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K is for Kalliope

 

Transliterated from old Greek,

Eldest and leader of the Muse

Sisters, Muse of song and

Public articulation—in other

Words, speech-delivery

 

She had a son, an artful maker,

Too—he was killed; and his

Mother took his remains to

Enshrine them on Lesbos, an

Ancient isle, which we might

Visit today

 

Were she to sing in our

Parlance and with our take

On life’s matters:

 

I inspire your song and speech

And go unrecognized

 

Most no longer believe that

Mortal skills come from a sacred

Start

 

I might sing again, though first

Would be the labor in mourning

For all I have lost

 

My boy, who was murdered

For envy or rage (I care not

Which) and whose grave

Molders in an island pit bereft

Of laurel leaves

 

Orpheus, as well my son,

Whose sanctioned journey into

Hell yet lost him his wife in

Petty business of Hades and

The underworld’s rule (I

Respect them not)—his life was

Left to sorrow like mine

 

And your interest? Why would

Gods matter to you?  All

Divinity is mitigated in belief,

Mostly unexpressed, that you

Shall save yourselves—

 

Foolish

 

You will need us, still

 

 

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