I will hear no more of the poet’s Apollo,
all sunshine and moderation
and bland admonishments
that men should know their place.
I do not say that they lie: he is a huge God,
I do not know him well,
and what they see may indeed be there.
But my Apollon is different.
He is the terrible archer whose arrows carry plague
and who danced on the corpse of the Python
after it mocked his mother.
My Apollon tore the skin from Marsyas
to teach him what being a true artist is all about.
My Apollon is a wolf-God,
a hunter in the wilds far from man.
He is a raven-God,
manifest in its night-black wings
and omenous eyes that see the mysteries
that lie beyond mortal confines.
The face of my Apollon is the jagged peaks of Parnassos,
snow-covered and stretching up to the heights of heaven.
His voice is the wind rustling through ancient trees
in midnight forests, and the staccato beat
of young men’s feet as they dance out the Paian for him.
His breath is the scent of burning bay leaves
and the sweat of the priestess as she struggles
to give birth to the prophetic words with which he has filled her.
My Apollon is in the swarm of bees and the icy depths of the virgin spring.
My Apollon is a God of light – but the light that shines out of the darkness.
My Apollon is a healer – but he heals through pain.
My Apollon is a singer – but of magical chants not pretty songs.
He lives far away, and it is a perilous journey to find him,
one from which no man returns unchanged.
This is my Apollon.
I will never be an initiate of his,
but I have had occasional and partial glimpses of him
and I love what he has shown me.
So I raise up this song to my Apollon,
since the other Apollo has been hymned plenty of times before.