A Poem for Rhodophoria

According to my good friend Sannion’s calendar, today is the Rhodophoria. This isn’t a festival that I have celebrated previously, nor is it one that I had originally planned to do. But, after having read the post linked to above, I was taken with an urge to participate in some manner; it’s not likely I’ll get to do much for it on my own here today, but at very least I could contribute at-a-distance by writing a poem. But, what to write?

Based on some comments I made on the post above, an idea occurred to me. As much as I like modern hymns in a traditional style, they’re appealing less and less to me these days. Don’t get me wrong, they’re lovely; but the gods are living and interacting with us here and now, in our own modern world and in our own modern idioms. So, I went with something along those lines in the poem which follows.

For me, high school was a nightmare for all sorts of reasons that had nothing to do with sexuality or religion; late in high school, I was open and forward and honest about the latter but not the former (and I had barely even realized that I was “different” at that point). I still have anxiety dreams that take place in high school. So, revisiting that atmosphere was somewhat intriguing. I suspect that a great deal more of adult behavior and its peculiarities has its origins not in the far reaches of childhood, but instead in the specific turbulent years of middle school and high school. For all the kids who were or are currently in high school, who were a bit like me, this is for you as much as for myself and for the gods involved. I’ve chosen a photo that seemed appropriate for the middle of the poem…Even though it’s not to my exact tastes, it fit the necessity for the poem, and that was good enough for me.

High School Gods

Today is the Rose Festival,
the day everyone who is anyone
gets sent a rose by some admirer–
maybe one, maybe a dozen or dozens.

Hermes is handing them out
but also selling them.
“Let’s have one,” I say,
passing him my money.

“Not how it works!
You buy it, tell me who it’s for,
and I take it to them.”
I shake my head at him.

“It’s not for me, really.
I’m giving it to someone myself.”
I can see I’ve intrigued him,
but he’s still not convinced.

It’s lucky I have a bit more money,
which changes his uncertainty
to a smile and a nod.
Everyone is going to lunch now.

Dionysos, as usual, is the only
cool one among the stage monkeys.
Apollon is with all his
glee club girlfriends.

I spot Antinous at a table
in his letterman’s jacket.
There’s a whole pile of admirers
with him trying to get his attention.

I do his homework for him,
not because I am deluded enough
to think I have a chance with him
like all these creeps at the table.

No, only because he’s cute when he asks,
and he’s no chore to look at,
his hair smells really good
and he pats me on the shoulder

when I hand him his books.
I’m adrift in the crowd
three tables and more from him
but still he waves from a distance.

Poseidon and the rest
of the varsity swim team
are posing for pictures
with whomever pays for them

as a fund-raiser;
the dunk tank didn’t work out
when on the first hit
Poseidon crashed down

and leveled most of the science wing.
Pictures with hot guys
in speedos should bring in
enough money to get it fixed.

Artemis and the other members
of the women’s soccer team
turn the corner; instinctually,
I back myself against the lockers.

Not far behind them,
easily the hairiest guy in school–
Pan–goes by with his flute-boys
and drummer-girls.

Set, head of the social rejects
in his leather jacket and mohawk
would sooner stick a knife in most people
than talk to them,

but he’s never been mean to me.
He sees me with the rose,
smiles, and says singing
“Ev’ry rose has it thorn.”

I wonder if he noticed
that I’m bleeding a little–
Hermes didn’t trim this one well,
but he’s never been a gardener.

Dark-haired, doe-eyed Hathor passes.
I can’t fathom how good she smells.
“Maybe I’ll see you later?”
“I hope so,” I answer.

At last, at her own table,
but of course with her boyfriends–
Ares the quarterback,
Hephaistos from metal shop,

and Adonis, the homecoming king–
along with all the other cheerleaders
sits Aphrodite herself.
Gods, life is unfair.

She actually makes gold lycra
look good–not easy!–
and those legs, that skirt,
those breasts, her beautiful face…

She’s got about sixty roses,
and I know the ones her boys have
were all sent by her to them.
Well, here goes nothing.

A few cheerleaders’ eyes turn
as I approach the table.
They’re already laughing
and not even trying to hide it.

Ares gives me a look
with those bloodshot eyes
that tells me I have
an appointment with a trash can.

Adonis is autistically oblivious
while even Hephaistos,
Industrial Artist of the Year,
is giving me a nod

that would tell any sane person
there was no chance in Hades.
But, I don’t care–
being a geek has that advantage.

She stops mid-sentence
with one of her girlfriends–
is her name Sappho?–
and turns toward me.

Her eyebrows, those perfect arches,
raise in a way that say more
than Hermes’ closing statement
at last week’s debate meet.

I hand her the flower.
Her boyfriends laugh.
“For me?“
“Yes.”

“Why?“
Ares makes a fist.
“Look, I’m not stupid.
I know you don’t want me.

But I hope someone else does.”
Ares isn’t backing off…fuck.
“What are you asking?“
I swallow, take a deep breath.

“There must be someone out there
that I’ll like, who will like me.
I can’t get them without you.
Gods I have–

RIght now, I want a person.”
No one is laughing now.
“I OUGHTA FLATTEN YOU!“
Ares is almost on fire.

“Go ahead, do it–
there are far scarier things.”
He’s either impressed or confused…
thank the gods he bought the bluff.

She looks at the rose,
the blood on my finger.
“I’ll see what I can do.“
“That’s all I’m asking.”

I bow to her, raise my hand
in salute to her boys,
backing away, trying not to trip.
But I feel I should say more.

Every word I’ve read and remembered,
every hymn and poem,
all desert me entirely,
my heart beating, sweat pouring

from my forehead in a white-hot rush.
“Uhh…Go Team?!?”
That must be the lamest thing ever.
Still, I mean every word of it.

*****

So, Happy Rhodophoria all!