επτά λέξη του μάντης Syllables of the Sibyl

She gave me seven words
I will eat them many times
Seven fine fruits,
Seven kisses, seven lies
Seven sorrows, seven crimes

το  ϕῶς    (n.)  Phos  [Light]
Go. Follow the light-ache singing
In eye-burnished rapture,
το ϕῶς ,shifting my structure
Along shallow, shadow lines,
Illuminating my syntax, my sin, my tax,
My fair-skinned winged body
As it flies up into lamp smoke and oil
Or makes lark spirals into the sun
Above an island tower
I bathe in το ϕῶς
As women always have
The water on the stones
Reflects the same sky again
It is a little thing to lean into the light
A fierce undertaking to live there:
Source-sealed, imprinted,
Ever blooming through
The tiniest opening

Ή μέλίσσα   (f.) Melissa  [Bee]
What is a bee,
But the first wild gift
Of Aphrodite, radiance descendent.
She limns the Quick-tongued edges of all things--
Crags, beaches, fingers, and sheets hung out to dry.
While Her tiny beasts toil at sweetness,
We drink of it, eat it, store it,
And thereby measure joy.
Honey-pale our beloved’s skin, or honey-dark,
We also toil for sweetness, and cannot keep
Our lips wet long enough
For remembrance.
A rocky ascent, time after time
To seek the numinous, illuminated
Marginal μελίχλωρος[1] places,
Where sky goes down on crag and crest,
Or rising earth pushes into the waterline
And the bee, goes there too
ἐκζαλόομαι [2] about Her business


Τό σκότος    (n.)  Skotos  [Darkness]
One thousand, and repeating,
Our moonless leave-takings.
These scrape sore along my skin,
Create the Other singing Dark,
Without which light would never read as sweet.
I can ride your harsh tides too,
And after, take in shade an hour’s rest.
From this green and sway-leafed silence
It is easier to view their passage--
Those outward shadows stumbling in time,
And make a warning shout.
We can sleep here now, unaided,
And dream together easy damp-spun ballads,
Still Epic when the lamps are gone,
Looking on light is, after all,
As dangerous as flying up into it. 
Night flights to your Honey-dark, your breath
Hand-shadow, this mingled rest,
Darkness, your voice cast from tomorrow,
Lay your canvas gauntlets down and lie beside me.
You and I are always able to renew
The passing chiaroscuro hour  

τό  θέον   (n.) Theon [God]
Come near to me O, το  θέον
Without your beards or boards or nails
Thou art neither He nor She
Thou, who spun the dipthong and the Nile,
Proposed Eternity, lobbied for star-bearing,
Cast in bone the shimmering soul,
Made spices into dust,
You wait now, again, beneath the Mulberry bush
For the innocent to pass, walking,
Laughing beneath a water jar.
Come near, old one, and retell
The sorrows of Light Years
That sad, eternal difficulty of saving one child
Of loving one man
Of borrowing one life
Meet me on the mountain
I will wait

Ή ζωή  (f.)  Zoё  [Life]
Take this single terrifying life,
This Infused life, a salted citrus vessel
To preserve the last crop
For survival of the next.
Not ό βίος, of warm Petri dishes
Drains, ditches, and Polio ponds,
Not Bios, to be magnified in lens and flight,
No, but ή ζωή, the in-knowing of the Now,
Emitting, remitting, admitting existence,
And re-admitting death.
Ή ζωή, you rise with our breath,
Dance in our eyes as they meet
Across the frost-fire even now
Ή ζωή, twisting in the backwash of desire
Rioting between our tongues;
Monsters, madness, perilous riddles, promises,
While simple laughter moves this mystery.
From my crib I peeled
Away the lily-shallow wallpaper
To find what lay behind
Ή ζωή, I have always loved you.

Πολύρροδος  (adj)  Polurrhodos  [Rose-filled]
Full of roses
A garden as old as that hanging one
A basket laden for a wedding
A climbing stone-lover, an English bower,
A wild place where scarlet hips feed
Sparrows for Her in winter
A gift mimicking the specificity of desire
A scent like skin with rain
A silk-stained fruited sky
These cannot last
But do, for as all creation weeps,
Writhes, giggles, cries
Roses too bear again, bear again,
One thing too dear to sacrifice
A day full of roses
A rose-filling dawn, a rose-fed dusk
I am waiting for a basket of roses
And you

Ή θάλασσα  (f.)  Thalassa [Sea]
The last metaphor
Salt water seeks me
Across the Great Divide,
Echoing on every spooling
Land-locked road and tor.
Calling, calling, moving me upon
The hush of that unceasing voice.
My horse-born prince, my salty love,
Peace-weaver, storm-driver
My warrior of the tides, my rest, my home
My ruler, ό βăσĭλεύς[1], my stone bold king, my liege
Roll me, ride me, rock me, read me,
σκοτεινός καὶ κρυπτός,[2]
For all transparent creatures pray,
Carried as I are they, ή ζωή[3] by
The sea, the bee, and the Gods.
I will wake unto you
To be both surf and boat, on ocean-crafted lust.
I will see dark horses with the white
And smiling follow dripping ropes of light
Down, down, into the sea
Where the shore becomes me


[1] Surf-tossed

[2] Honey-pale

[3] King

[4] Dark (adj.) and secret (adj.)

[5] Life (pron. “hay zo-ay”)

The Oldest Verb: To Cleave

The Old Actor