Black wings enfold
but do not fear
Mother Nyx is always near
She’s here I’m told
She’ll always be
Glory for all time to see

About Ruadhán McElroy

Ruadhán has been a traditional Hellenic polytheist for about a decade, and has also maintained devotions to Eros and Apollon most of that time; his status as a devotee of Nyx is more recent. He also paints, makes music, makes jewellery, and writes novels set in the Mod Revival (UK) and Swampie (Oz) subcultures of the 1980s. He also gets a lot of odd little experiences that he jokes will forever render him an insufferable Goth.

O first-quarter moon….

O first-quarter moon,
First half face of Selene
She who illuminates the vast tresses of Nyx
You show the first secrets
Of our Dark Mother
and you light the lamp accordingly
As you slowly ease the revelation of more
And this you show us every month
And every month is different and new
For time as we mortals know Him
Can only begin to reveal
How old our Dark Mother is
But you, Selene Waxing,
Show us just what Nyx wants us to know
This time around
And after this cycle passes
Never will these secrets of yours be the same
And so we honour, too, Selene
As She raises the wick of the lamp or the moon
And shows us what we can learn
Should we choose to


About Ruadhán McElroy

Ruadhán has been a traditional Hellenic polytheist for about a decade, and has also maintained devotions to Eros and Apollon most of that time; his status as a devotee of Nyx is more recent. He also paints, makes music, makes jewellery, and writes novels set in the Mod Revival (UK) and Swampie (Oz) subcultures of the 1980s. He also gets a lot of odd little experiences that he jokes will forever render him an insufferable Goth.

Achlys

Some say She is older than Khaos,
not as impossible as it sounds
Some say She is Misery and Pain,
without knowable bound
Some say She is Night Eternal,
cold and chattering,
the Death of Life

Few mortals have spoke Her name,
and few gods dare to
For She is all they say
and then some

She whispers great horrors and torment
She can kill the Deathless,
should They kiss the blood from Her cheeks
She can bring pain no mortal can stand,
And She was always here,
and will be forever

It is folly to pray to Her
She’ll never answer,
she doesn’t care
Her was Here, first,
But She is no-One’s Mother
–Khaos just happened,
That’s what She does–
And though parts of Her have been revealed,
here and there,
She is truly incomprehensible
And Her mist will devour All,
in the End
———————

I might just need to have been in bed hours ago, but I had to jot this down. It took what little sense I have left to keep from slipping into prose or an essay, mid-stanza, and I’m still waffling over whether or not I should include it in Nocturnal Spirits. As best as i can tell right now, it’s not very good.

About Ruadhán McElroy

Ruadhán has been a traditional Hellenic polytheist for about a decade, and has also maintained devotions to Eros and Apollon most of that time; his status as a devotee of Nyx is more recent. He also paints, makes music, makes jewellery, and writes novels set in the Mod Revival (UK) and Swampie (Oz) subcultures of the 1980s. He also gets a lot of odd little experiences that he jokes will forever render him an insufferable Goth.

A pome

The first of May!
The first of May!
Outdoor fucking,
Starts today!

About Ruadhán McElroy

Ruadhán has been a traditional Hellenic polytheist for about a decade, and has also maintained devotions to Eros and Apollon most of that time; his status as a devotee of Nyx is more recent. He also paints, makes music, makes jewellery, and writes novels set in the Mod Revival (UK) and Swampie (Oz) subcultures of the 1980s. He also gets a lot of odd little experiences that he jokes will forever render him an insufferable Goth.

[in-progress] Brother Love and Sister Strife

This is originally written by hand in a leather-bound book that I was given. It’s not finished, and I don’t know when it will be.


Brother Love and Sister Strife
Took Their tea at the cafe
And outside the cars drove through
The slush, snow blew in dis’ray.
He poured Her some coffee and (5)
She lighted His fag, the fumes,
They curled ’round Them like roses:
Around Eros there sprang blooms
Around Eris curled its thorns
As they grew so ambrosial (10)
From delicate blue-grey vines
That hued Their air a dapple.
And then the girl brought Their cakes
And she remarked that the Two
Looked so diff’rent, so the same. (15)
Eros tittered and He cooed,
Eris tossed Her locks and howled.
“My rotten brother,” laughed Strife,
“Much older, and Mum’s favourite
“And it’s the curse of my life, (20)
“He’s so close, needs me to thrive.”
“So I’m your curse now?” laughed Love.
“I have to keep you in check
“To keep the light on above!”
“But,” Strife said, “does not my work (25)
“Give greater value to all yours?”
Then Eros thought just a bit
As drafts came in through the doors
And Love twirled a chestnut wave
As He mused, “Perhaps, Sister, (30)
“As always, you speak blunt truths”
Eros noted with eyes a-glister
“But what value has your work
“Without mankind’s hope of mine?”
“Oh, semantics!” scoffed Eris. (35)
“My own words are as thine!”
“But the difference,” noted Love
“Is what it is that I meant:
“Though your gifts benign, they take
“Yet when mine decrease? Augment! (40)
“Discord can be pivotal
“Very much needed at times
“But even at their most worst,
“Love makes Mankind feel Divine.”
“So you offer illusion.” (45)
His harsh baby sister jeered.
“Fancy for children and slaves
“And I give truths without Wyrd.”
“You give illusions of truth,”
Love pointed out in defence, (50)
And then the girl brought their cheque
(Twelve pounds and twenty-eight pence)
“And what’s so wrong with the Fates?”
“You like them cos you’re immune.”
And Love stood there, dumbfounded, (55)
As the buskers played their tune.
Then Eris paused and returned,
Love then looked at the singer
And asked, “For what have you yearned?”
“My passion to earn my rent (60)
“And my food and some clobber.”
“And has love improved your fate?”
“No, I’m an odd-jobber.”
Eris scowled, Her eyes on fire,
“You know that’s not what I meant.” (65)
Eros threw up his hands, quite vexed,
Tossed his cap to the cement,
“Sister, if I’m so immune
“Then what about fair Psykhe?
“And moreover, what of Want? (70)
“And what of Difficulty?”
“This isn’t about your wife,”
Eris said with tired force,
“Nor is it about your kids
“But how you can be so coarse (75)
“And cos you’re you, they forgive
“Yet even when I am kind
“So few recognise the good.”
“Sister, mortals are so blind
“In matters of love,” he said. (80)
“And there is nothing that you
“or I can do to fix that.”
The buskers played “Love Is Blue”
And Eris asked her brother
If he remembered that show (85)
With that song used to torture
“Oh, Discord, of course I know,
“And I recognise your work.”
He kissed her forehead gently
They embraced and he remarked (90)
On her uncommon beauty
“I mean it, Baby Sister
“Even if they don’t get it
“There’s a fairness in your schemes
“And a beauty to your fits” (95)
“And in my locks and septum?”
She asked, gesturing her face.
“”Oh, quite fine accoutrements
“All arranged in perfect place”
And the wind it blew freely (100)
As the two continued home
Flurries danced upon the breeze
Between the buildings, wind moaned
Then Eris asked, just because
The song in her brother’s head (105)
Then Eros took out a smoke
And he twirled about and said
“It’s called ‘Raspberry Beret’
“The original, by Prince”
Strife remarked, “I’m not surprised (110)
“And I expect nothing less,
“That you’d eschew the covers”
“And what about you?” asked Love
And Strife thought, O such banter.
They walked, she bunched up her hair (115)
And then Eros looked at her,
His long hair cascading down
And eyes asked gently, “answer?”
“Such frivolity, Desire
“I’ve no time for this nonsense” (120)
And Eros expressed conceren,
(Then tossed tramps an old sixpence)
“What’s nonsense, Eris? Music?”
“If you must know then, Love: Yes.
“Or well, I just can’t ‘ear none (125)
“That is, I just can’t, unless…”
“Unless it’s outside your head?”
She nodded, now glad he knew.
“It’s not all they say it is,”
Love assured her ‘neath their yew (130)
In front of their old attached house
The tree, thousands of years old,
–or so was the one they cut,
When they moved in, year untold,
But before Elizabeth (135)
Was entertained by the bard
They rebuilt the house post-Blitz
The tree remained through times hard
And just like the tree, stood Love
And, too, stood his sister Strife (140)
Cos no matter what changes
The two make the fuel of Life.

About Ruadhán McElroy

Ruadhán has been a traditional Hellenic polytheist for about a decade, and has also maintained devotions to Eros and Apollon most of that time; his status as a devotee of Nyx is more recent. He also paints, makes music, makes jewellery, and writes novels set in the Mod Revival (UK) and Swampie (Oz) subcultures of the 1980s. He also gets a lot of odd little experiences that he jokes will forever render him an insufferable Goth.

[in-progress] Brother Love and Sister Strife

This is originally written by hand in a leather-bound book that I was given. It’s not finished, and I don’t know when it will be.


Brother Love and Sister Strife
Took Their tea at the cafe
And outside the cars drove through
The slush, snow blew in dis’ray.
He poured Her some coffee and
She lighted His fag, the fumes,
They curled ’round Them like roses:
Around Eros there sprang blooms
Around Eris curled its thorns
As they grew so ambrosial
From delicate blue-grey vines
That hued Their air a dapple.
And then the girl brought Their cakes
And she remarked that the Two
Looked so diff’rent, so the same.
Eros tittered and He cooed,
Eris tossed Her locks and howled.
“My rotten brother,” laughed Strife,
“Much older, and Mum’s favourite
“And it’s the curse of my life,
“He’s so close, needs me to thrive.”
“So I’m your curse now?” laughed Love.
“I have to keep you in check
“To keep the light on above!”
“But,” Strife said, “does not my work
“Give greater value to all yours?”
Then Eros thought just a bit
As drafts came in through the doors
And Love twirled a chestnut wave
As He mused, “Perhaps, Sister,
“As always, you speak blunt truths”
Eros noted with eyes a-glister
“But what value has your work
“Without mankind’s hope of mine?”
“Oh, semantics!” scoffed Eris.
“My own words are as thine!”
“But the difference,” noted Love
“Is what it is that I meant:
“Though your gifts benign, they take
“Yet when mine decrease? Augment!
“Discord can be pivotal
“Very much needed at times
“But even at their most worst,
“Love makes Mankind feel Divine.”
“So you offer illusion.”
His harsh baby sister jeered.
“Fancy for children and slaves
“And I give truths without Wyrd.”
“You give illusions of truth,”
Love pointed out in defence,
And then the girl brought their cheque
(Twelve pounds and twenty-eight pence)
“And what’s so wrong with the Fates?”
“You like them cos you’re immune.”
And Love stood there, dumbfounded,
As the buskers played their tune.
Then Eris paused and returned,
Love then looked at the singer
And asked, “For what have you yearned?”
“My passion to earn my rent
“And my food and some clobber.”
“And has love improved your fate?”
“No, I’m an odd-jobber.”
Eris scowled, Her eyes on fire,
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
Eros threw up his hands, quite vexed,
Tossed his cap to the cement,
“Sister, if I’m so immune
“Then what about fair Psykhe?
“And moreover, what of Want?
“And what of Difficulty?”
“This isn’t about your wife,”
Eris said with tired force,
“Nor is it about your kids
“But how you can be so coarse
“And cos you’re you, they forgive
“Yet even when I am kind
“So few recognise the good.”
“Sister, mortals are so blind
“In matters of love,” he said.

About Ruadhán McElroy

Ruadhán has been a traditional Hellenic polytheist for about a decade, and has also maintained devotions to Eros and Apollon most of that time; his status as a devotee of Nyx is more recent. He also paints, makes music, makes jewellery, and writes novels set in the Mod Revival (UK) and Swampie (Oz) subcultures of the 1980s. He also gets a lot of odd little experiences that he jokes will forever render him an insufferable Goth.

Spam Poetry

Endless possibilities with beautiful Russian women
Two days, we’ll make you’re cock a buffalo
What Obama doesn’t want you to know about Global warming
Straight frat boys need your cock NOW
Consolidate your debt with our program
Your dick never had it so good


Note:
This is important. This means something.

About Ruadhán McElroy

Ruadhán has been a traditional Hellenic polytheist for about a decade, and has also maintained devotions to Eros and Apollon most of that time; his status as a devotee of Nyx is more recent. He also paints, makes music, makes jewellery, and writes novels set in the Mod Revival (UK) and Swampie (Oz) subcultures of the 1980s. He also gets a lot of odd little experiences that he jokes will forever render him an insufferable Goth.

Epiphany on Oak Street « The House of Vines

Epiphany on Oak Street « The House of Vines.

The stranger Eros comes,
alighting like a black crow on the branch
amid the early morning mist.
His eyes are blue as the first violets of spring,
his hair golden-brown as a jar of honey on the shrine of the nymphs,
his lips soft as satin sheets on bare flesh,
and I know that his kiss would be tart as a cherry
just before it reaches ripeness.
The others standing there
(too engrossed in their recriminations)
do not see him, but I do.
And he smiles at me,
a sad and longing smile,
before disappearing once more.
The couple clasp hands and cross the street,
their worthless argument forgot.

About Ruadhán McElroy

Ruadhán has been a traditional Hellenic polytheist for about a decade, and has also maintained devotions to Eros and Apollon most of that time; his status as a devotee of Nyx is more recent. He also paints, makes music, makes jewellery, and writes novels set in the Mod Revival (UK) and Swampie (Oz) subcultures of the 1980s. He also gets a lot of odd little experiences that he jokes will forever render him an insufferable Goth.

Hex Me

We all come from Narkissos
And to Him we shall return
Like the sound of a tree
Falling in the woods


What is this bullshit, you might ask?

Legally protected.

That unsound old fool, as far as I’m concerned, has issued a personal challenge, and I accept. Hex me now, I’m waiting.

…also, maybe it’s cos it’s WAY past my bedtime, but I think my parody managed to be immensely deep, there. Take a night off from sleep, re-read it, and then really think about it, if you don’t see it right away.


ETA: You can follow my updates on being Hexed here:
https://twitter.com/#!/HexedByDianics

About Ruadhán McElroy

Ruadhán has been a traditional Hellenic polytheist for about a decade, and has also maintained devotions to Eros and Apollon most of that time; his status as a devotee of Nyx is more recent. He also paints, makes music, makes jewellery, and writes novels set in the Mod Revival (UK) and Swampie (Oz) subcultures of the 1980s. He also gets a lot of odd little experiences that he jokes will forever render him an insufferable Goth.

Adorations of Eros

I adore you, patron of Thespiai.
I adore you, heart of Boeotia.
I adore you, keeper of the gymnasia at Ellis.
I adore you, guardian of the Academy at Athens.

I adore you First-Born.
I adore you son of Nyx.
I adore you irresistible boy.
I adore you tender youth.

I adore you Liberator.
I adore you far-shooter.
I adore you light-bringer.
I adore you thunderer.

I adore you, Eris’ Yang.
I adore you companion to Aphrodite.
I adore you kin of Psykhe, Moirai.
I adore you challenger of Apollon.

I adore you, who makes Gods into fools.
I adore you, who is fairest of Them all.
I adore you, who runs the path of fire.
I adore you, who makes Zephyros breath quiver.

I adore you dual-natured god.
I adore you pain-inducer.
I adore you brother of Thanatos.
I adore you blinding ephebe.

I adore you random shooter.
I adore you fair roller-coaster.
I adore you sponge of all emotion.
I adore you fuel of passion.

I adore you life-bringer.
I adore you seed within the egg of Nyx.
I adore you seed within all eggs.
I adore you germination.

I adore you of infinite improbability.
I adore you force of creation.
I adore you static evolving one.
I adore you, He of fluid nature.

I adore you beloved of Psykhe.
I adore you beloved of Ganymedes.
I adore you beloved of Aphrodite.
I adore you beloved of Narkissos.

I adore you, who captures butterflies.
I adore you, who attends flowers.
I adore you, who can polish lead into gold.
I adore you, who can tarnish gold into lead.

I adore you, midnight blue born of Nyx.
I adore you, watery blue companion of Aphrodite.
I adore you, sky blue friend of Olympos’ throne.
I adore you, unobtainable blue of the rose.

I adore you, softness of lips on my cheek.
I adore you, hardness of phallos between my legs.
I adore you, piercing bite.
I adore you, inviting caress.

I adore you, who gives fragrance to quince.
I adore you, who gives vibrations to music.
I adore you, who gives taste to a lover’s skin.
I adore you, who gives beauty to those who can see it.

I adore you loosener of limbs.
I adore you shaker of hair.
I adore you whiplash of flagella.
I adore you who moves in spite of binds.

I adore you, gift of Khaos.
I adore you, guide to Kosmos.
I adore you, who breaks up the void.
I adore you, unites the plurality.


I really really wanted to add more lines to this, if only cos so many of the “adorations” posts had much more. But this is where I feel in my heart it is best to stop.

About Ruadhán McElroy

Ruadhán has been a traditional Hellenic polytheist for about a decade, and has also maintained devotions to Eros and Apollon most of that time; his status as a devotee of Nyx is more recent. He also paints, makes music, makes jewellery, and writes novels set in the Mod Revival (UK) and Swampie (Oz) subcultures of the 1980s. He also gets a lot of odd little experiences that he jokes will forever render him an insufferable Goth.