Boreas, the North Wind
I am in Iceland, 90 miles from the Arctic Circle,
walking through a gorge in a valley between
European and North American plates. Fierce
Boreas funnels its headstrong wind right at me
tears my knit hat off my head, rakes my hair.
I’m in Rekjavik, at the city’s highest point
walking half-way between Hallgrimskirja Church
and Leif Eriksons’ statue when Boreas sends a gust
ripping glasses from my face. I chase them across
the square, miraculously retrieve them intact.
The is a land of extremes, powerful geysers,
roiling rivers, cascading waterfalls, high mountains,
floating icebergs, volcanoes, poised to erupt, lava
flows, one thermal Blue Lagoon, acres in size
defies frigid air, soothes sore muscles.
This is a land ruled by the North Wind Boreas, erratic,
hungry, sleeping rarely, it is terrifying, exhilarating,
raw as life itself.
It’s not that I am languid, more that I am chagrined.
So disappointed to be met by this dreadful north wind.
I am on my way to see him, and I will look so disheveled.
I am convinced the god Boreas is inclined to be bedeviled.
They say I have a porcelain face and that I never smile.
This is not my usual demeanor my intention is to beguile.
My soft chiffon garment intended to drape my delicate form.
Is now windswept without hope of keeping me warm.
I hold my scarf, my slender fingers holding it in place.
The daffodil I wear remains to draw attention to my face.
My ruby red lips catch the light as they shine like wine.
Hoping my raven hair will still shimmer and appear divine.
Blurred from the gusty wind are my lovely blue eyes.
They say I have undeniable beauty, now I feel otherwise.
My slate-colored scarf billows to resemble a conch shell.
The blackbird fighting against the wind isn’t doing well.
Soon I will be with my dear one in the safety of indoors.
My resistance to this harsh north wind, all for a good cause.
The movement depicted not allowing treachery to advance.
Shows strong resistance between nature and romance.
Wind god
Boreas- god
Of Winter and North Wind
Swept down from cold northern mountains
of Thrake
He blew
Cold icy gusts
Of breath from bloated cheeks-
Hair and beard spiked with ice, wide mouth
Howling
Sometimes
Seen as horse-shaped
Purple-winged swift stallion,
He swept down on mares, early spring
To sire
Horses
For King of Troy-
Mated with Trojan mares
Fathered the swift, wind-shaped stallions
For him
Athens
Celebrated
Boreas Festivals
Praising him, the god of the cold
North Wind
April 14, 2023
Contest: Traditional Cinquain
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
(Revision of a longer poem posted 12/16/2014)
wind god
was Boreas
of winter and north winds
swept down from cold northern mountains
of Thrake
he blew
cold icy gusts
of breath from bloated cheeks
hair and beard spiked with ice, wide mouth
howling
sometimes
seen as horse-shaped
purple-winged swift stallion
he swept down on mares in new spring
to sire
horses
for King of Troy
mated with Trojan mares
fathered the swift, wind-shaped stallions
for him
he found
King of Athens’
daughter, Oreithyia
by riverside meadow, playing
dancing
enthralled
by her dancing
and struck with mad desire
he abducted her to the sky
to wed
hid her
in soft white clouds
their love bore a daughter
Khione, beautiful goddess
of snow
sons, the
Boreades
chased away the Harpies
that threatened the King Phineus
of Thrake
Athens
celebrated
Boreas festivals
praised him as their god of the cold
north wind
Boreas!
What a bully you are.
You push your burdened mist
Against our proud brick walls,
Whipping up words in torrents.
Spiraling, spitting
Surf more appropriate
For the weathered cliffs,
The wispy eye of the sky.
Yet you provoke in me
Such wanton desires.
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