sannion

To Horus of Everlasting Glory

Horus!
I shout your name to the sky,
standing firm on my own two feet.
Other gods may ask for the kissing of the earth,
and it is proper to show our respect to them in this way.
But you, my Lord, did not fall to your knees
even when the hosts of Seth were all about you,
trying to beat you down with their sticks and crudely made war-clubs.
You fought your way through the crowd,
smashing their skulls and crushing their throats
until only you remained standing amid a pile of broken bodies,
their blood blackening the earth like an unseasonable inundation.
You lifted high your noble hawk's head and cried out to the heavens,
a terrible sound that made the gods in their temples tremble,
and even your hard-hearted brother Seth himself feared you in that moment.
I beat my chest with my own mighty fist
and feel your power rise up in my limbs.
I shall make myself strong in your worship,
stripping away whatever weakness remains in my body
to give to you as a fit offering,
you who make the Two Lands prosper
and drive all of Egypt's foes from the land.
My prayer is simply this:
that I may find a way to be useful to you
and do your work in the world.
Once, you chose another strange man
from a distant land to serve you.
Ptolemy was his name,
the son of Lagos men first called him.
But later,
once you had taken him under your mottled wing,
moulded him into a great King
and a man of war, unconquerable in battle like unto yourself,
wearing your own White Crown
and wielding the spear you used
to slay the river-beasts who opposed the going-forth of Re's barque,
men began to call him the Savior
and the living image of Horus the Protector of his people.
I do not pretend to have the greatness of Ptolemy in me,
but with your help, O Horus, I hope to find my own greatness
so that long after I pass into the Beautiful West,
men will remember the name of Sannion
and say that that was a man who knew the gods
and served them well.
May it be so!

A Feast of Flagons

You wonder why I drink,
as you sneer at me with contempt.
Well, woman, I drink to forget,
because remembering is too painful.
Once we were young, and you loved me.
At least I thought you did
- but that was so long ago
and there has been so much wine since then,
who can say anymore?
You were my Ariadne,
more lovely than all the women at court,
and I had eyes only for you.
I longed for nothing but to lay my bull's head in your lap
and feel your soft hands run through my shaggy hair.
I fancy you thought me your Dionysos,
a conquering god in mortal flesh
come to set your soul free like a mainad reveling on the hill.
But you never thought that, did you?
Or if you did, it quickly passed in the face of harsh reality.
Soon all you could see
were my endless faults,
how many fears gripped my soul,
how dull my spirit was when the god was not animating it.
I needed your faith to light the fires within me,
to become what I had the potential to be.
But all I got was your contempt instead,
or worse than that, cold indifference.
So the god remained dead inside me,
unroused by his mad-woman.
I tried to do it myself
through strong drink
through dance
through passionate prayer.
But I am clumsy-footed,
my faith is weak,
and I ended up just a sorrowful drunkard,
drinking now to forget what I might have been,
or that look in your eyes whenever you see me anymore,
or what I've done to this god inside me.
He deserves better than this,
and I want to free him
but I haven't the strength to hang myself
or open up my veins.
So instead,
each night,
I drown myself in wine,
hoping that tomorrow will be the morning I fail to wake.

Ptolemy in the temple at Denderah

Toss your head back, O Ptolemy, and cry out in exultation,
for you have come into the presence of the Mistress of Jubilation,
Hathor the Golden, the Great Cow who gives birth to Kings.
Dance for her in the hidden chambers of the temple,
dance for her all night while the crowds of pious pilgrims dance for her in the streets,
drunk on beer and the fruit of the vine,
drunk on love and the wild music of the priests.
Take up the sistrum in your royal hand and shake it for her,
driving evil out of the land and making the fertile crops rise up
like Ihy the fruit of her union with the Hawk.
Shake yourself for her, until no more thoughts remain in your head,
until you have become an empty vessel into which her power can be poured,
like the jars of good beer that await the pacification of Re's fiery Eye.
Give to her jars of sweet-smelling ointment and garlands of flowers
plucked by your own hand from the bank of the river.
Beg her to come in peace and make the land beautiful once more through her joyous return.
Give to her libations of sweat from your body from the dancing,
for this is the worship most pleasing to her heart,
she whose joyous dance gives motion to the world
and fills the limbs of all with increased life.
What is it that separates the living from the dead?
The dead are still and cannot dance,
while all things that live
- trees and beasts,
flowers and birds,
the river and the gods -
are dancing.
So dance, O King, and never stop
if you want Egypt to live.
For the heart of Egypt is in your breast
and you must make it beat through your dancing.

Hymn to Seth

Hail to you Seth, great one of Ombos,
who stands foremost in the barque of Re
slaying the innumerable hosts who seek to oppose the King of the Gods
in his passage through the underworld each night.
Likewise you are at the side of our King Ptolemy,
making strong his arm and putting fear of him in the hearts of his enemies.
You, Lord of the Red Land, master of the savage stormwind,
smash the ships of the Greeks, break the spears of the Syrians,
and step on the necks of the Egyptian who would dare rebel against his rightful master.
You have placed the Deshret-Crown of Lower Egypt upon the head of Ptolemy,
you have given into his hand the khopesh-sword,
and taught him how to use it.
He rules because you wish him to rule,
you whose heart is strong and loves a strong heart in others,
you whose mind is always turned to foreign things
and make your home far from men and the places of the gods.
Take this strong beer in your name of Sutekh,
take this offering of pork in your name of the Black Pig Who Smites the Eye,
take this magnetic stone in your name of He Whose Bones are the Iron Beneath the Earth,
and know that you shall have endless offerings in your temple
so long as the memory of what you did for Ptolemy and his sons
remains on earth among us,
the loyal partisans of the House of Ptolemy, beloved of Seth.

Hymn to Arsinoe-Aphrodite Zephyritis

Three in number were the Graces,
those beautiful goddesses of blooming flowers and soft gowns
handmaidens of the Paphian Queen who adorned her at her birth
when she rose lovely-shaped from the waters of the primeval ocean
and stepped onto dry land,
already wielding power over the hearts of men and gods alike.
But now they are four, since the radiant Arsinoe has come to join their ranks.
Mortal-born was she, with good blood of the Lagides in her veins.
When she came forth from her mother's lucky womb,
no gods stood in attendance to ease the pangs of labor or wash the babe clean,
but none were needed for Arsinoe's nature was so pure,
her temperament so sweet,
that the Queen was delivered of her in ease
and wept only at the sight of her beauty.
The charm of the Golden One was about her from the first,
and her nurses counted themselves uniquely blessed to be charged with her care.
Is it any wonder then that her brother fell under her spell even in their youth,
and followed her about like a love-sick puppy wherever she went?
Her father, too, was wrapped around her dainty finger,
and never could say no to what she wished.
Therefore he gave his consent to let the siblings wed,
though this had never before been the custom of their people.
But they lived in Egypt now, not mountainous Makedon,
and it was common practice for the Kings of that land
to share the holy bed with their sisters.
Nor did Hera refrain to bless this happy union
- and how could she when it was her brother Zeus and no other
that she saw fit to take to her bosom in loving embrace?
Arsinoe made her Ptolemy happier than any man who had ever walked the earth before him,
being modest and always pleasant-natured,
seeing to his every want and bearing him many fine sons and daughters to carry on his name.
She was wise as well,
and gave him advise in running the country,
sage counsel worthy of any philosopher.
Her chief virtue, however,
was that she showed a special concern for the gods of her country,
going out of her way to keep their solemn festivals
and build fine houses for them.
In fact, she excelled all others in her pious deeds,
like an athlete competing in the arena of religion,
and she showed especial care for the worship of love's goddess.
Never did a day pass by without a prayer to Aphrodite on her lips,
and always she brought costly offerings to the altar,
pleasing to the Kytherean's heart.
More than Queen, Mother or Wife
- titles dear to Arsinoe -
did she pride herself on being the goddess' slave,
serving her in every way possible
and with all that she had at her disposal.
And so it was that when Arsinoe's allotted number of days had reached their end,
Aphrodite took it into her mind to reward this exceptional votary
for a lifetime of faithful service.
She sent the Sons of Zeus,
horse-taming Kastor and Polydeukes, strong of arm,
down from the heights of snow-capped Olympos
to snatch Arsinoe up before she could taste the bitter wine of death.
She then bathed her in the waters of the sacred river that flows through the heavens,
removing the wrinkles that marred her face so that once more she appeared a maiden
flush with the ripeness of youth.
And she dressed her in the gowns of her attendants,
which gleam like the fire-pulsing stars,
and she crowned Arsinoe with a crown like that which Dionysian Ariadne wears,
making her one of the gods in heaven with a share of Aphrodite's own power,
to revel in her company for all time.
And men on earth worshiped her as a goddess too,
building a resplendent temple for her at Zephyrion
where she could watch the waves crash against the rocks
and guide sailors away from all danger.
Nor did Alexandrian wives neglect her cult,
supplicating Arsinoe often to bless their marriage
so that it might have even a small part of the happiness
that she and her Ptolemy once enjoyed.
So hear my prayer, O Arsinoe-Aphrodite,
and smile upon me for this heartfelt hymn,
composed for you out of the best that I have to offer,
like the gifts you once made for the Heavenly Queen.
And grant that my soul will not be tossed about on the mad sea of love,
but that I always find my way safely into the arms of the one I hold dear,
each of us experiencing unmeasured joy in the other's company!

The Oracle

Once, or so it is said, when Alexander and Ptolemy
were still boys at the court of King Philip,
they wondered what their future would hold
and what manner of men they would become
when they reached the fullness of their days.
So the bosom companions took themselves off
to the shrine of Hermes in the marketplace,
famous for his far-seeing,
and they made the traditional offering,
placing coins in the god's outstretched palm.
Then, with hands held to their ears and their eyes clamped shut,
they walked the appointed number of steps,
each heading off in a different direction.
When Alexander removed his hands and opened his eyes,
this is the sign that greeted him:
A group of men were angrily arguing over an exquisitely crafted jar,
the loveliest piece of workmanship any of them had ever seen.
However, in fighting for the precious urn,
they jostled its bearer and the prize fell to the earth,
smashing into a dozen jagged pieces.
At the same time, on the other side of the market, Ptolemy witnessed this:
A man far from home and wearing strange foreign attire,
a handsome goatherd leading his flock through the crowded street.
One, weary from travel, stumbled and so the good man stopped,
lifted it up to his shoulders, and carried the bearded beast the rest of the way.
Great is the wisdom of Hermes, three times great even!
For what he showed to the boys that day
came to pass in due season.
Have you, dear reader, skill enough in the sacred arts
to interpret the clear meaning of the god's mighty oracle?
Alas, great Alexander did not -
though cunning Ptolemy was able to see it through.

A prayer to Nephthys for working with the Ptolemies

O Nephthys, dark-eyed goddess with bandages for hair
and a face so etched with sorrow that it resembles the desert’s barren earth.
Good sister who sat in protective vigil over the slain one
until none of his scattered members remained hidden.
She whose tears are myrrh and frankincense
and all the precious ointments used to ready the body for eternity.
Mistress with voice of the screech owl,
who drinks blood for her wine,
keeper of the mysteries
whose secret name is Finality.
Hear my prayer, O friend of the dead,
who crosses the river that cannot be crossed
on wings of blackest night,
and holds the keys to hell
and the knowledge of how to use them.
Walk with me when I go to the place where the Ptolemies dwell,
Kings still in the land of shadows and ash.
Hold back the frightening specters so that I, in peace,
may approach the great ancestral spirits
bearing the customary offerings of beer and cool water,
a loaf of good bread and meat of fatted cattle.
Open their ears that they might hear my prayers
and know that I have kept their memory alive here on earth.
Open their mouths that they might speak to me
of the things beyond the grave
and teach me what I need to know
to do the work that has been given to me to do.
Open the way so that they can visit me in dreams
and act through my waking body when they see fit to do so.
Do all this for me, O Infernal Queen,
and you shall never want for sacrifices and well-sung hymns,
and yours shall be an honored place among the gods of my heart.

Here's a piece I wrote pairing the Ptolemies with the Willamette (and by extension the spirit of Eugene). In true Alexandrian style it is full of allusions to obscure mythological figures, clever puns and word-games. (Bonus-points to anyone who catches all of them.) Enjoy!

Invocatio

Come, O sons of Ptolemy, you godly race of Kings
sprung from the loins of ivy-loving Dionysos,
to revel on the shores of the mighty Willamette,
the nymph-haunted river that makes green the land of good birth.
Lift high your crownèd heads and join your strong voices
to those of the unshorn and unwashed holy fools who belong to the tribe of the horse,
and spend their idle days playing on the drum and dancing in the streets,
intoxicated by the fragrant smoke of the cannabis.
Once you built the famous temple of the Muses
which housed a million books collected from all parts of the inhabited earth.
Well this city is famed for its learning and boasts a library no less glorious
– easy it is to find oneself lost amid the endless shelves
and the quiet students diligently seeking to recover the lore of long-passed days.
You won great repute by competing in the Sacred Games of Hellas,
and even founded your own festival to honor Soter with the sweat of skilled athletes,
so perhaps it will please you to drape yourself in the gold and green
and cheer on those who fight valiantly in the name of the Duck,
our city-god,
trampling under foot those whose totem is the purple-clad Dog
or the wood-chewing Beaver.
You gave to illustrious Alexandria all the things that make for a fine city
– monumental buildings, theaters, gymnasia, market-places, and shaded parks
to escape the heat of the Egyptian sun –
but the city of the well-born ones is lacking in none of these,
as you will see when you stroll through the Agora of Kronos,
awed by the clever craftsmanship on display
– works worthy of Daidalos himself, I swear it –
or see the rich produce which Demeter’s own people have brought forth for us;
figs and plump grapes, verdant beans and carrots of many colors,
cucumbers, lettuces, and tomatoes ripe from the vine,
honey still in the comb, hazelnuts, monstrous squashes
and more kinds of berries than one might think possible.
Oh, the very thought of all this bounty is causing my mouth to water!
And I know that dear Arsinoe was fond of flowers
– well, there are flowers aplenty here,
a rainbow of them in every yard and freely found by the side of the road,
so many that a pious man may pick a whole garland’s worth for the gods
and not even make a dent.
And to show that this is Bromios’ own land,
ivy covers every wall, climbing higher even than Sicilian Polyphemos,
and no street is without a line of trees or fruit-heavy bushes.
The men here have such superstitious reverence for trees, in fact,
that they will lay down their streets in serpent-winding fashion
rather than uproot an ancient nymph-home.
So come, dear Ptolemies, and take up residence in this lovely place,
though it be far from the fair Eunostos
and the gay carousal of Kanopos. You will hardly know the difference.
If you come your altars will be overflowing with offerings,
for though the land has much to speak of
it lacks great heroes to honor.
We have the Founder of the City,
whose name suggests a fondness for Bacchic omophagia,
and a famous son of Marathonian Pheidippides,
well-loved by Victory’s goddess,
who ran so fast that men likened him to the Egyptian Helios,
and another who wrote a book about the marriage of Zeus and Hera
to judge by its title.
And perhaps a few others – but not many.
Why, we are so hungry for heroes to honor
that the city-fathers recently erected a statue of a woman
who many years ago refused to give up her seat
and in so doing gave birth to a revolution that caused unjust laws to be struck down.
A great thing that, to be sure,
but you Ptolemies have done equally marvelous things.
Why, the Ptolemy called Fatso was so fond of sitting
that it’s said he was only seen standing on his own two feet
– which he, himself could not see –
once, when he was forced to go forth and meet the Roman delegates.
Where’s his statue?
Come here and we’ll certainly build you one!

An encomion for Kleopatra

O men, you search in vain for the mortal remains of Kleopatra,
the glory of her fathers.
Even if you find her sepulcher, you won’t have found her,
for in life she was already half divine,
a living image of love’s goddess
carved from flesh and bone,
instead of soulless marble and gold.
The blood which warmed those rosy cheeks
was blood of kings,
great-souled men who came from the rugged hills of Makedon,
to rule the corn-rich shores of deep-eddying Neilos,
and before that, much further back,
she counted gods among her ancestors,
Herakles of incomparable accomplishments
and Dionysos the vine-bringer and Indian-slayer.
When the asp, awesome emblem of the crown,
was pressed to her bosom,
its poisonous kiss loosed the bonds holding her soul in place
and Hermanubis snatched her up,
leading her on to the splendorous heights of heaven,
to take her place beside Arsinoe who loves the windswept cliffs,
and tender Berenike of the shorn lock.
She was welcomed by the brotherly gods,
and the gods who do good works,
the gods who love their mothers
and the gods who love their fathers,
as well as those for whom the dearest thing of all was their noble homeland.
Chief among all the deathless ones who once walked upon the face of the earth
was Ptolemy the Savior, founder of the dynasty,
stalwart in battle, unrivaled in wisdom,
the very model of the virtuous king,
who sits upon a throne resembling that of cloud-gathering Zeus the lord of all,
and strokes the tame head of the fearsome eagle,
that bird of inerrant omen who once sheltered him as a babe.
Her heart was gladdened to meet all these, her most illustrious of ancestors,
but nothing could compare to the joy she felt upon being reunited
with her beloved Antony,
arrayed in ivy-crown and dappled fawn-skin,
wielding the thyrsos and ever-flowing cup of his lord,
with the taste of wine upon his lips as he kissed her
passionately as that night when first they lay together as man and wife
in a bed blessed for them by the Cytherean’s own attendants.
And from her place on Olympos,
Kleopatra has looked down ever since,
watchful and protective of the people she once served as shepherd.
Her godly powers she has used to keep them safe,
righting injustice and driving out the hated interloper.
Once, even, when the travails of her people grew too great,
and they groaned under the yoke of the pitiless tyrant,
the young goddess removed the resplendent robes of her divinity
and put on a garment of mortal flesh,
riding at the head of a great army as Zenobia the Arab Queen,
scourge of the Romans.
She broke their stranglehold on Egypt,
and for a brief span the people breathed free once more,
singing the praises of their liberating goddess.
She returned to the place of her fathers,
but swore a solemn vow that her spirit would remain
in the land and with its people for all time,
to inspire and drive them on to greatness.
And in their time of greatest need,
she would always come again to avenge them,
changing from Aphrodite the jubilant mistress
into Sekhmet the wrathful one.
So if you would search for Kleopatra,
look no further than the black soil of Egypt,
its formidable monuments unwrecked by time,
and the handsome faces of its people.
For this is where you will find her.

In the Osireion or shrine of Osiris at Philae, there is a rather interesting inscription which was left in the fourth century CE by a native Egyptian priest. Petesenufe, whose official title was ‘scribe of the Book of Isis’, informs us that in addition to a long list of other religious duties that he carried out he also “overlaid the wooden statue of Kleopatra with gold.” (I.Philae.Dem. 370.4-9)

 

Now, this little bit of graffiti is interesting for a number of reasons. Chief among them, however, would have to be the fact that it shows that the cult of the deified Ptolemies was still being conducted at such a remarkably late date. Kleopatra had died in 30 BCE, bringing to a close the Egyptian monarchy founded by Ptolemy Soter. Although she was survived by her children, the Lagide line itself ended almost a century later when Emperor Claudius had her grandson Ptolemy of Mauretania killed. So why did this cult continue for almost three centuries after the fact – particularly since there were no Ptolemies to keep it going, Egypt had long since been swallowed up by the Romans who certainly wouldn’t have been interested in perpetuating the memory of one of their greatest enemies, and we find it in a place that had never really been properly Hellenized or Romanized, at the southernmost tip of the country sharing a border with the hostile Nubians and Ethiopians?

 

The fact that it did survive in some form – and why would Petesenufe have gone to the trouble and personal expense to have the statue covered in gold, and further had a record inscribed of his benefaction, if it meant nothing at all to him? – challenges us to rethink a great deal that we take for granted about the cult of the Ptolemies. After all, we are often told that this was nothing but empty formalism, the propaganda of the court translated into the religious sphere. It was all about the securing of upward mobility through conspicuous displays of loyalty and the flattering of vain sensibilities. There was nothing truly religious about it – at best people may have enjoyed the processions, games, and theatrics that went with it, or felt some kind of connection to their leaders by participating in the cult (much like the collective frenzy that Hitler was able to stir up in his own populace during all those extravagant rallies he staged) but nothing lasting or meaningful can be found in the cult itself.

 

Except, of course, that if that was true why didn’t the whole thing collapse with the Ptolemies themselves? Much earlier than Petesenufe, we find a hint of just how important this cult may have been to the common people themselves.

 

“Now, the statues of Antony were torn down, but those of Kleopatra were left standing, because Arkhibios, one of her friends, gave Caesar two thousand talents, in order that they might not suffer the same fate as Antony's.” - Life of Antony 86

 

Why would he do this? Why would he have spent what amounted to a pretty sizable personal fortune to ensure the survival of these monuments? Especially since Egypt had just fallen to Rome, and that’s not exactly a smart way to ingratiate yourself with your new masters. One can perhaps understand such things when Kleopatra was alive, and his generosity might have had a chance of being rewarded in some way … but what reward could there be now, with her dead? What motivated him in this way?

 

It may seem simple, and perhaps even a little clichéd – but when it comes down to it, I think he loved her. Loved what she represented. Loved what he saw reflected in her person and in her life. Loved all that she was, and could have been, and still was even in death. And he thought that the object of his love was important enough that it deserved to be preserved, no matter how much it cost, and how much personal danger he risked to do so. You have to be an exceptional person to inspire that kind of love in other people, particularly people who may not have known you that well … and exceptional is certainly an accurate way to describe Kleopatra and her noble ancestors.

One of the most exceptional things about Kleopatra was the special concern she showed for the welfare of her people – she slashed taxes, initiated legal reforms, funded new festivals, gave a generous allotment for the maintenance of the priesthoods and the upkeep of the sacred animals, and began a public building project as part of her plan for revival of the country on a political, military, and religious level. More to the point, she was a potent and beloved symbol for her people to believe in during a troubled time, especially coming after a series of weak and incompetent monarchs. For a brief span it really looked like she was going to change the world, defeat Rome and make Egypt strong once more. That charisma is a big part of why Kleopatra was so popular with her people, why they would fight and die for her even after the bitter defeat of Actium – and why, nearly four hundred years after her demise, she was still fondly remembered and being worshiped at a little temple on the Egyptian frontier. And why today, two thousand years later, everyone still knows her name, and we have never tired of hearing her story told and retold through countless books, plays, movies, television shows, documentaries, and now, apparently, even video games. Something divine shown through her – and has survived the grave and the centuries. And that is why I honor Kleopatra Thea Neotera Philopator Philopatris.

Or Μηδὲν ἄγαν applies to reconstructionism as well

One of the most bizarre comments to have come out of the recent quarrel over gay marriage in Hellenic polytheism – and that is quite an accomplishment considering how many nasty and illogical things were tossed about during the proceedings* - would have to be Twink/Lisa’s statement:

 

However, I defend YSEE's stance, even if I don't agree with it. Technically, it is correct. It is also correct that the ancients held a low view of the effeminate man who turned away from Traditional marriage and family. It is what it is. We cannot try to explain it away or deny it. Whether we agree with it or not is a different story. Both Tim and I do not. But we still acknowledge that it was the worldview. We are expected to live the worldview.

 

I find this bizarre for a number of reasons. Why should anyone be forced to accept something that violates their own fundamental moral and religious principles? Is there, then, to be no place for critical thought and social evolution within her version of Hellenismos? And why must one give support to social institutions which have nothing to do with the actual religion itself? Just because the ancients worshiped the same gods as us does not mean that we need to imitate them in all of the particulars of their culture. I am quite okay with seeing slavery, the second-class status of women and foreigners (including other Greeks) at Athens, or the Spartan system of agoge fall by the wayside. I do not feel that my worship of the gods, my adherence to its ethical philosophy, or my appreciation for Greek art and literature has been in any way diminished through the loss of such things. Nor, despite my great respect and even veneration for the ancients – I do actually worship the Ptolemies after all – am I willing to grant that they always knew better about all things than we do. Their accomplishments were indeed great, and concerning many matters I find them to be far superior to modern man and his culture – but in many things they were simply flat-out wrong. There is no world-circling ocean, for instance, the sun does not revolve around the earth, nor is the womb a dislocated and malevolent organ that moves about in a woman’s body causing mental and spiritual ailments. I am sure that if they had had the benefit of our greater technological and scientific knowledge they would no longer have held to these views either. In point of fact, this was the case, for Alexandrian doctors, able to examine the bodies of individuals being mummified, gained an unprecedented knowledge of anatomy and the circulatory system which no one in Greece, with its religious taboo against defacing bodies, had ever been permitted previously; likewise, Alexandrian scientists formulated a heliocentric theory of the cosmos and accurately predicted the circumference of the earth, even speculating on the existence of an inhabited continent on the other side of the ocean. (These are just a few of the many reasons why I prefer Hellenistic Alexandria to Classical Athens.)

 

And this brings up a very important point. People such as Twink wish us to regard the ancients as a monolithic people, their culture uniform, unchanging, and beyond critique. This does great damage to the complex realities of the ancient world. To begin with – as anyone who has ever cracked open a history book or watched popular movies like 300 and Alexander ought to know – Greece was populated by a hundred odd small city-states or poleis. (And this takes into consideration only the ones on the mainland and the islands – that number increases substantially when we take into account the foreign colonies, especially settlements in Asia Minor, Magna Graecia, North Africa and the Near East where there was substantial racial intermixing and cultural fusion.) Each of the poleis had its own laws, folk customs, festival calendars and even spoke different dialects of Greek to the point where communication between them could become difficult. (Hence the development of Koine or common Greek during the Hellenistic era.) They warred with each other constantly and recognized profound differences amongst themselves. One has only to consider the radical differences between Athens and Sparta to see the dangers of falling for this sort of “monoculture” myth.

 

Even within a single polis there was never blind conformity. Every important matter of state was hotly debated in the boule and ekklesia assemblies – to say nothing of the common marketplace or agora. Nor was this simply a matter of politics – all aspects of life were put under careful scrutiny and their relative merits and shortcomings endlessly debated. We find Sokrates walking through the streets challenging people to examine what they actually meant by common concepts such as piety, justice, and truth. We find philosophers questioning the validity of the traditional myths and forms of worship and even the very existence of the ancestral gods themselves. The ‘Old Oligarch’ ranted against the upstart, unwashed masses who thought themselves equal to their inherent superiors and had become drunk on the political power they were unworthy to wield right in the heart of democratic Athens. We find people abominating the practice of meat-eating and arguing against land-ownership and slavery. And during major state-sponsored religious festivals, plays were performed which decried the unfair treatment of women and mocked popular political and military leaders who were no doubt right there in the audience. (And Aristophanes can be rather raunchy in his venomous attacks on the elite!)

 

This open inquiry, this willingness to lay everything bare and examine the fundamentals of culture, religion, and politics is precisely what made the Greeks so great. This, however, is a process that must be permitted never to cease. We have a sacred duty to continue the tradition today, in our own culture, in our own lives, and regarding the religion that we hold dear. We cannot stop at the easy answers, accept with smug satisfaction that “Homer said it, I believe it, that settles it.” Now, it may well be – and in my opinion often proves to be the case – that the ancients managed to hit upon the truth. But the ancients are to be honored because they were correct; we should not hold that an idea is correct simply because the ancients maintained it. When we do such a thing we place the ancients on a higher pedestal than truth, justice, wisdom, holiness, beauty and all of the other values which they themselves so highly regarded. I suspect they would be aghast at such a notion, and the first to criticize it and rightly heap scorn upon all those who had forfeited the divine quest for understanding which is the only thing that makes us truly worthy of being called human. This is not always an easy quest. It takes boldness and courage to ceaselessly question things, to try and get at the root and cause, and never to be satisfied with mere appearance and pat answers. We must not simply accept that something is true because it's said to be, but try and understand how and why and what sort of application this may have in the real world outside of intellectual contemplation. Sometimes we must even let go of things we have long held onto, things that are deeply cherished by us, once they prove to be false or no longer serve a valid purpose. Truth can be a harsh mistress, but Falsehood is infinitely worse. Questioning things in this way, being willing to criticize the ancients and improve on them does not make us less of a Hellene. In fact, I would say that it makes us more of one.

 

* Take, for instance, the claim that being transgendered is a psychological disorder; couples who don’t have children are not favored in the eyes of the gods and it's actually their own damn fault; further, infertile people who try to serve a priestly office will end up struck dead by the gods; Alexander the Great was completely 100% straight - no fagginess there; fat people can’t be priests; you can be a gay Hellene – you just have to marry someone of the opposite sex, breed, and do your homo thing on the down low. There was, indeed, much to choose from here! But I stand by this one, for I think it has the greatest potential for harm. The others are easy to laugh off and see as nothing more than foolish ravings: this one has a seductive charm that many might easily fall prey to.

The value of the Egyptian sages

[Note: Another piece originally written for I.P.V.B.M.]

It’s funny how things work out. Looking back over the last five years or so, I’d probably have to say that ethics is the aspect of Greco-Egyptian polytheism which has had the greatest influence in shaping me into the man that I am today. And yet, originally, that wasn’t one of the things that attracted me to the religion.
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The Ethics of Power
Or Libertas est verbum alium modo quod significat nihil habendum.

I approach the study of ethics from a perspective that I gather is somewhat different from other people. Others lead ethical lives because they feel that it is the right thing to do, or because they wish to be seen as good people, or because they are fearful of the consequences of not doing so – or simply because they are unable to imagine a different course of action. For me, however, it comes down to one simple consideration: power. I want it, and ethics has proven a sure way of attaining it.

This may strike some as an odd confession to make. First off, we are not generally conditioned in this society to be so open about our desire for power. Everyone wants it, of course, but we are taught to be ashamed of our desire, since people who crave power are regarded as selfish, superficial, dangerous, egotistical, delusional and immoral. Secondly, ethics appears to have precious little to do with power – or is seen as completely antithetical to its acquisition. An ethical person is someone who is humble, obedient, self-sacrificing, and gentle. They give up their power for the good of others. Nietzsche himself said that morals were the refuge of the powerless, an attempt to shackle their superiors, to take their power away and make them no different from themselves. The problem here is that we are considering very different kinds of morality – and I do not ascribe to the ethics of slavery.
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[Note: I originally wrote this as part of the International Pagan Values Blogging Month back in June, before opting not to participate.]

Here's my guest-blogger post for the Wild Hunt on the celebration of the Noumenia.

Learning: The chief of the Greco-Egyptian values

I think one of the most unique values cherished by Greco-Egyptian polytheists, both ancient and modern, would have to be learning. Pause for a moment and conjure an image of ancient Alexandria in your mind. Perhaps you see the grand harbor with the towering Pharos lighthouse, safely guiding ships into port. Or a splendid religious procession with dancers, flute-players, sacrificial animals and bald-headed priests winding through the crowded streets on their way to the monumental temple of Serapis which dominated the landscape of Rhakotis, the native quarter of the city. Or perhaps you see Kleopatra waving down at her beloved people who thronged the courtyard of the majestic palace first built by her noble ancestor Ptolemy Soter hundreds of years before. If that was your answer, you are either cheating or better acquainted with Alexandria than most. Because usually the only thing that people remember about the city is the fabled Mouseion and the Bibliotheka or Library with its million books that went up in flames. Few know more than the rudiments of the city’s history, could name only a handful of the great figures who once walked her streets – but everyone remembers those two things about our beloved Alexandria.
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So, here’s my retelling of the Anansi story which I believe was called Anansi and the River-Goblin. I’ve changed a few things here and there, but it’s pretty much what I remember hearing.

 

Anansi the spider lived with his wife and their two children in the jungles of Africa. Now old Anansi, he was a lazy creature, the laziest thing in all the world. He hated to do any kind of work whatsoever, and preferred to spend all of his time sleeping.

 

But how can that be, you’re no doubt asking. Isn’t Anansi the one who traveled all over the world giving out wisdom to all the different peoples of the earth? Well, you see, Anansi stole that wisdom from the gods in heaven and he kept it in a jar so that he could have it all to himself. But one day he was climbing high up above the world, with the jar strapped to his back, when all of a sudden it slipped and broke against a tree, spilling all of its contents on the people down below. And a fat lot of good that wisdom has done them – they were better off without it if you ask me! But anyway, that’s a story for another day.

 

On this day, Anansi was taking a nap, as he did most days, trying to avoid the hot summer sun. He was having a really good dream, too, and he didn’t want to wake up from it. In his dream Anansi was King of All the Animals, and they brought him gifts so that he never had to do a bit of work aside from being King.

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I actually wrote this a while back, for a friend. But today is the day that I have set aside to honor Aphrodite, so I figured I'd share this meditation on love and its goddess. Normally, I'm not so philosophical or cosmological, and generally that isn't how I relate to Aphrodite, either ... but I think it gets the point of her importance across.
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The Rose

She kneels by his side and strokes his soft cheek. It is almost like a woman’s, the lines graceful and serene, unmarred by even the first downy growth of a youth’s beard. His lips are full and sensual and she recalls with bittersweet joy the endless hours she spent kissing them. Those heavy lids with their thick lashes seem as if they will flutter open at any moment, and he will drowsily smile up at her and say something sweet and romantic. But she knows that it’s all just an illusion, wishful thinking on her part. His chest does not rise and fall in the slow rhythm of slumber, and lower down she sees the thick black blood seeping out. His spirit has already flown to the place of shadows and the pale queen who rules below.
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On the Nemeseion

In Egypt there is a shrine to Nemesis,
the goddess of the wheel and whip,
who strokes the heads of savage gryphons
and avenges the blood of innocents wrongly slain.
The shrine was built on the shores of the Nile,
and a great pillar erected nearby to honor a man who fell there,
that man whom other men called ‘great’.
Pompey was his name –
of Rome’s many sons, he was surely amongst the noblest.
He loved his country and fought for her freedom,
and even his bitterest enemy shed tears upon his death.
Though Pompey had come through countless battles unscathed,
and vanquished the best men of his age,
in Egypt he was murdered,
brought low by treachery and a vile eunuch’s hand.
After Pharsala he fled to Ptolemy’s land,
with godlike Caesar hot upon his heels.
He came under the flag of peace,
to negotiate a treaty with Egypt’s king,
but the boy who sat upon the throne was entirely unworthy
of his ancestors’ noble name.
Neither Soter nor Philadelphos nor even the Bacchic Pipe-player,
would have treated a suppliant as shamefully as he did.
Honorable men and pious,
excelling in wisdom and war-making,
all those earlier Ptolemies had been,
but this boy was churlish,
a captive in the palace with no power of his own.
It was his advisors and slaves who ruled the country then,
he a mere figurehead paraded on special occasions.
When Pompey’s ship anchored on the shore,
young Ptolemy came out to greet him.
His throne was set upon the sand,
and a host of soldiers and slaves stood at hand,
seeking in vain to impress their Roman guests.
Ptolemy vowed to welcome him in safety,
and to speak at length of war and treaties,
but when Pompey left his ship he knew
that he was not long for this world.
Setting foot on Egyptian soil,
he quoted prophetic verses from the Athenian playwright,
and silently implored the Lady of Rhamnous to avenge him,
should his dire fears prove true.
Before he was even done with his prayer,
the soldiers of boyish Ptolemy were upon him.
They slew the mighty soldier while his men watched helplessly from the ship.
Then, as if that grave sin were not enough,
the eunuch slave took the head of Pompey from its shoulders,
and presented the “spear-won trophy” to his king.
Ptolemy kept the head until Pompey’s enemy arrived,
and sought to buy Caesar’s favor with his gruesome prize.
Though Caesar had not loved his life-long foe,
and would have gladly himself struck him low,
a man of such stature deserved to die in battle,
not slain by a cowardly traitor’s hand.
Caesar grew enraged over the grievous misdeed,
and made war on all Alexandria for one man’s sins.
Through fire and blood the nation was chastised,
and trembled under the punishing whip of vengeance’s goddess.
Nemesis crushed the villains beneath her heel,
and before all was done the eunuch and the boy and all his men lay dead.
The crown passed on to another,
a brave and righteous woman rightfully named,
for Kleopatra means the glory of her fathers,
and in every way she proved herself worthy of the Lagid blood
that freely flowed through her veins.
She renewed her country and made it strong once more,
by setting it on the right path of law and reverence for the immortal gods.
She built the temple* of Nemesis on the spot where great Pompey fell,
a proper reminder of what happens when men give themselves up to shameful deeds.

[Though it should perhaps be pointed out that Appian Civil Wars 3.393 claims that Caesar was the one who built the Nemeseion.]

To Pan in Egypt

I sing of Great Pan,
the Lord of Khemmis where the women weave,
and the fields of goat-rich Mendes.
Pan who is upon his mountain,
and travels with the elephant-hunters,
the shaggy-haired and cloven-hoofed one,
who chases the nymphs through the rushes by the side of the Nile,
and sleeps in the shade of persea trees at noontide
to escape the blistering heat of Egypt’s sun.
He delights in the goat-smelling wine of barley that is abundant in this land,
and dances gaily when the brown-skinned shepherd boys bring out their pipes
and play silly tunes to amuse their flocks.
In Alexandria there is a man-made hill for him in the heart of the city,
shaped like a great pine-cone and covered in evergreens
to remind him of his sylvan haunts in far-off Arcadia,
the land where men eat acorns.
But long before Plato walked among the temples of Heliopolis,
and conversed with her priests about mathematics,
Pan was here and given honors among the first rank of Egypt’s gods,
the Eight who were before the Twelve.
For as the story goes,
once Seth slew the fertile one,
the lord of the double-horned crown,
none could find his lovely green body anywhere.
Isis and her dog-faced son looked far and wide,
visiting every district and beyond the borders of the Two Lands,
journeying even to foreign countries which had never heard the name of Osiris before.
She wept great tears and beat her breast,
and cut off her hair at Koptos,
which ever since has borne that name,
meaning the place of bitter mourning.
All this was in vain,
for the body of Egypt’s rightful King lay sunk within the Nile waters
where he had fallen and drown, slain by his brother’s hand.
And there he would have remained,
had Pan, that lusty fellow,
not been chasing slim-ankled girls along the shore.
He splashed into the water, laughing joyfully,
until he tripped on something in the water and tumbled headlong beneath the waves.
The nymphs, noticing that they were no longer pursued,
came back to find the god with horns
– for their fleeing was all pretense –
and when he rose up from the river they screamed in panic,
for Pan carried the corpse of the god upon his back.
Once recovered, they helped drag him to shore
and laid Osiris’ still form upon the sand.
They stood speechless in their horror,
overcome by their grief,
none knowing what to do,
for dear Osiris was loved by all Egypt’s inhabitants,
save only his jealous-hearted brother.
Then Pan left the darlings of the rushes to watch with tearful eyes over the body,
safeguarding it from further harm,
while he ran off to find the Queen of Heaven and reunite her with her lost husband.
For this kindness Pan was honored in all the temples of Egypt,
and given a worthy sacrifice on the Day of Finding.
And so I, too, shall honor you Pan,
kindly god who does service to both gods and men.

A morning prayer

I greet the day in joy, my heart in awe at the beauty of the cosmos.
Hail to you gods of the heavens, and the earth, and those below.
Hail gods of the mountains and the forest,
gods of the mighty rivers and the towering trees.
Hail gods of the desert and the ocean,
gods of the fertile fields and the bustling cities.
Hail to the gods of love and ecstasy,
of song and dance,
of justice and beauty,
of strength and protection,
of health and prosperity,
of wisdom and creativity,
of all the virtues and blessings that make life rich and worth living.
Hail to the mothers and fathers who came before me,
and the honored dead of all nations.
Hail to the gods who guide my heart,
and the helper spirits who show me the way.
Hail to the whole divine assembly – I rejoice in your presence
on this beautiful day of manifestation,
the world refreshed as it was upon the first day.
Let today be the first day of all creation, full of limitless possibility.
All the bad things and the failures of yesterday are no more. I have forgotten them.
Today I begin anew and shoulder my responsibilities with a joyous heart.
Today I shall do everything in my power to establish Ma’at and make the world a better place for those who come after me.
Today let every word that I speak be true. Today let justice guide every action that I perform. Today may I offer comfort to those in need, and show kindness to every stranger that I meet. Today I shall be temperate and disciplined and do the good things necessary to make my life prosper. Today I shall set aside all grudges and refuse to let anger or violence take root in my heart. Today I shall remain ever mindful of the gods and seek them out in the world around me. This is the vow I bind myself to for today and today only.
And lastly, I pray to all the gods of my people, the New Alexandrians.
May you walk with them today, o gods, and grant them life, health, and stability. May you make their hearts joyous and fill their souls with love, beauty, wisdom, and creativity. May all obstacles be removed from their path and may any enemies who come against them be smited and trodden under foot. May the New Alexandria prosper and grow and continue to do the work of the gods for all time.

To Roma

Hail to you Roma,
gentle and peace-loving goddess
who delights in the songs of maidens
and the flowers that grow upon the seven hills.
You smile as you watch the triumphant general parade through your streets
like Bacchus celebrating his Indian victory,
and nothing makes your heart gladder than hearing
the wise men dispense justice in the forum.
You march with the legions to put down the tyrannous foe,
and stay behind in foreign lands to nurture the civilizing spirit
so that all men in time may recognize their common brotherhood
and let go of their petty hatreds,
embracing what is best and noblest within the human condition.
You are the mother of the sciences and all the liberal arts,
your gifts to us are roads and aqueducts,
markets and forums,
theaters and temples:
all the beautiful things that make for splendid cities.
And you teach us how to live well in them:
reverence for the ancestral customs, obedience to the laws,
love for freedom, industriousness and endurance in the face of hardship.
Blessed is the man who is called after you a Roman –
for such a man knows truly what it is to be a man.

To Kybele

I sing of the many-named mountain mother,
unique and august goddess who is like no other.
You who delight in the frenzied drums of your womanly priests,
and keep company with the proud lions and the wild beasts.
Oldest of gods who taught the infant Zeus to dance,
and healed raving Bacchus of his terrible madness.
Yours are the torches that light our way,
and the purifying bulls’ blood that sprays.
You make the earth fertile with your mystic rites,
so that we never tire of singing your praises by day or by night.
Lady of tree-covered Ida, city-crowned Kybele, and Mistress Dindymene.
accept this song, I pray, o bountiful and blessed Queen.

The wheel of Khnum

Strong hands working the soft clay
as it spins upon the potter’s wheel,
this is how the Egyptians dreamed their own creation,
human lives shaped by the will of Khnum in his heavenly workshop.
We began as a thought in the mind of god,
who then worked to give us tangible form,
carefully molding our flesh and bones,
the distinctive features that makes us us and not someone else.
And when he is finished he takes us off the wheel
and cradles us in his gentle hands,
turning us over to examine every inch
to make sure that we meet his exacting specifications for us.
Then he lowers his great ram’s head
and touches his lips to our delicate flesh of clay
and whispers our name to us,
breathing life into our nostrils
and with it all of the passions that will drive us on during our days,
and the dreams that will haunt us during our nights.
From the beginning our powers and our limitations are already with us,
lurking in our breasts with the living breath and the name that animates us.
Then he sets us down and watches to see what we will do,
whether we will discover our secret powers
or succumb to our mortal limitations.
Though he has placed these things within us,
even he does not know how it will all play out.
It is up to us to decide our fate through the choices we make,
whether we use what we were given at our creation,
or squander his precious gifts.

The mask of Bes

The other gods are depicted in static profile,
stately and serene in their rigid postures,
gazing out into eternity.
But not you, Bes,
for your face is always turned towards us.
Every glimpse of you is epiphinal,
a direct encounter with the divine
manifest in the lion-faced mask.
Your short, stubby body perpetually in motion,
a desperate dance to drive away demons,
or the rhythm of life as it unfolds in the frenzy of creation.
It is impossible to look upon you and not hear the
thunder of drums and the trill of pipes,
to feel our own hearts begin to beat faster,
caught in the snare of your delicious delirium.
You move so fast that it all seems a blur,
the world spinning out of control
and one thing blending into another in orgiastic rapture.
Yet in the wild flurry one thing remains still,
your mask staring with empty eyes straight into our hearts,
a silent challenge beckoning us to leave behind our fears
and our foolish inhibitions
to join you in your manic revels.
Hail to you Bes, who came to Egypt to teach us how to dance!