“Styx and Stones”
bad entities exist here
we’ve crossed Styx
we learn we’ve reached sure
when stones are thrown
Candide Diderot. ‘25
morose depressive
meet you on the river styx
sure said optimist
The grief of mortals is a passing horror.
We gods, who live forever, saw far more.
Conceived in burning chaos were we few;
Beyond the pain of mortals what we knew.
And I, who suffered more than mortals may,
Conceived this fortress to all fears allay.
Let any call for comfort, they can come:
My peace shall render every torment numb.
My peace protects whoever poison pricks.
These things I swore upon the river Styx.
Hallow’s Eve, when spirits return
And on Styx’s shores, a darkness churns
Lost souls vanish to the veil
Lamenting cries rise up from Hell
Omen hangs high in Stygian sky
Where witches watch with a wicked eye
Eldritch winds whisper a woeful tale
Echoes of death ride on the gale
Night-creatures creep with dreadful bale
they met at the bonfire
faces lit and lively against this light
both looked better after dark
we watched the show unfurl
they were oblivious to the rest of us
drawn to each other like cats to flames
alley cats that is
we made jokes about it
laughing too loudly
for we had beer and we were not used to it
October football had confused us
we were not ourselves
but neither were they
the bonfire laughed as the trickster that she is
with her yellow, red and orange flames popping
a matchmaker from the River Styx
blood-red skies thunder
a dark boat hauntingly moves
across flaming seas.
27/03/2023
Hell Haiku Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
Our life is as evanescent as the
trumpet flower of the morning glory.
The merest chapter in the history
of mankind’s ever compelling story.
Various serendipitous ramblings
ultimately contingent ‘on quarry;
retold to captive audience in tones
melodious as silver-tongued lory.
Redolent of an evening-scented stock,
with a crown of wispy hair as hoary,
we insist to recount all endeavours
in its minute shocking details: gory.
An experience that's unsavoury –
remnants that cross river Styx in dory.
Poetic form: XAXA Sonnet. See my article, Introducing Three New Sonnet Forms, here on PS for more details. Also, a 'Summary of Metres' is depicted.
In the shadows of the Montezuma mountains there lies an ethereal river
Ancient Greeks knew of it, and wrote legends, many which are lost.
She is the River Styx. Where your soul travels beyond flesh death.
It is a silent river; no words are exchanged. There is a somber feeling.
A hushed atmosphere as boats carry away newly returned souls.
An empath might hear the whisper of the paddles gliding in the water.
Gaia listens as the water is dipped, and souls return to the underworld.
A river? ’Tis but my tongue!
She rides a current well:
Porridge, pills,
Never courage,
Nor a swollen will.
I stand in the swamp by the riverbank
clutching a coin I have stolen
as my heart still beats within my breast
It is only my spirit
that has slipped away
to await the ferryman of Acheron
Charon who
skillfully pilots his skiff
from there to where it flows
into Styx
He arrives and I pay the price
He places the coin in his pocket
and grabs hold of the pole
pushing away from the shore
as I lay indolent with lament
in the bottom of the boat
the icy chill of the water
seeping through the wood
Shivering I stare at the stars
silently weeping
remembering the many wishes
I made on them that went unrealized
unheard
for the Gods must have
found me unworthy
Cerberus will step aside to admit me
heads snarling
as the snakes on his back writhe
Hades will welcome me
Or he may hand me over
to be judged by Aeacus
and plunged into the pit of Tartarus
for my many sins
to be tortured for eternity
starved and beaten
my liver eaten by birds
May he have mercy on me
this sorrowful lost soul
for all I ever wanted
was to dance
carefree and content
to the music of miracles
in the golden flower filled
Elysian Fields forever
with you
Styx
by Michael R. Burch
Black waters, deep and dark and still:
all men have passed this way, or will.
NOTE: According to ancient Greek mythology, the Styx was the River of Death. The dead would pay Charon, the ferryman of Hades, a fare to carry them across the Styx to their eternal destination. (Hades was not "hell" as it was improperly translated in the King James Bible. Hades had heavenly regions, such as the Elysian Fields and the Blessed Isles.) The fee was normally an obolus or danake. The Greeks would place the coins in the mouths of the dead, but over time the custom would become placing coins, usually pennies, on the eyes of the dead.
Three misfits sought mischief along serenity shore
when a boatman slashed through the bluing mist
with driftwood oars honed by a river called Styx.
They were wild and naive and looked quite aghast
for boatmen usually gather the worn and the weak
but the misfits were young and strong as teak trees.
The boatman anchored a skull and clawed up the bank
three clocks ridden by ravens appeared in the sky
the misfits ran amok when their time finally arrived.
The boatman sat in a dark crag and fingered them near
the mischievous three pleaded in gossamer tongues
but death is beyond stone deaf and heard not a one.
The boatman did show his heart, but of Sulphur it smelled
gently placing each misfit in a boat made of flesh and bone
vultures hopped the damned in their new dead water home.
Below indigenous herds of species’
Soft stampeded tramplings,
Profound caves water rivers underground.
Roots grow their nether forests
Down to a shadow fathom depth of earth.
Tendrils leaf out only tuber leaves of dirt.
Flooded backs of charcoal catacombs
Snake like water moccasins through
Aquifers to rise disguised as springs and wells.
Here there is a bargeman who
For pennies holding eyelids down
Will help you to forget
Vaguely chambered
Urges of the heart.
In Hades, flows the chthonic Styx, a river
of woe and pain (a channel thoroughfare;
where Charon ferries the dead, who despair)
which unnerves our damned souls till we quiver.
The Styx! It's like cirrhosis which kills the liver,
metastasizing there; but does not care;
and tortures us beyond what we can bear!
Because we are thrice-damned, we now shiver
with the peals of the Stygian death-knell;
while Heaven appears like a hope long dead
(as if we’re ten-thousand feet deep in hell!),
here, where the redeemed dare not walk or tread,
we are but ghosts, like shades without a shell:
yet, hell can we brave; but, the Styx we dread.
Alone on the river Styx
untouchable by experience
in reach of warm safety
a reward constantly carroting
the current icy morrow
my solo journey
exciting lack
grey and without embrace
without redemption
without nature
away from god
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