The gods, old as night, don't trouble us.
Poor weeping Venus! Her pubic hairs are grey,
and her magic love girdle has lost its spring.
Neptune wonders where he put his trident.
Mars is gaga - illusory vultures on the wing.
Pluto exhumed, blinks. My kind of world, he thinks.
Kidnapping and rape, like my Front Page exploits
adroitly brutal - but he looks out of sorts when
other unmanned gods shake their heads tut tut,
respond boastingly, boringly anecdotal.
Diana has done a bunk, fearing astronauts.
Saturn, Time on his hands, stares at nothing and
nothing stares back. Glum Bacchus talks ad nauseam
of cirrhosis and small bald Cupid, fiddling
with arrows, can't recall which side the heart is.
All the old gods have become enfeebled,
mere playthings for poets. Few, doze or daft,
frolic on Parnassian clover. True, sometimes
summer light dies in a room - but only
a bearded profile in a cloud floats over.
Beautiful piece on Greek Methodology, well articulated and nicely penned with conviction. A lovely poem indeed. Thanks for sharing. Please read my poem MANDELA - THE IMMORTAL ICON. ➕9
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful poem. The charm of old Gods seems to have dried up in today’s fast practical life but when sun rises in a beautiful dawn a poet’s heart still falls in love with his chariot of twelve horses!