Friday, April 17, 2026

More Haunting Sappho Fragments

Careful sound-by-sound, word-by-word translation of the mysterious fragments yields more mystery.

Not even
One gleam I deem
Facing upon
Radiancy sun

That's to be
Poem wisdom

Per the none
From the future no time they come
Like you can.

---

Don't forget
Someone
I say
And later on
May mind us.

---

By eyes seen
What reply means

---

Scattering glass
Stays in the ribs
Madness
Snaps at shadows;
Tantrum
Of an unlocked tongue.

---

Neither me nor the bee gleans the honey.

---

Even sweeter than a clack-harp melody ...
More gold than gold even ...

---

Tis tongueless ...
O Lover of Song ...
Dawn swallow

---

Chickpeas in fields
Rayed with gold
Above the salt shore ...
Profuse they grow.

-----------------------------------------

56
οὐδ᾿ ἴαν δοκίμωμι προσίδοισαν φάος ἀλίω
ἔσσεσθαι σοφίαν πάρθενον εἰς οὐδένα πω χρόνον
τεαύταν

147
μνάσεσθαί τινά φαμι καὶ ὕστερον ἀμμέων

162
τίοισιν ὀφθάλμοισιν

158
σκιδναμὲνας ἐν στήθεσιν ὄργας
μαψυλάκαν γλῶσσαν πεφύλαχθαι

146
μήτε μοι μέλι μήτε μέλισσα

156
πόλυ πάκτιδος ἀδυμελεστέρα . . .
χρύσω χρυσοτέρα . . .

135
τίς δ᾿ ἄρα ... ὦ Πανδίονις ... Χελίδω

143
χρύσειοι δ' ἐρέβινθοι ἐπ' ἀϊόνων ἐφύοντο

Thursday, April 16, 2026

Sappho on Surrender

Some archaic ritual fragments that reveal some modern personal truths.

Can't will
Can't fill
Entirely

Though I would
Flash my lampmask back
The color of my skin has changed.

----

I speak to you from dream, Kyprogenia.

----

All that I've
Explained,
Glossing
Mythologies,
Can be
Unspoken.

-------------------------------

4
 ]θ̣ε θῦμον
  ]μι πάμπαν
]δύναμαι,
  ]
  ]ας κεν ἦ μοι
  ]ς̣ ἀντιλάμπην
    ]λ̣ον πρόσωπον
]
    ]γ̣χροΐσθεις
           ]’[ . . ]ρος̣

134
ζά ⟨τ’⟩ ἐλεξάμαν ὄναρ, Κυπρογένηα

18
⟨π⟩άν κεδ[
⟨ἐ⟩ννέπην[
γλῶσσα μ[
μυθολογῆ̣[σαι,
κἆνδρι .[
μεσδον[

Sappho 22

Unlike Sappho 3's private meditation, this fragment places her within a ritual circle, in a song for public performance on the right ordering of voice, desire and presence under the gaze of Aphrodite.

Blah ...
Performance ...
Test the Assembly
This time

In the open.
If you don't, the cold
Baring ache
Now ...

Sing, I ask you, Abanthis, of Gongyla,
Pick at the strings, pluck her echo of absence
Circuiting the air,

The loved one, bearing the weight of her return,
Who stunned you when you saw her into trembling, 
Which brought me succor

For I've been tagged with lacking the sanctified
Desire before, O Cyprus born
To whom I pray
That word, that sound
I die for.

---------------------------------------------------

]βλα.[
]εργον, . . λ᾿ α . . [
]ν ῤέθος δοκιμ̣[
]ησθαι

]ν αὐάδην χ . [
αἰ δ]ὲ μή, χείμων[
].οισαναλγεα . [
]δε

.]. ε .[ …. ] . [ … κ]έλομαι σ᾿ ἀ̣[είδην
Γο]γγύλαν̣ [Ἄβ]α̣νθι λαβοισαν ἀ . [
πᾶ[κτιν, ἆς̣ σε δηὖτε πόθος τ̣ . [
ἀμφιπόταται

τὰν κάλαν· ἀ γὰρ κατάγωγις αὔτ̣α[ς σ᾿
ἐπτόαισ᾿ ἴδοισαν, ἐγὼ δὲ χαίρω·
καὶ γαρ αὔτ̣α δήπο[τ᾿] ἐμέμφ[ετ᾿ ἄγνα
Κ]υπρογέν[ηα

ὠ̣ς ἄραμα̣[ι
τοῦτο τὦ[πος
β]όλλομα̣[ι

Wednesday, April 15, 2026

Sappho 3

This obscure Sappho fragment is a strikingly modern lyric on a timely topic, fame.

Would give
Reknown --
Elite elevation --
To my one.

Hubris 
Swells me,
Might wound you,
Knowing I can't be opened,
Not able to be joined,

And most ruinous:
My breath is blessed.

-------------------------------------------

3
]δώσην
κλ]ύτων μέντ’ ἐπ[
κ]άλων κἄσλων, σ̣[
τοὶς φί]λοις, λύπης τέ μ[ε
]μ’ ὄνειδος
]οιδήσαις . ἐπιτ . [
].αν, ἄσαιο. τὸ γὰρ ν̣[όημα
τὦ]μον, οὐκ οὔτω μ̣[
]διάκηται,
]μη̣δ̣[ ] . αζε, [
]χις, συνίημ[ι
. ης κακότατο[ς
]μεν
]ν ἀτέραις με[
]η φρένας, εὔ[
]α̣τοις μάκα[ρας

Tuesday, April 14, 2026

Sappho Cymatics

Certain Sappho fragments are sound evocations for mystery school ritual practices. Here are a few of the chants. As background, Khaireto = Graces; Mousai = Muses; Aryah = Hera; Atreidae = Agamemnon + Menelaus; Ilion = Troy; Thyone's son = Dionysus; Sellana = moon. 

Call to the Initiate 
Lithely we braid the Khaireto,
Enkindle the glow of Mousai

Invocation to the Gatekeeper
Enlightened one Aryah Lady of Power
Reveal yourself so we may receive your form.
By all Atreidae kings enjoined
And Zeus, your immutable twin.

Endlessly sainted from the pull of hard breath,
Champions of Ilion on open seas --
Futile was their voyage to the rightful ports;
Without you, couldn't.

I place you and Zeus in front of my presence
And Thyone's son, high-volting with desire.
Intervene for me if I have appeased you
In the ancient way.

Now set apart ... The eligible ...
Encircle ...
Hold ...
Arrive.

Commencement
They bonded with Sellana's full load of light
And rang in silver stillness round its altar.

-------------------------------------------------

128
 δεῦτέ νυν ἄβραι Χάριτες καλλίκομοί τε Μοῖσαι

17
πλάσιον δή μ’ [εὐχομέναι φανείη,
πότνι’ Ἦρα, σὰ χ[αρίεσσα μόρφα,
τὰν ἀράταν Ἀτ[ρεΐδαι κλῆ-
τοι βασίληες·
ἐκτελέσσαντες μ[άλα πόλλ’ ἄεθλα,
πρῶτα μὲν περ Ἴ̣[λιον ἔν τε πόντῳ,
τυίδ’ ἀπορμάθεν[τες ὄδον περαίνην
οὐκ ἐδύναντο,
πρὶν σὲ καὶ Δί’ ἀντ[ίαον κάλεσσαι
καὶ Θυώνας ἰμε̣[ρόεντα παῖδα·
νῦν δὲ κ[ἄμοι πραϋμένης ἄρηξον
κὰτ τὸ πάλ̣[αιον.
ἄγνα καὶ κά̣[λα
π]αρθ[εν
ἀ]μφι.[
[      ]
[      ]
[      ]
ἔμμενα̣[ι
[ἶ]ρ̣’ ἀπίκε[σθαι.

154
πλήρης μὲν ἐφαίνετ’ ἀ σελάννα
αἰ δ’ ὠς περὶ βῶμον ἐστάθησαν

Sunday, April 12, 2026

The Imperative to Magnetize

Left my taxes at the tack store
With my purple eyeglasses --
Another day older, I suppose.

There's been so much of late to contemplate,
Since they dropped the dime in, on how
The world was run, in the entrails for the oracle

Of Orange Lakes. The sign says "Western Hound." 
A pair of crows dive bomb a Dorito
Then tell us there's a stronger wave coming

At the exact same moment that it hits,
Like a sudden vista of once-distant mountains
Getting as real as you let yourself believe in them

At your window. For now, a cloud is resting
Inside the mountain, not giving this time but allowing,
Gathering thoughts before it moves on.

The poplars ring down the valleys with breath,
Carrying what is felt within the receiving stream
That outlasts all that has ever happened 

Down every level, to a sea thankful for any river.
The clouds are so purple it must mean something
But the sun tells us all we need to know:

How much gold is in the trees,
What language the baby is speaking,
How there's redemption in every abandoned building. 

Saturday, April 11, 2026

Sidelong Glance at the Earth Mother

Say a little prayer for the adventure we concocted
For ourselves on the fly. The tragedy unfolded
On golden days, with calla lilies and oxygen tanks,
Expecting, like for a baby to come to the world.

But, instead, one is leaving, gathering her things,
Without a voice now, with muddled mind,
Only the heart remains. Death moves in but needs
To find the breakpoint energy to take a soul

So that another can move in. There were white
Flowers at the ranch for the horse that they had
To put down, when, the usual miraculous,
A new foal! Charging at the very world itself,

In whirling, willful motion, a filly, Friesian 
Black as midnight coal, with a glowing coat
And a mare who won't let her fall, or run free
On spindle legs only a step away

And we must take it easy, let the world revolve
Without our shared skull as tiktoc clock
Measuring the shortage of Purina
Heeding the vapor deposited by fear

That clings like tar (barnacles if you are nautical)
Or monsters if you've emerged from the subterranean,
For there are demons at every portal, treasure
In every moment, pearls of inestimable price

Beyond the reach of all but the intrepid
Who care enough to seek -- at an opening of cave
What draws one in? What compels one to explore?
It's something so familiar, you know there is an answer

At some further convolution, where faith and the forks
Are one, and you could be anyone, that is your decision,
Your one job. To remember, is all, that sweet bird
Hidden in the trees, and rabbits under cars.

A hawk appears to squawk, then disappears
With a message to share what you've remembered
And the rabbit munches the grain beard of grass,
Gentle with fear. Now we can only see what isn't there. 

The filly I'll call Midnight was sprawled now in the hay
In the late sun Chinese restaurant, 4 days old, already
Tearing it up on the turnout, but Mama's Mt. Rushmore eyes
Fixed at all times on what doesn't even move.

Thursday, April 9, 2026

Sappho Eros Sequence

Sappho is perhaps best known for her "erotic" fragments, which seem to have burned through the now-marred papyrus. The feeling has come down to us as "Eros," left untranslated here. Eros is the child of Póros (Resource/Plenty) and Penía (Poverty/Lack). The plenty is desire - an intense state of longing to merge with another. This aspect has come through in English but Sappho is equally interested in lack -- the bodily system failure that comes with.

Eros detaches me
Like an oak tree ripped – my wits – from glades.

Set fire to me,
Sappho, first.

I don't know which way to race – there are two minds in me.

You came, and I desired 
And you cooled my burning with thirst.

Untie my anxiety; 
Drops atop an ache bay
For all night feasting.

Soft laps ... in your lap ... wrapped in linen.

You smeared yourself until the rose was sealed
With plasma,
Strummed and stretched the flesh of mattress ...
Penetrable ...
Erupting lack.

I brushed against … but not, I suppose, the sky.

Who’s this country girl … at work on my mind ...
Girl who wears a skirt … from the country ...
Doesn't know ... how to pull the leggings up 
Above her ankles.

As for Sappho … among the doves,
Whose cold stirred the beating of their wings.

Indeed I loved you Atthi, long ago ...
When you were a girl and seemed so small, graceless.

But if you cared about us
Procure a younger to bed
For I can't stomach living with you
Even though I am an older woman.

How can the hurt go on
Kypris, when one loves
And won't release the pain
Heedlessly tearing me,
The one with buckled knees?
I want you ... Goddess ... to suffer this
But I know it too well myself.

Oh Mother I can't weave --
Desire broke me.

Eros swings loose my limbs again,
The pleasure pain serpent jurisdiction.

Across the hill
The rose
...
Glistens

Hunger
Moan

Dripping

Mm

-------------------------------------------

47
Ἔρος δ᾿ ἐτίναξέ μοι
φρένας, ὠς ἄνεμος κὰτ ὄρος δρύσιν ἐμπέτων.

38
ὄπταις ἄμμε
Σαπφὼ πρώτῳ.

51
οὐκ οἶδ᾿ ὄττι θέω· δύο μοι τὰ νοήμ⟨μ⟩ατα

48
ἦλθες, ἔγω δέ σ᾿ ἐμαιόμαν,
ὂν δ᾿ ἔψυξας ἔμαν φρένα καιομέναν πόθῳ.

23
... τὰι σᾶι
παίσαν ...
δροσόεν]τας ὄχθοις
ταιν
παν]νυχίσ[δ]ην

100
ἀμφὶ δ’ ἄβροισ’ . . . λασίοισ’ εὖ ⟨ϝ’⟩ ἐπύκασσε.

94
καὶ πο̣λ̣λ̣ῳ[             ] . μύρῳ
βρενθείῳ . [            ]ρ̣υ[ . . ]ν
ἐξαλείψαο κα̣[ὶ βασ]ι̣ληίῳ,
 
καὶ στρώμν[αν ἐ]πὶ μολθάκαν
ἀπάλαν πα . [         ] . . .ων
ἐξίης πόθο̣[ν           ] . νίδων,

52
ψαύην δ᾿ οὐ δοκίμωμ᾿ ὀράνω δυσπαχέα

57
τίς δ᾿ ἀγροΐωτις θέλγει νόον . . .
ἀγροΐωτιν ἐπεμμένα στόλαν  . . .
οὐκ ἐπισταμένα τὰ βράκε ᾿ ἔλκην ἐπὶ τὼν σφύρων;

42
ἡ δὲ Σαπφὼ … ἐπὶ τῶν περιστερῶν·
ταῖσι <δὲ> ψῦχρος μὲν ἔγεντ᾿ ὀ θῦμος,
πὰρ δ᾿ ἴεισι τὰ πτέρα

49
ἠράμαν μὲν ἔγω σέθεν Ἂτθι πάλαι πότα·
***
σμίκρα μοι παίς ἔμμεν᾿ ἐφαίνεο κἄχαρις.

121
ἀλλ’ ἔων φίλος ἄμμι
λέχος ἄρνυσο νεώτερον·
οὐ γὰρ τλάσομ’ ἔγω συνοί-
κην ἔοισα γεραιτέρα

26
πῶς̣ κε δή τις οὐ θαμέω̣ς̣ ἄσαιτ̣ο,
Κύπρι, δέσ̣π̣ο̣ι̣ν̣’̣, ὄτ̣τ̣ι̣ν̣α δὴ̣ φι̣λ̣[είη
καὶ] θέλοι μάλιστα π̣ά̣λ̣ι̣ν̣ κάλ̣[εσσαι;
ποῖ]ον ἔχησθα
νῶν] σ̣άλοισι̣ μ’ ἀλεμά̣τ̣ω̣ς̣ δ̣αΐ̣σ̣δ̣[ην
ἰμέρ]ῳ λύσαντ̣ι̣ γ̣όν̣’ ω̣μ̣ε – [
. . . ]. α . α .. [ . . ] α̣ι̣μ’ ο̣ὐ̣ π̣ρ̣ο[. . .] . ερησ[
. . . ]νε̣ερ . [ . ] αι̣
] . . . [ . . ] σέ θέλω [
. . . τοῦ]το πάθη[ν
]ι . αν, ἔγω δ’ ἐμ’ αὔτᾳ
τοῦτο σύνοιδα
] . [ . ] . τοις [ . . . .] .
]εναμ[
] . [ . ] . [

102
γλύκηα μᾶτερ, οὔτοι δύναμαι κρέκην τὸν ἴστον
πόθῳ δάμεισα παῖδος βραδίναν δι’ Ἀφροδίταν.

130
Ἔρος δηὖτέ μ’ ὀ λυσιμέλης δόνει,
γλυκύπικρον ἀμάχανον ὄρπετον

74a
]ων ἔκα[
]αιπόλ[
]μ.[
]βροδο[
]ο̣νθ[
]φαιμ[

74b
]α[
]ποθο̣[
].ώβα̣[

74c
].[
]ας ἴδρω
].υζ̣αδ.[
]ι̣ν[

74d
].[.].ε[
]ν̣πο.[
]μ̣[

Wednesday, April 8, 2026

Sappho 44 (The Wedding of Hector and Andromache)

This long but heavily effaced fragment records the coherence of an historically important, divinely ordained wedding, giving maximal lyric intensity to a purely civic event. But no degree of gonzo pomp can prevent – or anticipate – the horror of what was to come for this perfect, doomed couple.

Kypris.
Crier came.
From Ida -- fast courier.
Rest of Asia -- imperishable fame.

"Hector and partners transfer the eye-turner
Thebe from the fertile and sacred place,
The gentle Man-Battle, in ships 
On the salt sea; and many bangles gold-coiled,
Subdued purple, patterned playthings,
Countless cups of silver with ivory inlay."

Nimbly he leapt when he heard, King Priam, the father,
And word swept through the city of ballrooms, for the sons of Troy 
To appoint well-turned, mule-drawn carriages for all 
Slender-ankled maidens and ladies to ride,
And away from the crowd went Priam's daughters,
Horses were harnessed by men to chariots,
Young bachelors, who stirred great dust as they drove,
Charioteers holding the reins.

Likening to Gods
They mobilized to holy Ilion
With a sweeping as sweet as flutes and kithara 
And the beating of castanets.
Piercingly the maidens sang a holy song
And it reached all the way to the ether
Echoing like a God ... down every boulevard.
Vats of wine and offering bowls ...
The resins of cassia, frankincense and myrrh
Fused the very air.

The elder women shrieked their ritual ululation;
The men aligned like a bowstring to the wail
Calling with Apollo, master of the lyre,
The one who strikes at a distance, to weave them 
Into hymn, Hector and Andromache -- like Gods.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Κυπρο̣ . [ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .]ας̣·
κάρυξ ἦλθ̣ε θε̣[ . . . . . . . . . .]ελε̣ [ . . . ] . θεις
Ἴδαος ταδεκα . . . φ [ . . ] . . ις τάχυς ἄγγελος
⟨ ⟩
‘ τάς τ’ ἄλλας Ἀσίας . [ . ] δε . αν κλέος ἄφθιτον·
Ἔκτωρ καὶ συνέταιρ̣[ο]ι ἄ̣γ̣οισ’ ἐλικώπιδα
Θήβας ἐξ ἰέρας Πλακίας τ’ ἀ[π̣’ ἀϊ]ν⟨ν⟩άω
ἄβραν Ἀνδρομάχαν ἐνὶ ναῦσιν ἐπ’ ἄλμυρον
πόντον· πόλλα δ’ [ἐλί]γματα χρύσια κἄμματα
πορφύρ[α] καταΰτ[με]να, ποί̣κ̣ι̣λ’ ἀθύρματα,
ἀργύρα̣ τ̣’ ἀνά̣ριθ̣μα ποτήρια κἀλέφαις.’
ὢς εἶπ’· ὀτραλέως δ’ ἀνόρουσε πάτ[η]ρ̣ φίλος·
φάμα δ’ ἦλθε κατὰ πτ̣όλιν εὐρύχο̣ρ̣ο̣ν φίλοις·
αὔτικ’ Ἰλίαδαι σατίναι[ς] ὐπ’ ἐυτρόχοις
ἆγον αἰμιόνοις, ἐ̣π̣[έ]βαινε δὲ παῖς ὄχλος
γυναίκων τ’ ἄμα παρθενίκα[ν] τ . . [ . . ] . σφύρων
χῶρις δ’ αὖ Περάμοιο θυγ[α]τρες[
ἴππ[οις] δ’ ἄνδρες ὔπαγον ὐπ’ ἀρ̣[ματ-
π[    ]ες ἠίθ̣εοι, μεγάλω[ς] τι δ̣[
δ[     ] . ἀνίοχοι φ[ . . . . . ] . [
π̣[     ]ξδα .ο[
⟨ ⟩
⟨ ⟩
⟨ ⟩
⟨Probably 6 or 7 verses are missing ⟩
⟨ ⟩
⟨ ⟩
⟨ ⟩
ἴ]κελοι θέοι[ς
] ἄγνον ἀολ[λε-
ὄ̣ρ̣ματ̣α̣ι̣ [                ] νον ἐς Ἴλιο[ν,
αὖλος δ’ ἀδυ[μ]έλης̣ [κίθαρίς]1 τ’ ὀνεμίγνυ[το
καὶ ψ[ό]φο[ς κ]ροτάλ[ων, λιγέ]ως δ’ ἄρα πάρ[θενοι
ἄειδον μέλος ἄγν[ον, ἴκα]νε δ’ ἐς α̣ἴ̣θ̣[ερα
ἄχω θεσπεσία̣ γελ̣[
πάντᾳ δ’ ἦς κὰτ ὄδο[ις
κράτηρες φίαλαί τ’ ὀ[ . . .]υεδε[ . . ] . .εακ[ . ] . [
μύρρα καὶ κασία λίβανός τ’ ὀνεμείχνυτο·
γύναικες δ’ ἐλέλυσδον ὄσαι προγενέστερα[ι,
πάντες δ’ ἄνδρες ἐπήρατον ἴαχον ὄρθιον
Πάον’ ὀνκαλέοντες ἐκάβολον εὐλύραν,
ὔμνην δ’ Ἔκτορα κ’ Ἀνδρομάχαν θεο⟨ε⟩ικέλο[ις. 

Monday, April 6, 2026

Sappho 132

Names were more than labels in 7th-century BCE Greece; they were "instruction manuals" for a child's desired qualities. Sappho named her daughter Kleis (Κλέις), which literally translates to "Key," the heavy, L-shaped bronze clasp used to shift a massive door bolt in archaic Lesbos. She named her -- as was common at the time -- after her own mother, to evoke the matrilineal keykeeper to the access gate not only of the home but a higher value than the one represented by wealthy and decadent Lydia.

There's mine a luminous child, called Key, the same name as my mother's,
​Who carries the auric luster in her form of golden flowers;
I would not exchange her for all of Lydia or her lucre.

------------------------------------------------

132 
 ἔστι μοι κάλα πάις χρυσίοισιν ἀνθέμοισιν
ἐμφέρη⟨ν⟩ ἔχοισα μόρφαν Κλέις ἀγαπάτα,
ἀντὶ τᾶς ἔγωὐδὲ Λυδίαν παῖσαν οὐδ’ ἐράνναν . . .

Sunday at the Golden Lotus

The surfers of Encinitas loll like seals on their Ghosts
As the channelers look out to sea like fisherman’s wives,
The endless horizon ever diminishing.

The ground where you are now, Yogananda’s garden,
Becomes, for want of anywhere better,
The center of the Universe.

Everything revolves around everything,
To show to the different sides
Passing in the night --

Both halves are whole –
Each will recognize its missing perspective
Although it cannot see itself

And thus will never know how truly large it is,
Larger than any microcosm in miniature
That never stops being all there is

In every moment that never misses anything,
Like the pond with ferns placed perfectly, the sound
Of falling water to match the open mouths of koi,

And the benches in the trees
Where the metaphysical was hashed out,
Which still retain the love of truth

Even if all that was once chosen has fallen
Into disrepair if not outright error
Some time ago,

But the blue hats still sit by the pool,
Empty as usual, like the minds here try
Resolutely to be …

The cliffs though --
The cedars twisted into spirals by the hillside
Where the temple once fell to the sea.

The distractions are endless.

Saturday, April 4, 2026

Century Plants in Bloom

Pumping gas by the Ali Baba motel
When the world has changed:
We know now the photos of the earth
Are faked, the wars are agit-prop,

The people who run the shows
Not actually people at all. The clouds
Have rolled in from another planet
It seems for good, along with our new friends

From the old mind re-training us, gently --
They are like that frog in the old 
Warner Bros. cartoon -- one by one.
Mothman take the wheel!

Out at the ranch the ice blossoms
Are the season's Phoenician purple, 
But it's the same now as it ever was
Albeit the shitshow's completely new:

The mules are gone, the chickens
Were eaten, and Brio's on stall rest
Because he can't stop kicking at fences,
But the rabbits are out in force

Bringing the estrogen back to Ostara
With the feminine in the air
Waiting in the trees to wake up
At the same time as we do, exactly,

A timeline substantially revised
By the solar flares and asteroids,
Their recent plasma igniting our every cell
To party, in misery's company like before

Or to leap into the bliss of uncertainty
Knowing we are held, by the maternal sun
And all it represents, as light agent
Pressing its release upon our

Temporarily lost minds, the short-term
Memory hole that squeezes our belief
Sometimes it seems now to an infinitesimal
Cell, from which we can resist all we want

But we won't be included in what's all around,
Unexplainable but still for sale
Even though its limited time offer 
Seemed to have expired long ago

Like Easter with its second chances galore,
The egg still waiting to be found
Decades later in the bookshelf, which has
Itself been sold for parts by now, for

All unities false and otherwise
Have been in the process of dissolution,
Because there is only one
As we are starting ... to understand.

There's noise from the Draconians
But I've been given a gold card
To wait as long as it takes
For the inevitable flower to open.

Friday, April 3, 2026

Birth and Death in Brief

Jesus dying is now dead —
It is done —
The drone of air siren
Nuclear holocaust alarm

And the afternoon
Can proceed
Now that the belief slate
Has been cleared

And the sun
Is as endless
As it was.

The Cicada (Sappho 101)

We’re accustomed to believe spiritual power is vested in objects: the lucky rabbit’s foot, the Roman cross that transformed ego death into a literal one. But it was the opposite impulse in Sappho’s day; objects had to be neutralized first so they wouldn’t overwhelm the initiate with the energy they carried, so that both object and initiate would be receptive to divine attention. The mystery schools anointed the objects to survive being seen by the Goddess. 

The object in question for the fragment 101 set is an elaborately patterned, exquisitely weaved murex-purple hand cloth ("handkerchief" is used here because English has lost the memory of such a sacred vehicle of reception) from Phokaia, a syndicate of independent city states that dominated the 600-700 BCE luxury market in the highly networked Mediterranean trade. Whether the cloths were passed by initiates (my guess) or acquired as material objects (the consensus), they certainly needed to be "saged" (in the modern parlance) before the initiates could be "possessed" by the Goddess frequency. Murex production alone, as indicated yesterday, was a particularly rank and brutal process. This "gentling" was done by breath. 

And this breath in turn evokes the cicada, whose invisible tymbal discharge at 400 beats a second only happens when time is thick, in the heat and stillness. The sun calls it from an underground home to tell us when to pay attention — not unlike that high-pitched ringing we may hear inside our ears. Plato’s Phaedrus myth remembered it that cicadas were once humans who sang when the Muses were born. They sang so unreservedly they forgot to eat, and were transformed into beings of pure voice. After death, they “report” to the Muses which humans honor each Muse  — who can remain lucid when the high-frequency "music" overwhelms.

This fragment offers a tantalizing glimpse of archaic mystery school practices — it almost reads to modern eyes as a how-to manual — one broken either by time or intention. 

Turn me the Aphrodite:
Infuse my breath into the moistened
Purple handkerchief, entrusted
To us from the masters of Phokaia
To touch to our cheeks.

Activate the cicada voice
Carried on keen wings,
Seeping its high-frequency song,
Powered up when the sun hangs down
Low, to hover up the cry in transmission.

----------------------------------------------------

101
πρὸς τὴν Ἀφροδίτην·
χερρόμακτρα δὲ καγγόνων
πορφύρα καταΰτμενα
τατιμάσεις ἔμπεμψ’ ἀπὺ Φωκάας
δῶρα τίμια καγγόνων
 
101A
ἐπὶ τοῦ τέττιγος·
πτερύγων δ’ ὔπα
κακχέει λιγύραν ἀοίδαν,
ὄπποτα φλόγιον καθέ-
ταν ἐπιπτάμενον καταυδείη

Thursday, April 2, 2026

The Purple of Sappho 98

Purple has always been the color of enlightenment and the enlightened ones. It is Aphrodite's color and the Greek mystery religion cultivators bound it to song, scent and movement to enact her frequency. But the rich dyes of that age came from murex, a gland in the sea snail that only turned purple when exposed to the sun. This photochemically converted it into 6,6′‑dibromoindigo, an unusually deep, refractive and unstable purple that can shift toward red, blue, or black depending on angle and wear. Thus the purple of Sappho changed its behavior in response to light — it was alive, that is, to spirit. 

Purple also exposed the holy — as it does today when spied between the cracks. But in those days it was palpable. It allowed the wearer to be seen as a Goddess, knowledge the Romans later used to project themselves as Gods  and punish any non-elite who wore the color with death. It took 12,000 snails to produce 1.4 grams of dye, making murex highly prized as a kind of condensed sunlight (that would instantly and permanently affix to whatever fabric it was stained on). And it became, as Sappho recounts in this fragment, a controlled substance. The Persian ransack of Sardis cut off the Lydian snail trade to all but the elect ... but not the spiritually elect. In fact, Cleanaktidai — the local mafia of the time — could be heard as Illuminati without veering too far from the Greek. Sappho portrays the capture lyrically, balancing hope and grief for her daughter Kleis. 

... Mom — who bore me to life

Incorruptible in her prime,
She plaited her hair in purple
To coil highest truth around her feeling.

She existed without a doubt.
But my daughter has hair so gold
It is a torch even brighter than the sun.

Fresh flowers heavy with vapor
Spun spiral to form fit her head
And now something has happened to the mitra:

The iridescent purple 
Gone from the Ionian ports.

I can braid you, Kleis, in patterns
But have no means to change that fact;
The mitra is for the Mytilenians.

Exile can't hold luminescence ...
These things of the Cleanaktidai ...
Mementoes ...  they have flowed horribly away.

------------------------------------------------------

98a
. . ] . θος· ἀ γάρ με γέννα[τ
 
σ]φ̣ᾶς ἐπ’ ἀλικίας μέγ[αν
κ]όσμον, αἴ τις ἔχη φόβα⟨ι⟩ς̣[
π̣ορφύρ̣ῳ κατελιξαμέ[να πλόκῳ,
 
ἔ̣μμεναι μά̣λα τοῦτο δ̣[ή·
ἀ̣λλ’ ἀ ξανθοτέραις ἔχη[
τ̣αὶς κόμαις δάϊδος προ[
 
σ]τεφάνοισιν ἐπαρτία[ις
ἀ̣νθέων ἐριθαλέων·
μ]ι̣τράναν δ’ ἀρτίως κλ[
 
π̣οικίλαν ἀπὺ Σαρδίω[ν
. . . ] . αονίας πόλ{ε}ις1
 
98b
σοὶ δ’ ἔγω Κλέι ποικίλαν
οὐκ ἔχω πόθεν ἔσσεται
μιτράν⟨αν⟩· ἀλλὰ τῲ Μυτιληνάῳ
. . . . . . .
παι . α . ειον ἔχην πο . [
αἰκε̣ . η̣ ποικιλασκ . . . . [
 
ταῦτα τὰς Κλεανακτίδα̣[ν
φύγας̣  . . ι̣σαπολισεχει 
μνάματ’· .ἴ̣δε γὰρ αἶνα διέρρυε̣[ν

Wednesday, April 1, 2026

Sappho on Adonis (fragments)

More repackaging of fragments a la a philologist, this time with a recurring theme of Adonis, the doomed mortal who became Aphrodite's lover.
 
The moon has now entered the void,
The Pleiades follow, sweeping
Low and moving the small hours on.
I, when I sleep, do so alone.

He died there Cythera foam form,
Gorgeous Adonis, what can be done?
Clap on your breasts, illumined girls,
Tear open your pious blouses.

Mourn for Adonis.

Leda they say once laid an egg
From a solar womb, hyacinthine
And occulted, an egg pure enough
To be shadow free.

------------------------------------------------------

168B

δέδυκε μὲν ἀ σελάννα
καὶ Πληΐαδες· μέσαι δὲ
νύκτες, παρὰ δ’ ἔρχετ’ ὤρα,
ἔγω δὲ μόνα κατεύδω.

140

κατθνάσκει, Κυθέρη’, ἄβρος Ἄδωνις· τί κε θεῖμεν;
καττύπτεσθε, κόραι, καὶ κατερείκεσθε κίθωνας.

168

ὦ τὸν Ἄδωνιν

166

φαῖσι δή ποτα Λήδαν ὐακίνθινον
… ὤιον εὔρην πεπυκάδμενον

167

ὠΐω πόλυ λευκότερον

Cretan Goddess (Sappho 2)


A nice Veneralia surprise for me that fragment 2 is in Sapphic stanzas and is about my favorite subject, the divine feminine.

Diffuse here from Cretas to this very shrine
That’s sanctified to you, by graceful apples
In the sacred grove, where we burn frankincense.
Altars are smoking.

And the cold water flows its song through branches,
The floor all roses dances in the shadow,
Leaves convulse in extra-sensory death as
Your possession pours.

In the meadow spring releases its being,
The horse grazes whole heart into the earth,
Ecstasy breezes, the vapour of the goddess,
Honey plasma breathes.

Cretan Aphrodite! Pour your nectar gold
As our tongues yield softly to each sensation
And we taste of the ubiquitous ocean
In your gnosis cup.

----------------------------------------------------------------

[Δεῦρύ μ'] ἄλλοι, Κρή[σ]ιαν πρὸς ἄλσος
[να]ίϊον, ὄππ[α]ι [τ]εάϊνον τ[ε] μέλιννον
[ἄλ]σος, ἐν δὲ βῶμοι θυμιά[η]νοι
λιβανώτῳ·

ἐν δ᾽ ὕδωρ ψῦχρον κελάδει δι᾽ ὔσδων
μαλίνων, βρόδοισι δὲ πᾶς ὀ χῶρος
ἐσκίαστ᾽, αἰθύσσομένων δὲ φύλλων
κῶμα κατέρρει·

ἐν δὲ λείμων ἰππόβοτος τέθαλεν
ἠρίνοισιν ἄνθεσιν, αἰ δὲ λῆναι
μέλλιχα πνέοισιν [---]
[ἔνθα σὺ Κύπρι]

βροσίαις ἐν χρυσίαισιν [κύλικες]
ἁβρώως [ ]
νέκταρ ἐγκεκραιμένον [ ]
[---]

Fuller interpretive synthesis at The Digital Sappho

Tuesday, March 31, 2026

Sappho's Wedding Song


I took the conventional road of seeing the scraps of Sappho's Epithalamia as separate expressions, only to find out it's all one coherent, ritually-correct, deliciously subversive satire.

Evening star, you remember the scattered and bring them back to us,
Bring sheep, bring goats, bring us ... mothers, but then you take their child away,
The most beautiful of the stars.

Something sweet reddens, the last quince, up at the last of the branches.
Do the hands that would caress and turn it for harvest just forget?
No, of course they couldn't forget, not entirely — just couldn't reach.

Blown by Zephyrs to high altitudes, bruised purple by the blue,
The feet that don't know shepherd hyacinth in the tread of their boots.

The preeminent Lesbian singer in the Mediterraine;
Do I still throw myself upon my virgin?
Oh holy, oh full of grace,
"Mine to give," says her dad.

The fair fiancee, tell everyone, arrives,
A child of Kronos, violet mounds.
They set the table for desire.
Enshrine them, Muses and Graces!
With songs to move the heart and minds,
Light-ray tones.

An offering:
Communal joy,
Twin fortunes with favor
To capture the bay,
Receive the earth.
Sailors may
Choose high winds
And dry land,
Where she sets sail ...
The cargo.
Many accomplishments ...
Flow from the shore.

Before the gate, to keep the bride inside
Her room, 10 cobblers and 5 cows
For the doorman's sandals, 7 fathoms long.

Big enough to let the groom in
To the hymen.
Carpenters to raise the roof high;
To the hymen.
For the bridegroom is as long as the God of War;
To the hymen.
Better hung than gargantuan men,
To the hymen.

The bride with perfect rhythm 
Enters the bridal chamber.
Now ...
Me.

All night long
The maidens sing
In the customary way,
Things of love and brides with violet mounds.

The bridegroom's men are quarrelsome.
Such phobias unsettle the lyre
Suspended like the golden sandals of dawn.

Wake up every eager buck now,
Sow your oats with your own boys groom, go
Until the light-sounding bird cracks --
Only then, the sandman.

As to how bad it will be
Go, let us see!
The sovereign mistress of dawn,
Strong in gold, nods.

Happy groom, the wedding you prayed for is done.
You perspire your desire all over your lovely face.
You are blessed above all by Aphrodite's fertile glance.
There is no other girl like her ... that one,
Honey in her eyes.

“Virginity, Virginity, where have you gone?”
“No longer will I come for you, no longer will I come.”

To what, beloved groom, would I place you in comparison?
The new shoot that bows in the evening — this is my comparison!

O not another girl now, O bridegroom, such as she.
Be happy, nympha, be wealthy ... hombre!
May you endure, bride -- at your command, groom?

Gods at the door, carved in marble;
Leave your blood with the evening star
Like Adonis, who died.

------------------------------------------------------------------

104a
Ἔσπερε πάντα φέρων ὄσα φαίνολις ἐσκέδασ’ Αὔως
φέρεις ὄιν, φέρεις αἶγα, φέρεις {ἄπυ} μάτερι παῖδα.
 
104b
ἀστέρων πάντων ὀ κάλλιστος . . .
 
105a
οἶον τὸ γλυκύμαλον ἐρεύθεται ἄκρῳ ἐπ’ ὔσδῳ,
ἄκρον ἐπ’ ἀκροτάτῳ, λελάθοντο δὲ μαλοδρόπηες·
οὐ μὰν ἐκλελάθοντ’, ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἐδύναντ’ ἐπίκεσθαι.
 
105b
οἴαν τὰν ὐάκινθον ἐν ὤρεσι ποίμενες ἄνδρες
πόσσι καταστείβοισι, χάμαι δέ τε πόρφυρον ἄνθος . . .

103
] . εν τὸ γὰρ ἐννεπε[ . ]η προ̣β
] . ατε τὰν εὔποδα νύμφαν [
]τ̣α παῖδα Κ̣ρ̣ο̣νίδα τὰν ἰόκ[ολπ]ον[  
] . ς ὄργαν θεμένα τὰν ἰόκ[ολ]π̣ος α[
] . . ἄγναι Χάριτες Πιέριδέ[ς τε] Μ̣οῖ̣[σαι  
] . [ . ὄ]π̣π̣οτ’ἀοιδαι φρέ̣ν[ . . . ]αν . [
]σ̣αιοισα λιγύραν [ἀοί]δ̣αν
 
106
πέρροχος ὠς ὄτ’ ἄοιδος ὀ Λέσβιος ἀλλοδάποισιν
 
107
ἦρ’ ἔτι παρθενίας ἐπιβάλλομαι;

108
ὦ καλή, ὦ χαρίεσσα·
 
109
‘δώσομεν,’ ἦσι πάτηρ

20
]επιθ̣ε̣σμα[
]ε γάνος δὲ και̣ . . [
]
τ]ύχαι συν ἔσλαι
λί]μ̣ενος κρέτησαι,
γ]ᾶς μελαίνας
]
]έλοισι ναῦται
]μ̣εγάλαις ἀήται[ς
]α κἀπὶ χέρσω
]
´.]μοθεν πλέοι.[
]δε τὰ φόρτι ᾿ εἰκ[
]νατιμ᾿ ἐπεὶ κ.[
]
]ρεόντι πόλλ̣α̣ι̣[
]αιδέκα̣ [
]ει
]
]ι̣ν ἔργα
]χέρσω[
].α
]
.]..[
 
110
θυρώρῳ πόδες ἐπτορόγυιοι,
τὰ δὲ σάμβαλα πεμπεβόηα,
πίσσυγγοι δὲ δέκ’ ἐξεπόναισαν.
 
111
Ἴψοι δὴ τὸ μέλαθρον,
 ̓ Υμήναον,
ἀέρρετε, τέκτονες ἄνδρες·
̓ Υμήναον.
γάμβρος (εἰσ)έρχεται ἶσος Ἄρευι,
̓ Υμήναον.
ἄνδρος μεγάλω πόλυ μέσδων.
̓ Υμήναον.

103Β
]ρηον θαλάμω τ̣ωδεσ̣[
]ι̣̣ς εὔποδα νύμφαν ἀβ̣[
].νυνδ[
]ν μοι· [
]ας γε̣ . [

30
νυκτ[ . . . ] . [
πάρθενοι δ[
παννυχίσδοι̣[σ]α̣ι̣[
σὰν ἀείδοιε̣ν φ[ιλότατα καὶ νύμ-

103 (Con't)
γά]μβρον, ἄσαροι γ̣ὰρ̣ ὐ̣μαλι̣κ[
]σε φόβαισι θεμέν̣α λύρα . [
. . . η χρυσοπέδι̣λ̣⟨λ⟩[ο]ς Αὔως   

30 (Con't)
φας ἰοκόλπω.
ἀλλ᾿ ἐγέρθε̣ι̣ς ἠϊθ[έοις
στεῖχε σοὶς ὐμάλικ̣[ας, ὠς ἐλάσσω
ἤπερ ὄσσον ἀ λιγ̣ύφω̣[νος ὄρνις
ὔπνον [ἴ]δωμεν.  

6
ὡς δα.[
      κακ̣κ̣[
ατρ[
κτα̣ .[
.].[
      θα[
Στεῖχ[ε
ὠς ἴδω̣[μεν
τ̣ὰς ἐτ.[
      πότνια [δ’ Αὔως
χρυσόπ̣[αχυς
καππο[
.ανμ[
      κ̣ᾶρα . [
    ].[
 
112
ὄλβιε γάμβρε, σοὶ μὲν δὴ γάμος ὠς ἄραο
ἐκτετέλεστ’, ἔχῃς δὲ πάρθενον ἂν ἄραο . . .
σοὶ χάριεν μὲν εἴδος, ὄππατα δ’ . . .
μέλλιχ’, ἔρος δ’ ἐπ’ ἰμέρτῳ κέχυται προσώπῳ
. . . τετίμακ’ ἔξοχά σ’ Ἀφροδίτα
 
113
οὐ γὰρ
ἀτέρα νῦν πάις, ὦ γάμβρε, τεαύτα
 
114
(νύμφη).παρθενία, παρθενία, ποῖ με λίποισ’ ἀποίχῃ;
(παρθενία). οὐκέτι ἤξω πρὸς σέ, οὐκέτι ἤξω.
 
115
τίῳ σ’, ὦ φίλε γάμβρε, καλῶς ἐικάσδω;
ὄρπακι βραδίνῳ σε μάλιστ’ ἐικάσδω.
 
116
χαῖρε, νύμφα, χαῖρε, τίμιε γάμβρε, πόλλα
 
117
χαίροις ἀ νύμφα, χαιρέτω δ’ ὀ γάμβρος
 
117A
ξοάνων προθύρων·
 
117B
Ἔσπερ’  ̓Υμήναον
ὦ τὸν Ἀδώνιον

Sunday, March 29, 2026

Sasquatch by the Mailbox

The tack rooms are deserted,
A red woodpecker sings
Clinging to the pole
As the silence grows loud.

There is always room for a solo voice
When the stalls are in the shade,
The prints grow deep in the arena.
It's like humans are never here

With the buckets empty, the chairs in sun,
The racks and posts rattling in the wind,
Or that I'm even one, pulled back
From a fly mask, silent with my eyes,

Hearing foreign tongues decide
The higher plan, of which I’m not a part,
The joyous grackles, dropping to worms,
The squirrels running for the fun of it.

Mouths fill with alfalfa, shaking dusty hides
At the parliament of flies that rewrite the rules 
For the few short days they are alive. 
The sky is so clear any one thing could break it.

It's only held together by blue,
Maybe a feather, a quill pen cloud
For something not even a memory
But a thought that it's been felt

Somewhere, the pain of this being,
Never enough, always too much,
Waiting and willing ...
Then one by one they come,

The hay man, the farrier,
The lady with the hat,
Like pieces of me
Mysteriously put in place.

I can't hear the voices,
At least what they are saying,
But the ranch is alive, now,
This invisible hour

With my own being --
How far did I go
To never leave,
To get away?

The hay truck comes up, 
A man and his girlfriend, Sunday
Smiles, offering the timothy
To the mule and donkey

And I, no less than them,
Outside their pen,
Devour what the gloves
Dropped down.

Saturday, March 28, 2026

All High-Fidelity Translations Aside

I light the sage
And literally create
God in the sky, 
Real only in my belief -- 

That's the revolution,
The real altar of belief,
The thing to view
Is you.

Can you reverse the charge
Of the entire cosmos
To find that tiny seed
That has it all?

Or should I be
Like Brio,
One apple and enough
Foam to breed a Venus,

Every moment
Is a choice,
That's the thing.
The world exists to be seen,

Other people exist
For your mirroring,
The holy obligation
To accept these gifts

As gifts,
For every universe
In every cell turned
To bring it to you

Without complaint,
Without confusion,
For you are the end of the search,
The alpha and  -- the omega,

The black and the white 
On the cookie
Traumatized or amused
In the New York minutes

By the bird song
Of cab horns,
Every peep for attention
Measured, to infinite degrees.

So broad is the experience
In the band where you landed.
Nothing is lost,
Nothing went missing,

Nothing is real
But the moment of contact.
It can only be love
That doesn't come from you 

Exactly, nor does it come
From anyone you long for.
The only thing you can know it as
Is truth.