Διονυσος

When the bar is quiet, populated by  

Modern maenads in suits and t-shirts

Madness burning behind eyeglasses  

and half empty happy hour margaritas

They hum hymns against abrasive bass lines  

Pay out tabs and tips with wine stained dollar bills

Pray at a temple tucked between a strip club and an abandoned corking company

Hiding in a dark damp alley beside the gods of men-

The clouds of Olympus as fog on downtown brick.

Dionysus does drag with glitter on his lips

That sparkles off LED lights and pollutes his mouth with glamour,

Falling off his tongue like intoxication and

Dusting the silken gown that hugs his hips,

 a hidden rite in a dark temple

Tantalizing and teasing, he mouths the words to a song  

The world has long forgotten,  

One whose melody once pervaded the spirit in hot heavy forests  

in strained voices against skin and ecstasy-  

An ancient mystery reserved for slaves and women.

Dionysus does drag on Wednesday nights

This pompous pageantry a parody of

Semele and  Zeus,

He stitches the souls of audience members in his thigh

With a needle made of far off fantasy and thread crafted from fever dreams

The air sits thick with sweat and sweet wine,

He shows the audience

Rebirth

During a performative climax.

When they gasp he

Takes their breath and fashions it into  

Pointed shellac nails and pink powder that smears over his cheeks-

They never breathe again  

And they adore him.  

It’s sparkling amethyst and blossoming vines

He turns their two dollar draft into to nectar,

showers the smoky stage with golden ichor,

Makes throats burn with prayer and cheap liquor

Sways hips and thrums hearts with sex and madness and the heady heat of heedless hedonsim

Dionysus serves reverent divinity to a dusty dive bar

On Wednesday nights

and some days, i am a fairy tale child

lost in the woods, caught in the brambles.

some days i lie there, quite still,

and pray that the briars grow bored.

some days i scream for someone to find me

until my throat burns itself raw, and claw

at the thorns until my hands tear and bleed.

there are no songbirds in these woods. but no

witches either, and the wolves make their retreat

at the sound of a leopard in the brush.

and He follows soon. liberator and savior, He is.

wine-dark and raging, He is. our consummate god.

salvation does not come easily. thorns will make you bleed

even as you are pulled from them. the deeper the cut,

the closer to freedom.

and when i am free, i shall be fully His. i shall run

through the ivy-covered trees, never minding the fear,

never minding the dread. this is His domain,

and when i am free, here is where i shall find Him.

here, the maenads scream with ecstasy

and pull me with them through the wilds.

here, there is no difference between blood and wine.

here is where terror dies. here is where i live.

for His is the madness that wills me to live.

Pentheus I seem to see two sons blazing in the heavens. And now, two Thebes, two cities, and each with seven gates. And you - you are a bull who walks before me there. Horns have sprouted from your head. Have you always been a beast? Well, now you have become a bull.

Dionysos The god was hostile formerly, but now declares a truce and goes with us. You now see what you should.

I love this, because it seems to me like Euripides is implying that the effeminate stranger with ivy in his curls is something put on, a form the god takes to carouse with his bacchantes. Great and terrible as he is always, yes, but something his mortal followers seemed to survive (In a physical sense, anyway. We can get into symbolic death another time.)

Either way it’s not quite this, the fearsome bull-god who stands singular amid a world cast double by his mere presence uncloaked. This is a divine, horned thing who has ripped the fabric of being to make room for himself. This is beyond our comprehension, cosmic, primordial. And the cherry on the whole scene? He declares this is what Pentheus should see. 

(it’s for a poem, so really even places I could start my own research other than the Orphic Hymns would be pretty helpful)

Myth is not allegorical.  Myth is not fictional.  Myth is also not real.  The truths in myth are unspeakable, and such is the essence of Mystery.

*******

Once upon a time, Zeus made love to his daughter, Persephone.

Once upon a time, Haides and Persephone were wed.

Once upon a time, Semele fell madly, soul-crushingly in love with the King of Heaven.

Once upon a time, the Bull slept in the underground maze, with only his sister there for company.

*******

Persephone gave birth to the Heir to Heaven.

Haides was Zeus of the Underworld.

Semele gave birth to a bastard Prince.

Theseus came to save Athens.

*******

The Heir of Heaven was torn to shreds by the Titans of the lower world.  They were sent by Hera; or were they there to enact His necessary becoming?  They would follow Him later.

Haides watched as Persephone left, his heart torn asunder.

Charcoal smoked where Semele once stood.

The Bull bled out his royal life in the maze.

*******

Athene rescues the heart of the Heir of Heaven.  It is given to Semele as meat, a gift from her lover.

Persephone returns.  Soon after, a stranger to the Underworld arrives, still living, lyre in hand.

Ivy nestled in the charcoal, protecting the fetus still too young for life.  Zeus takes the fetus in, and makes himself pregnant in Semele’s place.

Theseus is guided out of the maze by the light of Ariadne’s crown.

*******

Charcoal smokes where Semele once stood.

Orpheus beholds the Sun in the Underworld, and vows never to return to the joyful songs of his previous life.

Dionysos goes mad, driven by Hera.

Ariadne vows to end her life on the shores of Naxos.

*******

Zeus gives birth to the Lord of Life and Death.

Orpheus’ head, ripped from his body, floats to the shores of Lesbos, uttering pure prophecy.

Dionysos honors Pentheus by having the king ripped to pieces.

Ariadne is slain on her wedding night.

*******

All sorrow carries the seeds of joy.  All death contains the seeds of life.  Life must end in death, and death must find its end in life.  In the labyrinth, you cannot get lost, but you can lose yourself very easily.

The Bull dreams of the God.

The God dreams of the Bull.

There were many stories and myths to begin with: Athenian stories, Spartan stories, Cretan stories. Amongst these were those of the Dying-and-Reborn God, the King of Heaven to Come:

Born variously of Semele or of Persephone; Zeus in the form of a serpent intermingled with the Goddess of Chthonic Twilight, and unto them was born Zagreus. As a mere babe he was tempted by toys, and the Titans tore him apart. His heart was saved by Athena, who gave it unto Zeus.

Zeus came upon Semele; she was tricked into asking to see his True Form, and  her mortal form was consumed in Heavenly Fire. Only her child was saved. And so the Liberator came into the world: the benefactor, most blessed of the Gods and the Delight of the World.

Driven mad in his youth, he was taught the Mysteries and Rites of Cleansing by the Great Mother (Rhea), and entered the Underworld afterward to rescue his mother.

The ‘God-Who-Comes’ is also ‘The-God-Who-Goes,’ and when he sleeps, he sleeps in the House of Persephone. He is friends with the spirits of the Chthonic world: he knows Melinoe, and Hekate, and Kerberos (who licks his feet lovingly as he leaves the Underworld). He repaired relations with Hera and Hephaistos. He parties with his brothers, Apollo and Hermes.

He came upon Ariadne on Naxos, and in the aftermath of their marriage, she too was uplifted as a Goddess.

@templeswreathedinlaurel

“Hymn to Dionysos”

@temples-wreathed-in-laurel

“Hymn to Dionysos”

Made for @delphicsacrifice

@temples-wreathed-in-laurel

“Hymn to Dionysos”

@temples-wreathed-in-laurel

“Hymn to Dionysos”

@temples-wreathed-in-laurel

“Hymn to Dionysos”

(via

trueheroinex

)

And just like that, a new UPG: Dionysos of accidental truths

—

Dionysos tastes the first wine created from the grapevines of his fallen Ampelos

Dionysiaca, Nonnus

Bacchus

1808

Erik Gustaf Göthe (1779–1838)

Marble

Nationalmuseum

Red-figure Nolan Amphora with Dionysos

Greek, Attic; ca. 470–460 BC

Attributed to the Painter of London E342

Princeton University Art Museum