Artfully Adorned Aphrodite(as Sappho called you),
your allure is alien to me, oh deity of Love.
I must not conceal that I don't believe in
your very own existence;
But I must acknowledge everything you represent,
you sinful and pure dove.
Whatever you represent define humans today,
my lady.
But you sure wouldn't strip me of my right to be called one,
would you?
My inability to feel what you are a deity of
doesn't express insanity.
Neither does it make me a monster;
how is it my fault
if I was born wihout rose-tinted glasses?
Cherry blossom trees are nothing to me
but living ornaments.
I don't mind not falling in love
in spring or summer or any season.
I don't fall in any sight and you would have
hated me
for not having power over me.
And so does most of the people I adore (I am not
a puritan. My Love is simply never carnal.)
But you hate not being understood,
do you?
Artfully Adorned Aprodite, Eros can;t pierce
my heart with his arrows
and that's alright.
A letter to Aphrodite about being unable to feel romantic or sexual attraction. This is very personal, but oh well, so are most of my poetries anyways.
Ode to Aphrodite. I remember reading the translation by Jim Powell that I can't find online anymore.
Apparently, Aphrodite is represented by doves, which I wasn't aware of when I wrote the poetry. The sentence is a coincidence, I guess. Just thought that's interesting.(27/04/2024).