Posted by: aediculaantinoi | April 12, 2013

Panprosdexia’s Poem: “The Sixth”

For more information on this, see the following post from last month.

Without further ado…

The Sixth

I will lead them back to the light of day.

But, who is “I”? Who are “they”?

O gods of words, Muses of poetry,
permit me to bring sword-points to tongues,
breath of fire to blood of water,
and lightning to infuse this ink’s letters
as I sing the song of the Sixth
who brings the Tetrad to conclusion.

From whence do eyes of black onyx peer,
blackness within darkness, absorbing all, seeing all,
and from what void does absence emerge,
the hue of the space between stars?
A libation to those powers I now offer,
pouring honey into darkness
so that its sweetness may fill the vacuum
with the substance of stickiness
from which all may maintain cohesion–
all of life on earth, in the heavens, and every realm
is held together by threads of libation,
by the fabric of oaths and offerings
freely given and gratefully received.

Oracles, still your voices, and omens, do not fall,
for now is the moment to rest in that space
which gives darkness its sound,
emptiness its weight,
and the gods themselves their precious breath.

A feeling familiar to Paneros welled up like magma
surrounding the soul of Pancrates in a tsunami;
knowing hir own origins, Pancrates went to Paneros
inquiring how hir birth occurred. No Divi
or advising god gave direction to the drama–
none but Damballah, divinest of serpents.

Knife or sword, the work of a god like Goibniu,
at first appeared to be amongst the possible
trials that would become an eventual solution–
and yet, the stirring of liquid earth inside
seemed to Pancrates not a visceral scream;
knowledge, though, was one driving desiderata
in Pancrates’ urge toward allowing to be born
other beings–a continuous chain, not a schism–
new to the cosmos, completing the pleroma.

Looking for advice, Pancrates asked the leech, Brigid:
“It is not my advice you need, by the Styx!
Xanthine substances in your blood’s plasma…”

The goddess’ words trailed off, but her finger
extended as she said, “My sister, Brigid the poet!”
The Tetrad’s fourth member went seeking solace,
reaching the hostelry of the Dagda’s daughter, the poet.
“At last, you have come! A guest’s arrival does not vex!
Xenophobes have no merit! Hospitality’s demands are gessi!”

Drawing close to the poet, Pancrates’ swelling soul
awed Brigid the seer of splendor and poison.
Meritorious though her intent was, she said, “No–
now is not the time for fine words; I am a fili,
and my sister the smith will do the trick!
Metal is the language her hammer and anvil speaks;
everything in your blood sings of an opera
not of words or sweet notes, but instead of hot
exertion upon the anvil, a stream of magma
underneath the foundation of all…do you hear it speak?
Seek my sister, and this song will be better known.”

And when Brigid the smith heard Pancrates’ blood’s solo,
immediately she hammered a harsh charivari
sounding against Pancrates’ sonorous bodily bulk–
it serenaded the blood, and the blood in turn starts
at the echoing song of hammer-beats rousing from a deep coma…

Klotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, the three Fates,
yet, had many remnants of thread, lives yet unmade;
Keres circled above, sated, leaving not a scrap;
looming at the foot of the World Ash, spinning so
ongoing, Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld stopped their labor;
Parcae three–Nona, Decima, and Morta–made
ends of their work, and the discarded remnant
strode its stringy way to Brigid’s hammer-beats.

As scraps of Fates’ threads, Fortuna and Tyche’s cast-offs,
reached Pancrates, they surrounded hir, began to merge,
gathered themselves into tissues under the hammer’s beat,
eventually becoming the magma-blood’s skeleton–
soon they dragged Pancrates to a heavenly inferno.

Beyond Nyx’s night sky, star-filled close and far,
relegated to distant reaches, beyond Erebus’ barb,
on the threshhold between being and becoming, Chaos,
never dissolved or replaced, lingered in limitless space.
The magma blood beat like waves on shore striking,
every filament of fate-scrap skeleton pulsed stronger–
soon, a mass of being-becoming came from Pancrates’ vagina.

Stillborn, the being fell shapeless into Chaos,
turning every direction in the midst of boundless space,
emerging enlivened, a pure black shining drop
ready to become something, the rhythm a crescendo
outward to the cosmos, a mesmerizing call…
perfection of form would come at hammer’s crack
exercised by deities of forge and smithy,
soot-blackened, ash-stained, in blue flames and coal’s black.

Hyperborean nymphs, five in number, snatched the stillborn form from flames,
each in turn passing it to a smith’s divine forge:
Kouretes, Dactyls, and Chalybes worked it, striking,
and then it passed to Hephaistos, and to Vulcan’s smithy
(Typhon’s prison close by bending and seething)
on the beats of younger Cyclopes’ hammers against anvils;
now to the hands of Bolcán, Bolg mac Búain, Culann, and Goibniu;
carried by nymphs in wolf-shape to the land of Egypt,
heavy were Ptah’s works on it, and Ogun had his go,
each went before Wayland and Volund, but it did not break;
Inari-Okami and Ishi-Kore-Dome-no-Kami’s works
relented as nymphs carried it to Vishvakarman at Mount Meru.
Each of the five nymphs became birds without white
soaring with their burden to titanic lands further.

Bringing the not-yet-breathing being to an area
ranged by authchthons in ages of gold a priori
inhabited sparsely by a slow-witted brother
and his wife, the all-gifted mother, whose door-jamb
right and left were two immense wine-jars.
Epimetheus looked to Pandora, and she to him who stole fire
under a hollow fennel-stalk; the last fate rattled at the bottom of one jar,
sought the stillborn being; the nymphs cried “Euoi!

Keen were the hammers of ancient siblings three
on fashioning the stillborn being away from death;
their three hammers pounded, their three eyes did not tic
under their steadfast gaze, older than the earth’s foundation…
soon, the blood and breath of the being thrived from hands born ages ago.

Great were the beings of fifty heads as they did sculpt
youngest descendant with their hundred hands, a figura
gently and delicately formed by beings whose whim could break
every pillar and beam of the firmament to none…
shaped lovingly the being, who took their first breath.

“I will lead them back to the light of day.”

And though they had said words of gold into six-hundred black-cavern ears,
their gentle sound like pouring honey into darkness,
the black talons of a scald-crow of battle
snatched the new being, now breathing, now having spoken,
to carry them away from the five nymphs
and a hundred-fifty pairs of eyes
into the shadowy fosterage of a northern isle
even though they had obsidian-feathered raven’s wings themselves.

Under the tutelage of Scáthach, they learned
the skills of teinm laedo, dichetal do chennaib,
and that most treasured art, imbas forosnai;
the thunder-feat, the apple-feat, the shield-rim,
the heroic salmon leap, the battle cry of daimones of air,
the precision stroke, the spear-point, and the gae bolga;
and the feats she never taught Aífe, or Úathach,
or Cú Chulainn: the by-roads of the clouds,
the sea highways, and the mists upon the plain.

The Morrígan lead Pancrates to Scáthach’s isle
to see hir new child in the safety of fosterage:
and where the parent was every gender possible,
the child was no gender at all.

The fosterlings of Scáthach, from every land,
of all ages and of diverse genders
derided the child of Pancrates
for between their legs was nothing,
a flat featureless valley between the ridges of their legs.
With a glint in their onyx-black eyes shining,
the child smiled at every remark and chiding,
knowing the insecurities each joke exposed and concealed,
and felt compassion for the sayer in each exposure.
No shield, of beaten bronze, wood, or words
could withstand the all-knowing gaze of the child.

Pancrates was pleased with hir new child,
but also puzzled.
How could nothing come from everything?

The parents and grandparents of the new child,
Panpsyche, Panhyle, Paneros, Pancrates, and Paneris,
stood around the Sixth, their completion, in awe.

“Who are you, and what is your nature?”
Panpsyche asked first.

“Panprosdexia is my name,
given to myself because my nature
is to accept all there is in all beings.”

“How do you stand in your own body?”
Panhyle asked next.

“I stand with two arched feet
upon two strong legs, two stout arms,
a torso filled with the organs of life,
a stern neck supporting a head
with clear ideas, open ears,
eyes that see all things,
and the mouth to speak what is necessary.
Not a hair on my head hides my scalp
from the sweet rays of sun, moon, and stars.
And if my feet should fail, or my legs weaken,
my black-feathered wings hold me up
like the night sky suspends the expanse of earth.”

“Who do you love?” Paneros asked after.

“No being in the cosmos is undeserving of love;
therefore, no being that has ever existed
is outside the boundaries of my love.”

“What power do you bring?”
Pancrates asked following.

“The power to guide souls of gods and mortals
on whatever path they choose
from first steps in fear to final strides in triumph.”

“What troubles you, my child?”
Paneris asked last.

“That the acceptance for all which I have
is not shared by most other beings in existence.”

But another question lingered
among the parents and grandparents
which only Paneros was bold enough to ask
after silent glances demanded a breaking.

“Who do you wish to be your lover?”

“My love is for everyone, not for someone.”

“But what about sex?
Doesn’t your body yearn for that closeness?”

“If I experienced such closeness,
I would not be able to guide anyone–
desire for only one would lead me astray,
and would put all others off their own paths
under my faulty guidance.
Singular love or sex is not for me.”

The five parents and grandparents and siblings
were completely confused and upset.

“But, how is that possible?” Paneris asked.

“Scáthach has taught me well.
I am a soldier always at my duty,
a warrior ever at the ready.
It is never for a woman’s arse,
a man’s cock, any body’s pleasure,
or for my own ecstatic release
that I have come into being
and embarked upon this holy work–
until it is done, until every last being
has been lead back to the light of day
in the land of endless sunshine
beyond the furthest northern wind
I will not have a joining of souls
or bodies with any singular being.
I am the libation of honey
poured streaming into darkness
as an offering of thanks, praise, and prayer
to every forgotten being,
to all of the souls silenced and scared,
to those damned and driven into darkness
for no other reason than that they existed.
Until they rest in contentment and pleasure
my love and pleasure is only in aid of others
to find their footing on their paths of promise,
their ways of working, their roads of release.
I accept them all in their individual ideals,
I accept them all in their unique identities,
I accept them all in their feats and their faults,
I accept them for their beauties and their blunders;
I accept this as my task, my divine purpose,
for it is my name: Panprosdexia.”

Gods, mortals, and heroes alike
alive and dead, forgotten and famous,
would benefit from the boons of Panprosdexia.

The infant Demophoön, dead from a mother’s word
would reach youth at Panprosdexia’s side,
and the two burned together in the fire
into immortality in ambrosial embrace,
the promise of Demeter at last fulfilled.

Agdistis, the great being who was their great-grandparent,
at last had the healing the gods denied them–
what had been castrated was restored,
and the rock-born being cried out in ecstasy
at last after ages of singing their own dirge.

Children of the Sun, and the Moon, and the Earth
sundered from each other’s backs by the gods’ fear
were joined together once again
when the Tetrad’s grandchild found them,
never again to be halved or quartered.

And even in the bowels of a great volcano
serpent-legged Typhon, terror of Olympians
found his bonds loosened and his heart quenched
when Panprosdexia appraoched him with a crown,
child of the Queen of Heaven, Hera, herself.

But there was more to be done before they could rest,
youngest descendant of Nyx, heir to Gaia’s blood.

The humans, far too many in number,
from ages of gold, silver, and iron
who never became honored ancestors,
deprived of descendants and memory upon the earth
were gathered together under Panprosdexia’s gaze.

They were guided upon the paths they never trod,
saw the sights and said the words they were denied,
were given voice and name and a place in the world
when all others in the universe had silenced them
because they did not accept their nature–
Panprosdexia, all-acceptance, guided them all.

Not even the gods are at the ends of their roads,
so the Sixth thought and knew in their marrows,
and they would need to be guided in new ways
because newer realities had emerged, were emerging,
and though old fears and prejudices remained,
what was new had the power to rewrite history, refashion existence.

“I will lead them, all of them, back to the light of day”:
the motto and mission of the Sixth, Panprosdexia,
the new wine poured from an ancient wineskin,
the new treasure brought forth from the old treasure-house,
the sweetest golden honey poured into the void of darkness…
Muses, Erotes, gods, and powers, this story is at an end.


Hail, Thanks, and Praise to the Tetrad!
Hail, Thanks, and Praise to Panpsyche and Panhyle!
Hail, Thanks, and Praise to Paneros and Paneris!
Hail, Thanks, and Praise to Pancrates!
Hail, Thanks, and Praise to the Sixth, Panprosdexia!


  1. Beautiful. Thank you so much!

    Hail Panprosdexia!

  2. Genius breathes through you, my friend.

  3. […] Although my fingers and heart have itched to spin endless words about Panprosdexia, I have been holding myself back. I had no myths, no iconography, no symbols to guild me. I only had a deep aching love and a frenzied desire to scream their name from the highest places – which while laudable is not elegant. So I have waited for the time that poor P. Sufenas Virius Lupus, who is currently sick, would be able to weave those things into existence. I could have waited a decade for those words, that is how perfect they are. […]

  4. […] And P. Sufenas sings of The Sixth: […]

  5. […] to some of the poems I wrote in the recent Hephaistos devotional and some of my other recent poetry, too. I’m in the midst of writing about Hera (and the Empress Diva Sabina Augusta) at the […]

  6. […] can read “The Marriage of Paneros” to honor either Paneros or Paneris; and one can read “The Sixth” for […]

  7. […] connected to Kataskion is “shadowy,” and if anything emerged in the work writing “The Sixth,” it was that Panprosdexia is the one born in shadow, fostered in shadow (as, literally, […]

  8. […] that put the “++” in “Tetrad++,” in fact!–which can be found here and here. They certainly have not had that many page views as some of my other more recent posts (or older […]

  9. […] i.e. the birth of the final member of the Tetrad++ Group, Panprosdexia. The following month, I shared one version of their story. I hope to have that poem, as well as the one on Paneris (whose birth festival is tomorrow!), and a […]

  10. […] of hard to describe Their myth of birth, but it can be read in its entirety at the following link: “The Sixth.” It is the shortest of the TransMythology poems, but (I think, anyway!) no less powerful for its […]

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