#ancient greek mythology
y'all gay bitches are so fucking emotional all i have to do is say “name one hero who was happy” an they burst into tears
i’m gay bitches
“So Danae endured, the beautiful,
To change the glad daylight for brass-bound walls,
And in that chamber secret as the grave,
She lived a prisoner.
Yet to her came Zeus in the golden rain.”
[Source: Mythology, Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes by Edith Hamilton]
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Guess who got into Cambridge on Monday!!
To do Classics! - the subject I love SO SO much… oh my gosh…
I finally did it, I finally made my dreams come true. I can finally release all the excitement and all the want that I made myself hold in and suppress because I didn’t want to tempt fate. And after my interview experience I wouldn’t even dare think about a future where I went to Cambridge. I was dealing with a lot of family issues at the time and my second interview was just a slow and painful death by Latin grammar, I remember sitting in silence for what felt like forever after logging off of that final zoom, just thinking I had thrown it all away over the ablative case. And I spent weeks thinking that. And I was wrong. And I have never been more happy to be wrong in my life.
PSA: if you’re looking for dating advice, please don’t listen to Ovid
Minnie Jane Hardman
Study of a Bust of Hermes (c. 1883-1889)
Minnie Jane Hardman
Studies of the Discophoros (1882-1883)
Submitted by Hardman for admission to the Royal Academy. She needed to produce an “undraped antique statue” despite the fact that women were still not allowed into “undraped” life drawing classes.
Centaurs and Lapiths.
From the South Metopes of Parthenon, Acropolis, Athens (Greece), c. 5th century BC.
The metopes on the south side of the Parthenon showed the contest between Centaurs and Lapiths. Centaurs were half men and half horse and Lapiths were an Aeolian tribe. The contest was won by Lapiths but there were many Lapiths who were also killed in this battle.
Centauromachy was the mythical war between Centaurs and Lapiths.
Currently preserved at the British Museum.
Source: British Museum.
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i think about you when the sun dips low to kiss the earth
and the night engulfs the empty sky in an embrace
because i know that in silence,
that is when you are alive.
— death, please come for me too
i think,
they will perish,
and yet my lips are silent—
they are sealed even when i am screaming
within my head;
i think,
they are unloved by the gods,
and pretend that i do not know—
i turn away from the noise within the wind
because they are just children;
i think,
he will lose his love,
but i do not know who i mean.
— secrets in pelion
i found love in you;
i found myself in war.
i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry—
what is my legacy without you?
frantic denials
we are children running on the shore,
sand creeping in the spaces of our toes
as we stomp hard enough to leave a mark
because this is all i know the world will remember me for.
we are children running on the shore,
feet never truly touching the sea
because something lives underneath the waves
and you always try to protect me from her.
we are children running on the shore,
hands clasped tightly with each other’s
as we cherish the times we have left to spend;
marking the days we did not know were counted.
and then i was a ghost stuck on the trojan shore,
desperate, and yet unknowing how, to come back to you.
— pyrrhus, why?
goddess,
how do you want me to love?
you think so lowly of this boy
who has scraped his wobbly knees
to chase this omnipotent being
that you call your son;
worships brimming from my throat
and spilling from my wounded lips
because he is a god amongst mortals.
you think so lowly of this boy
who does not want your son to perish
even if he is forgotten through time,
because what good is his epic
when he is dust?
you think so lowly of this boy
who loves achilles
for what he is not allowed to be—
a boy.
so tell me goddess,
how do you want me to love?
how do you want us to love?
— prayers thrown at the sea
my love,
our souls have been bound longer than time can tell.
when i cursed my father for sending me away,
i did not know that it was but a thread in fate’s woven tale.
all of my shortcomings were meant to lead me to you;
the weakness of my hands
and the fear in my heart –
they all were telling me to come to you.
so my love,
this time around,
come to me quickly.
let not even death separate us.
just like how you were waiting for me in phthia,
i will be waiting for you from our tombs.
— from his ashes
mother,
am i selfish for being afraid
and angry
at the prospect of him loving another
once i am gone?
she said,
he will rather slice his own neck
than love someone not you.
i preen at her reply.
— am i like peleus?
so many times i have lain awake in silence,
hands pawing at the emptiness seated within my ribs
as though they knew that i am never myself without you.
so many times i have whispered your name,
the only part of you that i possess,
in hopes that it will satiate the desire i have for you
growing in me.
so many times i have wished for this day to come;
when my love is fully returned,
and my heart now whole as you offer me the half of yours.
so many times i have prepared myself for you,
but nothing ever prepared me for the loss that love would bring with it too.
— this is what i will lose
he weeps in his solitude
and calls for my name
as though it would bring life back to me;
as though it would bring me back to him.
—pa-tro-clus
i remember the figs and the grass
and the quiet in mount pelion.
i remember the casual looks
driven by unnamed feelings,
unsaid but not unrequited.
i remember master’s stories
and the lessons he imparted with us,
and i remember loving each shared moments—
those that we did not know were numbered.
i remember my skepticism in some of his teachings
but now i think of how true his words had become;
the greatest grief, after all,
was sending you to your death
while life continued to run through my veins.
philtatos,
we were separated once again.
-his blessings amidst our curse
the scent of pomegranates filter through the chasm
and i turn, hoping to see you—
you have never outgrew the smell of pomegranates on your neck and sandalwood on your legs—
but it is simply the goddess,
whom is beautiful beyond words to compare,
but never as beautiful as you.
she breaks the fruit open and hands me the seeds
and it feels like kissing you once again.
they do not tell me where you are
but surely, you were not meant to be in the asphodel meadows
where my mere soul rests.
it seems, my love, that even in the afterlife
the gods do not favour us.
- semantics of the dead
he grieves in silence;
continues on for days as though
he does not know how to live without me.
he has won the war
but he does not dare to celebrate,
and the life in his eyes leave
as if it were his ashes in the urn.
“who do you blame?” the god of the dead asks.
myself.
i do not answer.
- from the other side
why does an honourable death not deserve the same surge of grief and anger?
they look at me glass eyed as i mourned for your departure
and although they do not say it outright,
i catch them whispering to each other,
voices quiet as to not rouse the anger welling in me.
“we have won the war,” they say,
“patroclus died for us,” they continue as though i do not know this;
as though i do not map out the emptiness you have left.
that when i look at the cattle i think i can see you herding them in silence;
that when i turn on my side i think i can feel your chest from my back
and your arms on my waist
and your lips on my nape—
you are so integrated in my life and i see you wherever i look,
teasing me with your wide smile and your deep voice,
leaving goosebumps on my skin.
death took you away from me and yet it feels like you have never left,
and they do not understand that this is grieving.
because despite being blessed by the gods,
my eyes are still blind to ghosts
except for yours.
- the ghost of his memories
