Long Circe Poems
Long Circe Poems. Below are the most popular long Circe by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Circe poems by poem length and keyword.
"The Circe Effect" (Part 2)
In solitary confinement, she remained all alone
in a big old mansion in the middle of a woodland zone
there she sat weaving on her loom all alone
on that Island of Aeaea, until that good sort, Odysseus
walked into her home.
Athena, sent Hermes to warn Odysseus “Beware Circe’s wizardry! Beware!”
and handed him a sharp sword with some Moly to imbibe,
“Protective powers! Added benefit!”, she prescribed -
with her final parting words, something to this effect,
“Odysseus, dear friend, Goddesses are not mortal, they are extremely treacherous in bed!”
Circe’s powers were far too strong and before very long
she had Odysseus
hooked on her magnificent wand.
He remained on her island for one year,
feasting, drinking wine, dancing merry with our Circe,
where he slumbered in a meadow full of flowers with her,
to avoid getting dirty.
Eventually it was time for Odysseus to continue on his quest
where Circe, our clever and dear girl,
gave him final directions to The Underworld
you know, that other dubious
place to rest.
(Lovejoy-Burton/ Dec 2017)
"Underworld Blues"/The Mechanisms
https://youtu.be/wkWkk7Di2YU
"Envelope"
We knew what we were about
when we signed up
the other side of the mirror
mothers become gods
for a short while
and perhaps
long after
what servant is man
when he believes
he’s as big a god
in the realm
of playing children
lost for a time
in Bedlam
forgotten
sunk in the idea of building
something better, drunk on
below depth power
another's mindfield sucked on
like marrow from the bone
errant property lost somewhere
in that runaway train
women have always
held the Circe key
golden apples 3
before a goddess
unbreakable power held
within
true strong queens
locks
never guarantee
safety
and doors
sometimes disappear
in the undertow
invisible
drowned
and
envelopes
closed portals
don’t open
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"Lilith" / Halsey
https://youtu.be/arSQHqPqxx8
LYRICS/ "Lilith", Halsey
https://genius.com/Halsey-lilith-lyrics
"The Circe Effect" (Part 1)
Circe, Goddess of magic, nymph, witch, bold enchantress
daughter of Helios, Sun God, her father, can you imagine? ...
let me paint you further, the tree of this wacked-out family canvas -
daughter of Perse, her mother, wild Oceanid Nymph, spawned not on landmass,
but in the vast deep blue deep.
Aeetes, her brother hung tight to his Fleece
and Pasiphaë, her sister, given in marriage to King Minos of Crete,
had a fling with a monstrous White Bull,
a gift from Poseidon, ain't that so sweet?
she bore a bastard child, the Monataur with a ring in his nose,
horns and hoofed feet.
Now there was a family of total dysfunction
and Circe, poor dear, betrayed for remaining herself,
remaining non-function
was banished to Aeaea for murdering her husband
the Prince of Colchis.
There on Aeaea, as revenge, Circe drew out her magic wand - not a sword,
transmuted her enemies, all those who offended her into wild beasts,
where they were left to circle her mansion and roam to eat swill as their feast.
Docile not dangerous, drugged and delerious,
these beasts never gored -
they were fawned on by all newcomers, who were simply just curious,
never bored.
These entranced beasts lured newcomers to our girl Circe
with a woof and purr.
Enter Circe, quite disturbed, in a logical kind of way.
“More pets for me!”, she thought, “they will never stray”.
These lonely, adventurous vagabonds who ventured into her lair,
well, she showered them with all her incantations, but they never heard
her words of Love ever there –
Circe would finally reveal who she truly was,
for you see by now all that pain, all that hurt
had converted our dear old Circe into a siren
otherworldly, deadly lethal, mysterious, re-birthed;
all that ventured into her Kingdom now were
captivated by her spells and
then promptly, with a wave of her wand,
transfigured forevermore
as creatures,
of her Elysian Fields interred.
(Lovejoy-Burton/ Dec 2017)
AT THE EDGE
Red velvet I step into the abyss
If I choose
I see crystal clear at the edge
Ancient cries of turmoil
Grips of control, men being boys
Boys being men
On the other side of the edge
White eagles fly to the right
or in circles
Owls hoot as they please
Silver stars beckon endlessly
A Prince leans from a window frame
Overlooking Sea ruled by Poseidon
of wondrous waves and spuming whales
searching for Circe with a Venus lock
Crossed legs in black socks
Eyes twinkling enticement
fear barely perceived
At the edge of the world Suns
are rounded rainbows
Cries of hunger rise and die
Selfish give in crumbs
with eyes longing to arrive
here too, while Buddhists
drink tea in golden cups
Here you fall so deep and
Speak to Zeus, if he wants to reply
Transplant minds and let thoughts
fly into blank cells
Broaden eternity, if you wish
Jump back into black or forward
to seek the flint
carrying you round about
At the edge it is dangerously
Exciting in the moment
Nothing else
In the moment at the
Edge
©GhairoDanielsPoetryandSong1998
WATCH ON YOUTUBE @ghairodanielspresence Under Title : Red Carpet : AT THE EDGE
{ Note : This poem was written whilst I was working in Parliament. The first words, Red velvet, was a image coming from the red carpet rolled out, outside my office, on the way to the National Assembly, where a President of another country was due to walk on, into the National Assembly for speech-giving.
The image of a Prince comes from a Minister of State, who I was due to have a meeting with, after lunch. He was leaning from his office window towards the National Assembly building. As I looked up into his face, all I saw was a Great Sea with spuming whales. In the next few minutes I was opposite him looking at his crossed legs in black socks talking about why a piece of legislation was important. Strange. )
Belladonnic poison seeps from your eyes,
like an electric serum of Venusian alchemy,
one that paralyzes my sense of pride.
My mind oscillating,
alternating,
your gaze,
annihilating.
An infusion,
Uranium radiating me into half life,
as I look up small to thee.
How can you be my painkiller,
stretching rack,
healer,
and a killer clown surgeon
with a knack for stealing autonomy?
Your touch burns with the fires of Purgatory,
a solar cycle casting elemental ghouls,
in a rogues gallery of impish valkyrie.
Propheting in New Moon phases
of alignment's interferon mightocon cell mining,
beaming morse code anecdotally-
You dress me in the dark's fairie mood ring-collar- manacle- you cause me to wear in my captivity.
Endangered in the midst of your wilds,
from your strange type of phi
that echoes from the voids-
enchantress- third eye.
I flop like a fresh caught fish
in your net of silk, patterned telepathy.
You are a siren, a villain- bewitching
the stormy seas- to shipwreck adventurous souls
and harbor them on your oasiatic Isle, Circe?
So why do I feel saved, even in your captivity.
Turn me into a fattened pig, then,
do as you will,
but be the truffle of my descent
as I forage for delicacy.
Floating
by Michael R. Burch
Memories flood the sand’s unfolding scroll;
they pour in with the long, cursive tides of night.
Memories of revenant blue eyes and wild lips
moist and frantic against my own.
Memories of ghostly white limbs …
of soft sighs
heard once again in the surf’s strangled moans.
We meet in the scarred, fissured caves of old dreams,
green waves of algae billowing about you,
becoming your hair.
Suspended there,
where pale sunset discolors the sea,
I see all that you are
and all that you have become to me.
Your love is a sea,
and I am its trawler;
harbored in dreams,
I ride out night’s storms.
Unanchored, I drift through the hours before morning,
dreaming the solace of your warm breasts,
pondering your riddles, savoring the feel
of the explosions of your hot, saline breath.
And I rise sometimes
from the tropical darkness
to gaze once again out over the sea ...
You watch in the moonlight
that brushes the water;
bright waves throw back your reflection at me.
This is a poem I wrote as a teenager. It has been published by Penny Dreadful, Romantics Quarterly, Boston Poetry Magazine and Poetry Life & Times. The poem's mermaid has aspects of a ghost, phantom and mirage. The mermaid was inspired by ancient myths of Circe, Calypso, Medusa, Atargatis, Ea, Derketo, Thessalonike, Li Ban, Melusine and of the Sirens, Lorelei, Dryads, Nymphs, Sprites, Sylphs, Naiads, Nereides, Nix, Rusalkas, Ceasg and Selkies.
I once saw an old man with hair
the color of snow and in his hand,
He held two circulates of gold.
I asked the man what the rings
were for.
One, He said, is for the Young
and the other for the Old.
With questioning eyes, I looked
upon and as He explained,
I heard logic's song.
An in conclusive reasoning, He said
and then a comforting smile,
He gave, as He continued to say.
(The Young) " The heavy bodies
descend by gravity and again the
gravity is quality; Whereby a heavy
descends is an impertinent circle and
teaches nothing.
Meaning: The Journey Onward.
(The Old) " A circle which touches
the curve and close to the point more
nearly coincides with the curve than
hence is called; Circe of curvation.
Meaning: Coming Into Full Circle.
An unofficial association of people, I said
but the smart set goes there.
It's simple my Dear, He said;
A plane curve generated by one point
moving at a constant distance from a
fixed point, (The Young & The Old).
As He calculated the circumference of the
circle, again He spoke.
Every part of which is equally distant from
a point within it, is called: The Center, The Soul.
He spoke in logic in which I had never heard spoken.
A conclusion of a form of argument between two
or more unproved statements that in the end, prove
each other as one.
Alpha, Omega, The beginning and the ending,
a circulate of gold. The Young and The Old.
Poets, do not be discouraged, neither young nor old,
Uncertain verses can pierce stone, or iron,
Just believe those you love you, endure the headwinds,
To think that at the end of the sea there is America and its buffalos,
Just cross rivers with dangerous Indians,
The Amazon, the White Nile, or the great Mississippi, are friends,
Poet, do not be discouraged, do not deviate,
In front of Whitman shining in the diamond sky,
Follow your path, on the great snowy plains,
Follow your path, in the villages of Lower Brittany,
In the hotels of Sichuan, or Manaus,
Warm your heart in Calypso’s arms,
Think of Circe whose beauty poisoned Ulysses
Poet falls in love with the sea, the stars,
Do not be discouraged, Poet, you can be still and quiet like water, or
You can become a torrent in the mountains of Wyoming,
A verse is always an object of the future,
“Drop by drop, water pierces the stone.” (1)
NB (1) From Lucrèce in Montaigne les essais
Ocean (Circe)
Clearly an abyss,
you paint your lips blue,
adorn yourself in light's zirconium-hue-
masquerading as some golden gem, laden Queen.
Lying in your bed in waiting,
offering the possibility of adventure,
of hidden world's of retreat.
Your magic mesmerizes and flaunts.
Teases with possibilities imagery.
Endless font.
Stories to sell.
Corrupting your fools, licking your taunts upon their feet.
Mermaids minions in seductions reflection so
demure.
Reflecting the sky with their tails.
You are a sourceress,
a prostitute and a street, storefront sign purely forged in a spell.
A true window to your soul and it's keep, that rolls like a dungeon on the back of a Great turtle.
That of a corrupting changeling,
unpurely-changing with every phase shift of swell.
Your great alchemy is fusing illusion with serenity's false sleep.
With your ambitions that run silent, and run deep amongst that subsiding pillow.
Your platform for your maelstrom of sinking- through Azurine- dreams.
Your quicksilver beads above the morpheant sands that flows so easily,
like the lies that lie beyond men's reach.
Each moment arrives
already threaded—
camels crossing through narrowed eyes,
yesterday's needles.
I see the burden in your face when I get here,
but it’s not your face;
rather a ripple of something older,
residue caught in the glass
nothing but an echo of now. Do you see that?
A life lived sideways,
pressed into the sand.
My bus driver is Atlas today,
holding a world hostage
until I meet his raised eyebrows
with an acknowledgment,
in addition to the usual fare.
The woman on the corner is Circe,
turning glances to granite,
spinning myths into tricks—
even the barista, bean-stained hands,
shifts like Persephone, balancing
her sweet against the darkness.
What is our world if not echoes
refracted, meals consumed after death?
What is real except an insurrection
of stories, clawing at the edges of us,
our susceptible flesh, infected with personality?
These vaunted archetypes,
they hide the hollows in our marrow,
make us no match
for the maps we mistake
for ourselves. You tilt your head,
you ask me what I see. I see, I say,
I have seen, the echoes came first—
shadows carved on walls long
before the names, long before the bodies.
Go ahead, laugh—step into the light.
But remember it moves faster than you
think, burns brighter than you see, and always
drags its shadow behind.