I N I T I A T I O N

Come child,

to the temple.

Daughter,

you are already ten.

Time to give your maidenhead

to the Goddess,

as did your mother.

Aphrodite is insatiable,

a voluptress who feeds

on virgin's blood.

So now you must

proffer your precious gift

to the first man who comes along,

then the Goddess's girdle

will tinkle with joy,

and so ensure us

female calves, abundant harvests

and boy children.

Later we'll go to the seaside

and renew your virginity.

Then I'll find you a husband.

T H A T     D R E S S

The dress was sewn for Aphrodite;

cobbled from sea foam long ago in history.

The lady had holidayed amongst the

bare breasted, snake encrusted Cretans

far from her native beach.

The winds in that picture

had blown her to the wrong island.

She had to wrap up, it was the custom,

[except for the tits of course].

Soon she got bored with the local

painted entertainment

such as the Cretans indulged in.

So she kicked off her shoes,

left her new silk snakes

coiled on the rocks

and swam home to Paphos,

naked and free under the full moon.

Her garments were found,

even her beribboned sandals,

and museumized by scholars in the north.

Aphrodite laughs and doesn't care.

She's naked now, kicking her heels

with the dolphins,

and loving every man who passes by.

Look, plashing in the summer sun,

dear Aphrodite, were you one

of all these rosy sporting girls,

twitching wavelets with their toes?

As a child, were you one of those?

Bold zephyrs picked up bright sea-spray

and span it wide throughout the day

in parabolas on the breeze.

Can it be true your golden hair

was spun from droplets of sea air?

How did you climb up on that shell,

sweetly to ride old Ocean's swell,

until some chaps with cloaks of silk

blew you onto a sunny beach

so teasingly within our reach.

Ever after, no longer child,

you smiled on every man alive;

while the sun sparkled on blue sea.

From that time on all men were lost,

as women found out to their cost!

D I T T Y

 Love  is at our core,

who could ever ask for more.

Aphrodite, open up your door

and let me in.

I am not a bore,

love for you can't be a chore

why 'tis always me that you ignore.

Is love a sin?|

You unholy whore,

destroyer of married law.

Why can't we two wrestle in the straw

forgetting kin?

Your fierce love is war.

You drag all your men through jaws

of hell when all we want is to thaw

your love and win!

I C O N    S O N N E T

Isthar, Astart, Esther, Aprodite.

Magna Mater, who is Mary Mother.

Unique women, each part of the other,

secure in your zones of love & mighty.

Not, as some believe, mere sexy flighty

girls, who each new moon take on fresh lovers.

A silly ploy pursued as blind cover

for the grandest passions dreamt of nightly.

White foam carried one of you hither,

dear Goddess of war, and now of wedlock

If only my old rough hands could slither

down your flanks then tip you on a haycock

& weave love knots from our entwined limbs...

Odd that in some cultures such thoughts are sins!

F O N T A N A  A M O R O S A

On my bike that night

I rode for air.

My helmet stuck tight,

it was summer,

there wasn't much light,

the moon was due,

should be full tonight.

The engine quit

near a pool. Some plight

miles from town!

I stripped off my tight

sweat sodden jeans

and dived in, it might

just cool me off.

Then there you were quite

naked squeezing

your hair. What a fright

for Adonis

the waiter, some plight

for a young lad!

Lovely girl so white,

who can you be?

The breath-taking sight

of your round hips

under the starlight

made me tipsy.

A night of delight

followed. You were

drunk too. The moonlight,

[it came up full,]

and Aphrodite

wrapped Adonis,

the tavern boy, tight

in blissful charms.

And the motor bike?

It carried us

to love's dizzy height

for a long time.

A    T H O U G H T

"Sex and sleep make me aware that I am mortal',

said the great Alexander.

Is it a chicken & egg situation,

or do they run concurrently?

Without sleep enough,

no energy for sex.

Without sex how can anyone sleep?

Leastways not a mortal.

Mortality is an interesting conception,

but you, darling Love Goddess,

aren't mortal!

Too difficult a conundrum,

so I'll just bump along as usual

getting as much as I can of both

Alexander's potions for I'll never solve

this enigma.

Yes:

"Sex & sleep make me aware that I am mortal'.

said Alexander.

A P H R O D I T E 'S    K A F E N E I O N

He ordered a beer;

she asked for water.

Beyond the molten shade

the sun yawned.

Under the table

her red skirt rose up.

The sight of her treasures

made him shake.

Then a vast silver chariot

stopped at the kerbside.

A machine dazzling

with coloured lights and mirrors.

Its rider's gear, designer silver.

A wanton smile skipped out

from the corner of her eyes.

She liked and wanted what she saw.

The gleaming giant grabbed her arm

and swept her onto the kid-skin pillion,

revved his machine to a roar,

and they were gone,

sunbeams streaming away behind them.

Suddenly the cafe seemed grubby

and the clientele depressing.

Sometimes sex can be a real bummer, he thought.

T H E    T O R S O 

Mysterious torso of heavenly woman

dumped uncouthly on the mountain's rump,

albeit under a roof to shade her

from worst excess of heat and rain.

Poor thing,

there she squats, lumpen and unregarded,

in an archaeological midden.

You fools to treat your Goddess thus!

Run for your lives if you insist

on your plastic techno world,

otherwise be well prepared

for she'll drag you to a raptrous bed.

As the wolves howl anthems

she will intoxicate you

with her female fermentation.

She will demand you to ride her

over the island's voluptuous breakers,

and oil her irresistible flanks

with rare unguents.

She will caress your thighs with desire,

and crush you in exhilarating passion.

She will conjure seafoam to become your children.

Then she'll make you dance with jackals

on mountain tops until you drop.

She makes the generations progress,

and provides tenderness between lovers.

Yet you abandon her here in this shabby store

unadorned and stubbornly refuting her power!

Men, where is all your love and honour

that you can leave sublime Aphrodite

so ill attended?

You are the withered ones.

She waits.

BU S I N E S S    A S    U S U A L

In the boardroom plain grey suits reflect

from polished table top. Ties are straight.

Rectangles of stark white paper with

snuggling ballpoints sleep before each one.

The bottom line lies docile in the annual report.

A yawn is shared and time hangs balanced

waiting for a distant clock to strike.

Across languid halls high heels are heard approaching.

The chairman is coming,

how will this year's dividends be paid?

Mahogany doors swing wide apart,

then, with long hair tossing, in she strides.

So many men and so little time....

Such lovely thoughts explode among them.

She smiles, and turning to the third one

on her right, beckons him towards her.

Inside the pin stripes his knees tremble.

Not the only one, but selected..

She holds out a hand, the nails are red,

and passes him a folder. They leave.

Two pairs of shoes tap dance on marble.

The company accountant looks out

and sees her scarlet Porsche, its top down,

spinning southward to the dazzling sea.

She won't be back today, the heat laughs.

Again no rich dividends declared...

Pity that her father, Kyrios Z,

died leaving the family business to

his only daughter, Aphrodite.

She won't even ask a decent price

for her product. Instead she prefers

to give it to any handsome face.

© Polly Hope 1998