I call to Pan, son of fleet-footed Hermes,
ever in the company of vine-crowned Dionysos,
cherished companion of full-hearted Rhea,
playmate of the mischievous nymphs. In Arcadia
were you well loved, O Pan; in sylvan groves
and deep-hewn grottos did shepherds and their sweethearts
speak your name, joyously, prayerfully, lovingly;
in cities and in villages your altars stood,
in woodlands and in flowered fields your shrines were raised.
Sweet is the sound of your pipes, O Pan, nimble the feet
of the pretty maids who follow in your dance.
Yours are all the country pleasures, the rustic song,
the simple revel; yours too the soul-seizing
dread called panic, that causeless fear that grasps and clings;
yours the open heart of passion. Pan, I call to you.
Archives
To Eros
I call to Eros, ancient one, child of chaos,
child of love and of strife, kin of the deep earth,
companion of laughter-loving Aphrodite.
Eros, confounding one, fleet-footed bearer
of shafts so sharp we scarcely feel the prick,
and yet no cut do we feel so deeply. Eros,
in Thespia and in Parios were you much honored;
in all the lands did men and women speak your name
with hope and reverence, burning sweet incense
and pouring out wine. All know your might, O Eros;
all know the barbs of your blessed darts, all know
the pain of such a wound; and all would sooner
be your prey than seek to dodge your bolt. Eros,
granter of the dearest gifts, clouder of senses,
piercer of hearts, loosener of limbs, I call to you.
To Hephaistos
I call to Hephaistos, ingenious son of Hera,
father of fair-tressed maids and bold-hearted heroes.
On the isle of Lemnos, where stood your fiery forge,
a land beloved by you above all others,
were you well honored; by those who work in bronze
and smith hot iron were you lauded throughout
the land. With grey-eyed Athena you stood
over high-pillared Athens, side by side,
guarding the splendid city of your common heir.
Mighty Hephaistos, master of all craft and art,
builder of palaces, maker of keen-edged swords
and impenetrable armor, creator of
all manner of finely-worked trinkets and baubles.
Beauty falls from your hands, Hephaistos, as artistry
falls to those you favor. God of skills, I call to you.
To Ares
I call to Ares, strong one, swift one, clever one,
god of the impulse, god of the moment,
god of the hunch and the quick reaction,
god of the battle, god of the fight. Ares,
son of thundering Zeus and dark-eyed Hera,
few were your temples, few were your shrines, for those
who held you dearest had a grave need indeed
for your favor–the field of battle was your temple,
the blood of the slain a final offering.
From the north you came, O bold-spirited Ares;
in far-flung Thrace you made your home,
the Spartans and the men of Macedon revered you.
Ares, granter of courage, granter of strength,
granter of the will to endure, friend of the wronged
and of the vengeful, O Ares, I call to you.
To Ariadne
I call to Ariadne, daughter of noble Minos
and shining Pasiphae, grandchild of bright Helios,
beloved bride of ivy-wreathed Dionysos
who bore you to Olympos and made you his wife,
by Zeus’ hand deathless and forevermore young,
to stand in the company of the blessed gods.
On ancient Crete were you born, Ariadne,
there did you take your first breath; on Naxos’ shore
did you begin your true existence at Bacchus’ side;
with him were you honored with feasts and processions,
with him did you join the dance of maenad and satyr.
In days still older, Ariadne, days so bygone
their stories shift like sand in the surf, in those days too
were you lauded, did you receive gifts of sweet honey.
Ariadne, full-hearted and wise, I call to you.
To Dionysos
I call to Dionysos, great god of the vine,
son of thundering Zeus and headstrong Semele,
loving husband of warm-hearted Ariadne.
From the east you came, old before the ancients,
throughout the elder world were you beloved;
in Naxos and Boitia were you celebrated,
in temples and in the savage wilderness,
the fleet-footed maenads running in your wake.
The sweetest, strongest wine is ever your drink;
the mind’s release, the body’s loosening, your gift.
O Dionysos; thyrsus-shaker, ivy-crowned
god, we see you in the shadows, we see you on
the edges, we see you in the haze of ecstasy,
where we know the truth of passion, where we find
the essence of our being. Bacchus, I call to you!
To Apollo
I call to Apollo, radiant and beautiful god,
son of fair Leto and lightning-wielding Zeus,
brother of swift-footed, true-shooting Artemis.
In ancient Delphi you lent your wisdom to all,
in Delos and in far-off shrines your words did sound;
across the land, in all the provinces, Phoebus,
were temples raised in your name, did men and women
gather in your honor, wreathed in sweet flowers,
words of prayer upon their lips. Many loves were yours,
bright Apollo, and many noble sons and daughters;
father of kind Asklepios, your healing hand
can cease the most poisonous of plagues. Apollo,
we see you in beauty–in art and in song,
in the perfection of numbers, in the words of poets,
in the drive toward truth. Apollo, I call to you.
To Artemis
I call to Artemis, fleet-footed bow-woman,
roamer in the woodland, wild-willed mistress of beasts,
fierce-hearted protector of young girls. Artemis,
daughter of thundering Zeus and blessed Leto,
sister of bright Phoebus, the lovely nymphs attend you.
On Delos and in Ephesos your name was spoken
with reverence and devotion; in all the lands
your temples stood, ever fragrant with sweet incense.
The creatures of the wood gather around you;
the graceful deer, the bear and the boar, all are yours.
Artemis, friend of the hunter and the fisher,
friend of mothers and midwives and all small nurslings,
friend of maidens, unfettered and free of spirit,
far-shooting goddess, goddess of the strong voice
whose words of the heart are heard, I call to you.
To Athena
I call to Athena, clear-eyed daughter of Zeus;
from his head you burst forth, all in brilliant armor,
a warrior from your first breath, born with all the skill,
all the insight, all the guile of an old warlord.
In ancient times were you well honored, goddess;
in every town your name was spoken with love
and reverence; above all in Athens, that finest
of cities, did you receive the greatest devotion.
Bold Athena whose favor falls on the brave
and on the clever, who hones the wit of the scholar
and quickens the nimble fingers of the artisan,
who offers counsel reasoned and reflective,
farsighted builder of cities who leads humanity
toward concord and community, granter of
the gift of civilization, I call to you.
To Hades
I call to Hades, lord of the dusky underworld,
lord of the dead, provider of hearth and home
to those who have passed from our presence. Mighty one,
elder son of ancient Kronos and good Rhea,
devoted husband of tender Persephone,
to your hall do all men make their way one day.
The riches of the earth are yours as well, Hades;
all the precious gems locked inside sturdy stone,
all the rich ores held within your realm; the seeds
buried in the soil, waiting to pierce the surface,
are likewise of your domain. Benevolent Hades,
granter of wealth, from your hands fall riches untold;
master of dreams, through you do our beloved dead
yet speak; holder of the gates of the world to come,
Hades, final friend of mankind, I call to you.
Underflow 