Tag: GreekMythology

Greek, Poetry

Medusa

The Royal Octopus

I once was a maiden, quiet and sweet,
With sunlight that danced at my mortal feet.
A girl of the earth, no goddess, no throne,
But beauty can curse when the gods make it known.

The sea god approached with a predator’s eye,
And none heard my pleading, or answered my cry.
Athena looked on with a heart turned to stone,
And punished the victim for crimes not her own.

She coiled my hair into serpents that hissed,
She turned every gaze to a fatal mist.
Banished, I wandered to caverns of shade,
And there in the darkness, my refuge was made.

My sisters stood firm, unbroken, unbowed,
They guarded my silence, they cursed the proud.
Their love was a beacon, a spark in my night,
Yet whispers of ‘monster’ soon shadowed that light.

Perseus came with a coward’s disguise,
With gifts from the gods and fear in his eyes.
He struck while I slumbered, no honour, no word,
And over my body, the heavens stirred.

They called him a hero, they praised him with song,
Yet none saw the evil, or named it as wrong.
For I was a girl, abused and betrayed,
A warning in marble, a myth they remade.

So call me a monster, but know I was true,
A victim of gods and the cruelty they brew.
And still my sisters, in sorrow, remain,
To mourn the sweet girl who died in her pain.

Perseus and the Gorgon, by Laurent Marqueste

2025 ©️

Greek, Poetry

Ares

The Royal Octopus

They curse his name in battle cries,
Where blood runs thick and thunder flies.
He rides where mortal fears ignite,
The flame that feeds on hate and fight.

A clash of steel, a roar, a scream,
He moves like smoke within a dream.
No prayers to him are made in peace,
But only when the swords release.

Yet courage, too, wears Ares’ face,
The heart that quickens in the chase,
The fearless soul that dares to stand
With shaking spear and trembling hand.

Though war is cruel, he is not blind—
He knows the cost that’s left behind.
And in the stillness, post-affray,
He weeps in silence, turned away.

But only she can reach him then,
Beyond the rage, beyond the men.
Aphrodite, soft and sure,
The balm no armour can endure.

She winds her arms around his form,
And in her kiss, he drops the storm.
For even war, with bloodstained hands,
May long for love that understands.

So name him god of wrath and flame,
Of broken limbs and fleeting fame.
But do not forget he leads the brave—
Not just to glory, but to grave.

© 2025

Greek, Poetry

The Twelve

The Royal Octopus

They reign above on thrones of light,
Each god a power, each gift a right.
Immortal hands that bless or break,
They give with love, or take for sake.

Zeus, the storm-king, fierce and proud,
Speaks justice loud, then veils in cloud.
He throws his lightning, cracks the sky,
Yet turns his gaze when mortals die.

And Hera, queen with steely grace,
Wears loyalty like veiled disgrace.
She guards the vows that gods betray,
And scorches all who lose their way.

Poseidon, brother, sea-born brute,
With trident raised and wrath acute.
He calms the tides with whispered prayer,
Then drowns the sailors unaware.

Demeter, robed in golden grain,
Will bless the soil or starve the plain.
She grieves her loss and makes us pay,
In withered field and cold decay.

Then Aphrodite, born from foam,
With lips that build or break a home.
She brings desire, she stirs the flame—
But love to her is just a game.

Yet Ares waits, a snarling cry,
Where blood and kisses meet and die.
They dance through war, they burn through peace,
And never let their hunger cease.

Athena, wisdom’s shining spear,
A patron fierce, a judge austere.
She guards the just, the brave, the bold—
Yet cursed the ones who broke the mould.

Hermes glides with wingèd feet,
A smiling thief, a guide, a cheat.
He speaks in riddles, sings in lies,
And barters truth in clever guise.

Hephaestus, bent with molten art,
Creates the thrones they tear apart.
He builds their splendour, bears their slight,
And sleeps alone, far from the light.

Artemis of the silver bow,
Protects the wild and strikes her foe.
She walks the woods, untouched, unseen,
A huntress cloaked in starlit sheen.

Her brother, bright Apollo’s flame,
Plays golden notes in glory’s name.
He heals, he blinds, he brings the sun—
But always burns when day is done.

And Dionysus, last and young,
With ivy crown and wine-soaked tongue.
He laughs through tears, he breaks through walls,
And leads the mad in moonlit halls.

So praise them well, with fear and song—
Their wrath is swift, their grace is long.
But know this truth beneath your breath:
The gods bring wonder… and your death.

© 2025