The Ants Who March For Myrmex Poem by Steve Trimmer

Naif art thou, who wouldst rebuff the Sacred Feminine
Ah! To tarry aside the Ant Hill; be’t blissful ambrosia?
Methinks it so

Upon the yester night She did so emerge from these soils
As Lady Moon’s face in full form
Solemnly She glares; mockingly glower scowls
My faint heart now replete; a soul reborn
She assuages my spirit, without condemnation
As I cry for my love
The sweet Naiad………….sweet Thetis
My tears drip dolefully, into Her sea waters
As She swims away daintily upon a flote
An’ our child, Achilles, is now lost to Her
Will I find indemnity upon these new shores

Once, I wert Peleus (The Muddy One)
Anoint me didst the Divine Ladies; in muddied-ink of sepia-cuttlefish
Seal -daughters of my own Thetis were they (50 in number)
Dwelling within those caves at Cape Sepias (an’ haunt them still)
The place where once the Divine-Child, Phocus, did trod
What became of those days?

My sacred anemone flower now withers
Wizened petals of 8; number of fecund faith
Now blow asunder an’ afloat in baleful breezes

Ere my death at Cos
I fed from trenchers at the royal table
Ate I, ripened figs an’ quinces, brought by way of Pontus Euxeinos (a sea so Black)
My Queen wast The Lady Myrmex; The Ant Queen (whom I adore still)
She who is versed in the entomological incantations of the Thessalian Shrines
Once I did stand uxoriously upon Her rostra (the throng would cheer)
An’ spake on the behalf of my Queen
What became of those days?

A copious aura begirded ’r clan
E’en The Centaurs revered our lands in Phthia
In Iolcus, nigh the Pagasaean Gulf I sang;
Leading pagan-choir matins to ’r Lady Myrmex
An’ e’en as the Athenians and Magaraeans were at loggerheads;
Vying for lands an’ power upon the Salamis Isle
I lay peaceably in grounds upon it’s west-bound shores
Ne’er a rueful thought didst besmirch my conscience
Nor didst I utter a single word in liminal rage
What became of those days?

On Aegina Isle nigh Corinth’s Gulf
I loved…………I lived………….on pibbled shores
My love Thetis smiles (hind a Gorgon mask of Aphrodite)
A hecatomb of oblations proffered I to Her
100 oxen lay dead
Her daughters splatter blood of these fine beasts; o’er the faces of ‘r people
In thanks to their gift
Not a helot dwelled ‘mongst us; equality was our doctrine true
…………….The spine shivers
As She howls up to the Bloody-Moon (ululations of rebirth methinks)
What became of those days?

I am awakened, presently, by an iniquitous Olympian war-cry
Tis my son, Achilles
He hacks down our Lady’s sons in droves of hundreds
Forsaking his Mother’s honour;
Achilles violates the Amazonian-Queen; sweet Penthesileia
Ere striking Her death blow dost ravage Her corse (I weep for Her still)
In this act, Her honour an’ purity he hast purloined
By what end did rancour set within the heart of my son?
What is becoming of these days?

Alack! A wound to the heel of great Achilles;
Sent by way of the young archer, Paris, at siege of Troy
The arrow would stop the man, yet not the bedlam
War rages on each side of The Aegean
My trothplight couldst nary chance halt this war in Troy
Lady Thetis takes my hand
An’ apples fall to the feet of The Muses
Pick-thank and scribe alike, say this be the catalyst to provoke these Trojan Wars
Marry, this can be not so?
Her fruits from Elysium can be blamed not
For e’en mine own brother Telamon pays homage to the Eleusinian Shrines
What is becoming of these days?

Upright I stand, ’mongst these comely fields o’ gold
Here before me stand my Queen’s Ants……..The Myrmidons;
Honing their falchions
Grinding their mattocks
Cinching their leathers, both bracers an’ greaves
Buckling their breast plates
In preparation of battle, so to foin down their fellow humans
What became of the revels?
What became of the harvest?
When our oxen bleed, it is for life
But why do our sons bleed?
It can only be for death;
Honour I see naught of in such commissions
I see only generations of suffering………..and only pain

They call me Peleus King of the Phthian Myrmidons
Our Ants go marching………………..
Our Ants go marching………………….
From hill-top afar, I espy Our Lady Myrmex
….............She looks on in tears
What has become of these days?


Steve Trimmer