Tag: Hellenism

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

Dionysus

The Royal Octopus

Thrice-born child, of fire and vine,
From mother’s ash and godly spine.
Twice from womb, once from a god,
He walks where mortal feet have trod.

Youngest crowned of Olympus’ throne,
Yet older truths are in his bone.
Before the thunder, spear or shell,
The grape had whispered myths to tell.

He comes in laughter, cloaked in song,
With dancers wild and fever strong.
A cup, a mask, a shattered chain,
He offers joy, he offers pain.

Yet not like those who rule with spite,
Dionysus forgives the night.
He knows the ache, the drunk, the lost,
The soul unmade, the heavy cost.

His rites are wild, his mercy deep,
He wakes the heart the gods let sleep.
Where others judge, he pours his wine
And says, “Yours flawed—but so are mine.”

So raise a glass beneath the stars,
To madness, healing, and old scars.
For though the world may bruise and bind,
Dionysus still lifts the mind.

2025 ©

Greek, Poetry

Hephaestus

The Royal Octopus

Born in flame, by Hera thrown,
A child unwanted, cast alone.
Yet from the coals where others burn,
He shaped a world, and made gods learn.

With hammer’s swing and furnace breath,
He carved out beauty, cheated death.
Though limping through Olympus’ halls,
His hands built thrones and temple walls.

No golden curls, no shining face,
But in his craft, unmatched in grace.
Armour, chains and jewelled delight,
He forged at day, he forged at night.

They laughed at him, then wore his gold,
Took what he made, and left him cold.
Even Aphrodite, paired by name,
Would seek another, stoke his shame.

Yet still he toils, beneath the stone,
With fire, sweat, and strength alone.
For while the gods throw spite or spark,
He builds the light that floods the dark.

2025 ©

Greek, Poetry

Artemis

The Royal Octopus

She walks where moonlight filters through,
In forests wet with silver dew.
A bow in hand, a breath held tight,
The huntress stalks the edge of night.

No man shall claim her untamed will,
Her heart beats soft, yet she can kill.
A virgin goddess, fierce and free,
She answers only to the trees.

With Apollo, twin and flame,
Two echoes born of Leto’s name.
One brings sun and one brings shade,
In mirrored paths their fates are laid.
Together, light and silence run—
The moon beside the golden sun.

But cross her once, and you’ll not stand—
She strikes with more than mortal hand.
Niobe dared to mock her line,
To boast of children, call divine
A womb that bore more than the two
Of Leto’s pain and labour too.

Artemis rose, her eyes like ice,
No mercy paid, no sacrifice.
With arrows swift, she laid them low,
While grief made Niobe turn to stone.

So praise the maid who roams the wild,
Untouched, unbroken, nature’s child.
Yet know, beneath her quiet grace,
The wrath of Artemis knows its place.

2025 ©

Greek, Poetry

Apollo

The Royal Octopus

He walks in gold, the morning’s flame,
A god of song, of truth, of name.
The lyre sings in measured grace,
Yet shadows linger on his face.

Beloved son of mighty Zeus,
A favoured light the skies let loose.
He guides the sun across the dome,
Yet rarely finds a heart to home.

For though he heals with gentle hand,
He calls disease across the land.
A prophet’s voice, so sharp, so clear—
And yet his touch can draw down fear.

The god of logic, light and law,
Still plays with fate’s unyielding draw.
He sees the future in the stars,
But cannot mend his lovers’ scars.

Hyacinth, the boy he mourned—
By discus’ kiss, by Zephyr torn.
Daphne, changed and sealed in tree,
To flee a love that would not be.
Coronis, flame that would betray,
And mother to his son’s decay.

All those he loves, the Fates undo,
As if the sun burns what it knew.
Immortal heart, yet always grieving,
A golden god who keeps on leaving.

He shines, he sings, he sets the sky,
But never asks the question—why?
For prophecy must play its part,
Even when it breaks his heart.

2025 ©

Greek, Poetry

Hermes

The Royal Octopus

Before he’d spoken, he had lied,
A newborn thief with gleaming stride.
At dawn he slipped from Maia’s den,
By dusk he’d tricked the world of men.

He stole Apollo’s sacred herd,
Then hummed a song, not said a word.
With tortoise shell and guts for strings,
He birthed the lyre that music sings.

A trickster’s grin, a gambler’s eyes,
He wears the wind and tells no lies—
Unless they suit his silver tongue,
The god of roads since he was young.

He flies between the gods and graves,
He knows the hearts of fools and knaves.
In markets, dreams, and shifting sand,
He deals out fate with sleight of hand.

No temple chains him to one place,
He runs through time, he wins each race.
The herald, thief, and newborn bard,
Forever fast, forever charred.

2025 ©

Greek, Poetry

Athena

The Royal Octopus

She sprang from thought, a sharpened cry,
In armour born beneath the sky.
No cradle rocked her into grace,
She came with spear and solemn face.

The owl, her herald, wise and keen,
She walks the line where thoughts convene.
In battle’s din or council’s breath,
She weaves a thread that outwits death.

For war, when guided by her hand,
Is strategy, not scorched command.
She teaches craft, she builds with care,
A city’s shield, a sculptor’s prayer.

Yet even minds of deepest reach
May fault when power eclipses teach.
Medusa knelt in sacred place—
Wronged and wept with shame on face.
Athena’s wrath, swift and unkind,
Made serpents of a tortured mind.

And Arachne, who wove her soul in thread,
Was cursed for truths the stories said.
The goddess, jealous, proud, and great,
Still stamped her mark with mortal fate.

So honour her for what she gives—
The will to fight, the strength that lives.
But never forget, for all her grace,
There’s shadow in her sculpted face.

She is the wisdom in the flame,
The justice blind, yet not the same.
And though her glory strikes the stars,
It leaves behind its share of scars.

© 2025

Greek, Poetry

Aphrodite

The Royal Octopus

From seafoam swell and salted light,
She rose at dawn, serene and white,
A pearl unprised from ocean’s hold,
With eyes like dusk and hair like gold.

No mother’s hands nor mortal womb,
She bloomed amid the surf’s perfume,
The waves made way, the winds knelt low,
And whispered hymns the gods would know.

The sparrows sang, the roses climbed,
Each blossom born in perfect time,
And from the shore the world stood still,
For beauty bends both fate and will.

She smiled, and hearts began to burn,
A glance, and empires failed to turn,
Her silence sweeter than a hymn,
Her wrath a tide that none could swim.

For though her touch is soft and sweet,
Beware the thorns beneath her feet,
For love, though dressed in silk and grace,
Can scorch the stars and strip their place.

So praise the foam, the bloom, the fire,
But do not scorn what gods desire.
For Aphrodite, fair and wild,
Is never just a pretty child.

© 2025

Greek, Poetry

Poseidon

The Royal Octopus

He does not knock, he does not ask,
He tears the shore like it’s a mask.
A crown of kelp, a beard of foam,
The sea’s unrest, the deep’s own home.

His voice is thunder born of waves,
A call that echoes into caves.
He stirs the tides with tempered wrath,
And drowns regret along his path.

One moment calm, a lull, a hush,
The next—a storming, vengeful crush.
Ships split like shells beneath his gaze,
While whirlpools dance in deathly praise.

The trident strikes, and coastlines break,
The earth will quake, the heavens shake.
He rides upon the seahorse tide,
A god no mortal dares to guide.

Yet when he weeps, the sky turns grey,
And dolphins circle where he lay.
A moody god, both grand and grim,
The ocean’s soul begins with him.

So tread with care where waters roll,
For Poseidon claims both fish and soul.

© 2025

Greek, Poetry

Hera

The Royal Octopus

They call her wrathful, cold, unkind,
A jealous heart, a vengeful mind.
But look again, beneath the crown—
A woman worn, a goddess bound.

She is the vow, the wedding flame,
The whispered prayer in lover’s name.
The guardian of bond and bride,
Yet left alone, denied her pride.

Zeus, the king, with roving eyes,
Seeks out the earth and splits the skies,
Lays with nymphs in secret glades,
While Hera watches love betray.

She cannot strike the thunder’s core,
So wrath becomes her shield of war.
Leto, Io, Semele—
Were they not touched unwillingly?

She curses them, but would you not,
If love was theft, and faith forgot?
If every glance your husband gave
Became another soul to save?

A crown of thorns disguised as gold,
A tale of loyalty untold.
She is not cruel without a cause,
She bleeds behind Olympus’ laws.

They say she struck with bitter fire—
Yet scorn was all she could acquire.
She bore the weight, she held the throne,
And faced the storm, and stood alone.

So judge her not for what she did,
But ask what you would do, if hid
Behind the veil of queen and wife
Was just a woman, wrecked by strife.

© 2025