodden in their own blood.

I see the glint, the restlessness in her eye.
"Zing, zing," her blade sings
in the middle of the camp.

I recline in my chair,
sweat beads dot my face
in this pathetic season of war.

Horme pauses from her deadly study,
sneers at my canopy of shade,
calls out from five paces away
in a blood scorched jest,

"Aergia, will you not go out with me today?"

I turn away,
my answer rests in a thought
- less than a thought,
I bite down on a grape,
its redness fills my mouth.

Any word I may have considered
dies with no effort,
no escape from my throat.

I hold another grape to my eye,
examining it closely.

"Zing, zing," Horme's blade sings.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poets ~ Meeting the Bar: Volition & Velleity

In Greek mythology Horme embodies the spirit of intense action and preparation, especially in the furious moments leading up to the first clash of battle. Her opposite, the goddess Aergia, was quite lazy and ill-prepared. Such lovely contrasts the Greeks gave us. I felt these ancient spirits might suffice for Anna's request at dVerse Poets Pub: write a poem that incorporates the concepts of volition and velleity. This my attempt.

Tuesday, May 14, 2013


Photo credit: NASA
Light from
bright heaven eyes
winks in dark dome of night,
distant witness, our love's tender
©Eusebeia Philos 2013
A cinquain written for dVerse Poets ~ Open Link Night 96

Friday, May 10, 2013

Origins (1)

From early on, looking for an answer,
One single, clear explanation enthralled,
To ease an intellectual fracture

Of how this grayish world came to be called
The home of many, of various kind,
Together and apart, hopelessly walled

From an origin they're hoping to find.
Wandering in thought, as nomads by birth,
Was it a good God - or a watchmaker blind?

Upon their suspicion they base their worth.
Where are we from, the argument begins.
A battle for high ground, there is no mirth.

Each to his own thoughts, on this earth, it spins,
Until tribe against tribe - and no one wins.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

A Terza Rima Sonnet written for dVerse Poets ~ Form for All ~ Terza Rima

Saturday, May 4, 2013


Keeping my distance,
sitting calmly outside
in the dark
on the porch
picking at my nails
running fingers through my hair
fighting an urge to eat
when I heard again
through the window
the story,
our old myth
told in the small, stuffy kitchen
a few sitting around the wobbly table
others leaning against the dated wallpaper

Teta, wrinkled, small,
with a slight five-o-clock shadow
commanded the room
breathed the legend out
in wispy stutters

     ...Her voice merges with my thoughts,
     there is no difference
     but for my perspective
     having lived and heard the myth
     since my birth...

Our people, descended from the
Kingdom of Illyria
crossed the waters and their fears
not for freedom from oppression
   - no war so great the the world was invited
     to attend, had spewed its curse yet -
but to flee the small village
our own had named
as home for untold time,
myths being persuasive in
our culture

Volkodlak had returned

our ancient wolf-skinned man
left tufts of bristling hair in the pew
the vivid corpse eviscerated
in the ancient chapel
where crusaders
said their final prayers
before never coming back
from the land of Saracens...

Legend does not leave so much evidence
eh, Teta croaked

...wagons were loaded
deep rutted roads
led down the Adriatic coast
to harbors
with haste arranged

Mati was young, single
and scandalous
swollen with child
a pretty peasant
on a slow
undulating voyage
barely into her adventure
     Cries in muffled echoes of steerage
     ...I hear them

     This world brought my life and
     took hers -
     a perverse exchange...

Uniforms slid her sheet-less body
over the side
in the dark
her prayers
making the bigger splash
as the void
swallowed them whole

     ...Teta and Stric wrapped me,
     fitted a bonnet of sorts over my
     unusual thick bristled hair, and
     I came to this land as
     their own...

     (I dozed through this portion, having a violent, vivid dream)

Teta wound her words to an end as
she shook the last of the slivovice from
the bottle on to her tongue.

     It is late and there is no need for a full moon

     ...I stir,
     chuckling at the irony
     of my people bringing more than their culture
     to these shores.
     Unknowing and eager
     they brought the myth
     that never dies...

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Slovenes tell the tale of Volkodlak, a wolf-man who transforms to hunt at night. So, go ahead, take your chance. Even if you manage to kill one, it will resurrect as a vampire, this time with the ability to transform to a wolf-man at will. They don't die easily by natural causes, and live as immortals unless killed in the usual, special ways. It was said the wearing of a wolf skin could turn one into a Volkodlak. Sometimes one was born as a Volkodlak, with the evidence being a baby with a head of wolf hair.

Slovene Translations:
Teta = Aunt
Stric = Uncle
Mati = Mother
Slivovice = a strong plum brandy

See Mythical Creatures List: Volkodlak

The dVerse Poets Pub doors swing open, myths and legends walk in with Fred, and another Poetics session begins.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

No Room For Doubt

In the pious ghetto,
no room for
between the lines of
Pharisees mutter,
via emails of
and the little children
from the

©Eusebeia Philos 2013