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Showing posts with label Dionysos. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dionysos. Show all posts

Monday, July 1, 2019

The Orphic Hymn to Hekate



The Orphic Hymn to Hekate

 

 

Εἰνοδίην Ἑκάτην κλῄιζω, τριοδῖτιν, ἐραννήν,

οὐρανίην, χθονίαν τε, καὶ εἰναλίην κροκόπεπλον,

τυμβιδίην, ψυχαῖς νεκύων μέτα βακχεύουσαν,

Πέρσειαν, φιλέρημον, ἀγαλλομένην ἐλάφοισιν,

νυκτερίην, σκυλακῖτιν, ἀμαιμάκετον βασίλειαν,

ταυροπόλον, παντὸς κόσμου κληιδοῦχον ἄνασσαν,

ἡγεμόνην, νύμφην, κουροτρόφον, οὐρεσιφοῖτιν,

λισσόμενοις κούρην τελεταῖς ὁσίαισι παρεῖναι

βουκόλῳ εὐμενέουσαν ἀεὶ κεχαρηότι θυμῷ.

 

 

O Hecate of crossroads, come to me!

You rule sky, earth, and sea in saffron robes.

At home among the dead you wildly dance,

o Persian, fond of solitude and deer!

Unconquerable queen of dogs and night,

bull-mistress, key to all the cosmos, queen!

O nymph who nurtures babes and rules the hills,

We pray you, lady, see our sacrifice,

enjoy the incense, smile upon your shepherd

 

 

     The Orphic hymns have been rather neglected by admirers of ancient poetry. They are still to find a place in the Loeb’s Library series and they have attracted very few translators [1] and little comment. Ignoring the priorities of scholarship, though, neo-pagans have adopted the poems, sometimes with the hope that the verses retain magic efficacy. In fact, from the time of their composition these poems have been found in contexts of ritual and cult rather than of literature. For that reason they yield accurate information about ancient religious practice. Yet such data are sometimes self-contradictory. Often, like the book of Genesis, such texts are collages of materials added at different times or for different purposes.

     The book of hymns opens with an invocation to Musaios, the legendary son of Orpheus considered the founder of religious poetry in Greece. Just as in the Indian Vedas, the priestly concern is to define sacrificial procedures. Musaeus is asked to attend “to learn what rites to sacrifice belong,” and only then does the poet invoke a long list of deities including all the Olympians with the exception of Aphrodite as well as a raft of other deities. [2] It looks rather as though the author were anxious not to pass over any powerful figure that might resent the omission. [3]

     The fact that Hekate is the first divinity to receive more than a mention may relate to her role in Orphism which, like most of the other mystery cults of the ancient world as well, is salvationist, promising devotees eternal life. Hekate is often conflated with Diana, Demeter, and Proserpine. Each of these deities has to do with the renewal of life, the first through the annual cycle of animal and vegetable rebirth and the second and third through myths involving their visiting the world of the dead and returning.

     Orphism and Hekate have also strong ties to Dionysos, another deity associated with death and rebirth. Hekate is said to do specifically Bacchic dances, and Orphism is Thracian in origin, as is Sabazios the chief Thracian deity, depicted on horseback, but later identified with Dionysos. [4] Another god absorbed within Dionysos’ cult in antiquity is Zagreus who was identified with rites in which sacrificial animals were torn to pieces and eaten raw reenacting Dionysos’ omophagia by the Titans. Orpheus and Dionysos have in common the pattern of death and rebirth which encourages the worshipper to hope for a similar individual victory over death. [5]

     Hecate is thus woven into a mythic texture preoccupied with rebirth. The fact that her powers are regarded as a gift from Zeus implies her receptiveness in turn to the requests of pious petitioners, and, in fact, this hymn is a prayer, seeking to establish contact with the deity in order to ask for favor. The incense mentioned in the last line is an inducement, as is the praise implicit in the catalogue of divine attributes. This catalogue of titles formally resembles such Catholic prayers as the invocation to Mary called the Litany of Loreto.

     The goddess’ epithets define a capacious but not boundless identity. Of the eighteen attributes in this rhetoric of the divine four are simple honorifics, calling attention to the status of the deity and: leader (ἡγεμόνην), irresistible, (ἀμαιμάκετον), queen (βασίλειαν), and nymph (νύμφην). Her governance in land, sea, and air is sanctioned by Hesiod. [6]

     The terms queen and nymph acknowledge her femininity and draw on the archaic worship of the earth goddess typical of the Neolithic era, assigning Hekate governance of the world of nature. This realm of governance is elaborated as frequenter of mountain wilds (οὐρεσιφοῖτιν), protector of dogs (σκυλακῖτιν), delighting in deer (ἀγαλλομένην ἐλάφοισιν), and bull mistress (ταυροπόλον) [7]. Her association with the earth’s vital energy and the flourishing of game and wild animals in general leads to her role as nurturer of children (κουροτρόφον), [8]

     She is associated in general with hidden things, mysteries signified by solitude (φιλέρημον) and the night (νυκτερίην), and this, together with her role as an intercessor for humans, suggests that she is at home among the dead (τυμβιδίην). Her identification as a witch and her role as an aid in magic arises from this nexus.

     She is identified with crossroads (Εἰνοδίην), in particular with locations where three roads meet (τριοδῖτιν). Americans will think of Robert Johnsons’ “Cross Road Blues” in which the singer prays at a crossroad. Though the interpretation of Johnson’s lyrics remains disputed, it is likely that the setting derives its supernatural associations from the Yoruba orisha Eshu [9]. The tripling parallels Hekate’s representation in art as three figures as well as recalling another figure depicted as three and associated with crossroads and with magic, Diana Trivia. [10] In the most general sense, crossroads suggest boundaries, including the liminal space between heaven and earth, as well as decision points as in the motif of Hercules at the crossroads.

     What I have rendered as Hekate’s saffron robes is in Greek crocus robes (κροκόπεπλον) which recalls the mortal Krokus who, in a doubling of the story of Apollo and Hyakinthus, was transformed into the flower after Hermes accidentally kills him or, in a different version, after he is disappointed in his love for the nymph Smilax. An archaic Minoan fresco on Santorini show women in such crocus/saffron robes gathering the stigmas and offering them to a goddess. Here, too, the focus is on the borderline between human and divine.

     The epithet Πέρσειαν has nothing to do with Persia, but rather refers simply to Hekate’s father, the Titan Perses. [11] Her influence over “sky, earth, and sea” is thus an example of particular favor from Zeus. Her devotees seek to share her auspicious good fortune through seeking her intercession.

     I have noted already the association with Dionysos implied when the goddess is said to dance wildly using the verb βακχεύουσαν which contains Bakkhos’ name and can be used simply to mean to observe his rites. He, like Hekate, is an intercessor deity, who in the account of his myth adopted by the Orphics actually died and was reborn.

     Perhaps Hekate’s followers, like the goddess herself, performed frenzied dances under divine enthusiasm. In these ecstasies, they may have tasted what they were promised by other salvationist cults, eternal blessedness. Indeed the ancient mysteries may have resembled nothing so much as a Pentecostal service.

     A disjuncture exists between the mythic identity of the goddess, though, and the personal prayer. On the one hand the goddess is conceived as the utterly other divine, that which cannot be controlled, linked to death and the eternal turning of the cosmic wheel, while, on the other hand, she has the role of potential grantor of poignant wishes such as those for life after death or for children or riches or the defeat of one’s enemies on the other. A similar pattern exists in other traditions as well. One may see the desire that Buddha sought to overcome embodied in the offerings, often junk foods like Mallomars, offered at his temples. The great gods of the ancient Near East who gather like flies to consume Utnapishtim’s blood sacrifice after the flood resemble the hungry and impotent dead Odysseus attracts with his. Thus while humans seek to obtain the divine gift of immortality, they also endow their gods with an all-too-human desire.

 

 

 

1. In 1787 Thomas Taylor published The Mystical Initiations or Hymns of Orpheus, with a preliminary Dissertation on the Life and Theology of Orpheus. Taylor was a Neoplatonist for whom these texts had a genuine spiritual appeal when read symbolically. He set it as his goal to translate all the untranslated works of the ancient philosophers. A modern translation of The Orphic Hymns was published by Apostolos N. Athanassakis and Benjamin M. Wolkow with an introduction and notes. A version by Stephen Dunn “for the occult practitioner” has also appeared.

 

2. The list includes others gods such as Proserpine, Hades, Dionysos, and Hebe; natural objects such as Gaia, Helios, Mene and the Brontoi; and abstractions such as Eileithyia, Dikaisyne, Eusebia, and Mnemosyne.

 

3. As, for instance, the evil fairy in Perrault’s “La belle au bois dormant.”

 

4. Curiously, Valerius Maximus, Plutarch, and others describe the Jews as worshippers of Dionysos through confusing the name Sabazios with the Hebrew sabaos (of the hosts”).

 

5. To Bertrand Russell (History of Western Philosophy) Pythagoras was a reformer of Orphism as Orpheus was a reformer of the religion of Dionysus.

 

6. Theogony 411 ff.

 

7. The exact meaning is uncertain. It may be associated with bull-herding or driving a bull cart or bull-fighting (perhaps bull-leaping or ταυροκαθάψια as practiced in ancient Crete).

 

8. An epithet she shares with Artemis, Eirena, and Hestia.

 

9. Eshu is also called Èṣù-Elegba and, in the New World Legba and number of variations. He is identified with crossroads, gateways and highways. A trickster, he represents in part the chance element in life. Among other gods also associated with crossroads are Hermes and Herakles and Odin. It would be natural to consider the Christian cross as signifying the meeting place of the divine and human planes.

 

10. Trivia is the earliest recorded epithet for Diana. She is often represented in art as a triple goddess as Hekate is as well. The factor of three is sometimes glossed as suggesting Diana’s three functions: huntress (earth), moon (heaven), and underworld. In Seneca’s play about her Medea calls on Trivia to accomplish her spell.

 

11. The name of Hekate’s Titan father Perses is related to πέρθω meaning to sack or destroy.

Thursday, May 1, 2014

Hymn to Pan

For a year and a half, I have been trying to complete a version of the grand Hymn to Hermes, but it is still only half done. Here is the smaller piece for Hermes’ son.
My comments on the figure of Pan unexpectedly expanded as I wrote. In fact my essay on him remains a work in progress, as Pan’s implications continue to offer revealing bypaths. The piece is still not unified, and perhaps will never be, but it has already grown large enough that I have decided to leave it to be posted in June.


Now tell, o muse, of Hermes’ dear son Pan,
who loves all noise, goat-footed and two-horned.
Through wooded fields he roams with dancing nymphs;
they tread on high to goatless crests of stone.
They call on Pan, the shepherd’s bright-haired god, 5
all wild and mussed. He rules each snowy peak,
and every mountain top and rocky height.
He dances back and forth through thickest brush.
Sometimes he’s drawn to gentle streams, at times
he wanders through the rocky crags and goes 10
to highest peaks from which he watches flocks.
Through great pale mountains he will often dash.
Passing rough-hewn crags, he kills his prey,
that sharp-eyed god. Then at evening he ceases his chase,
returns with reed pipe song so wild and free, 15
so sweet in melody that bird could sing
no finer, who in blossoming spring leaves
pours forth the sweetest and the saddest song.
with him then clear-singing mountain nymphs
who dance with agile feet by deep-dark springs 20
and sing while Echo keens from mountain height.
The god is here, then there, among the choirs.
He wears lynx pelt and dances fast and free,
exulting in his heart in sweetest song,
in gentle fields where crocus, hyacinth, 25
and grass all mix and grow and blossom sweet.
They sing of gods and of Olympos height,
especially of Hermes of good luck
of how he is the herald for the gods,
and how to Arcady of springs and flocks 30
he came. Mount Kyllene is his sacred spot.
Where, though a god, he tends rough-coated flocks
for moist desire came on him there and grew
to mix in love with fair-haired Dryops’ maid.
Good marriage there he made with mortal wife 35
who bore a son, a marvel from his birth,
with goat feet, horns, so loud with sweetest laugh!
The nurse sprang up, afraid, and left the child,
in fear at sight of his rough face and beard.
At once luck-bringing Hermes took him up, 40
and held him, feeling joy fill up his heart,
then quickly sped to the immortals’ seat.
The child, all wrapped in skins of mountain hares,
was set by Zeus and the other gods.
When Hermes showed his son to all of them, 45
they all rejoiced but Dionysos most.
They called him Pan because he pleased them all.
And so, rejoice, my king! May my song please!
I call you up to mind and others, too.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Dionysos and the Pirates

My translation of the Hymn is posted on the blog: Poetry on the Loose: The Homeric Hymn to Dionysos (williamseaton.blogspot.com).



    This story [1] is, in the most general terms, an epiphany. The god appears numinous, both frightening and fascinating [2] to the mortal. The frisson of a listener (for the hymn was surely oral whether or not it was in some way liturgical) experiencing a vicarious glimpse of the divine may have had something of the appeal of a science fiction or horror film today. The hymn has a handsome leading man, fast action, and impressive special effects, what with the cascading vines and materializing beasts, topped off with the sailors’ metamorphosis into dolphins.
     Moros is sometimes translated fate, but, considering that Hesiod deemed moros “hateful,” perhaps doom is a better translation. As the parthenogenetic son of Night, Moros carries dark associations, but then the Moirai (Fates) themselves, though euphemistically called the Parcae (“Sparers”) in Latin, are described as ugly hags, closely associated with mortality and with death. Their worship arose in Mycenaean cult practice and, even in later times, they generally seem to operate independently of the Olympians. A dying and reborn god imported from barbarian realms, Dionysos is an appropriate partner for these archaic powers.
     Further, the incident presents an illustration of the imponderable and sudden turns of the wheel of fortune. The captain is particularly brought low, the helmsman, who had been treated with disrespect is elevated, and the crew, anticipating a routine voyage, are suddenly cast into disaster.
     In this hymn’s first line, the god’s semi-mortal origins are highlighted. He is the son of Semele (also semi-divine) who is herself undone by her encounter with the fully divine, though Dionysos later rescued her from the underworld just as he himself was reborn after being torn to pieces by Titans. The affinities to figures like Osiris, Adonis, Attis, Tammuz, Asclepius, and Orpheus are clear. Surely, these cults as well as the Mysteries and Christianity were imported by ancient Romans seeking personal salvation. Dionysos invites believers to identify with him, even to become him in rites of enthusiasm and ecstatic possession.
     In this poem, though, his divine omnipotence is stressed. Though taken for mortal, the theophany is a markedly extraordinary human. Dionysos is youthful, well-dressed, strong and sexy, consistent with his role as a fertility deity. He is long-haired and probably beardless, the sort of representation that might be associated with his epithet Androgynous. He smiles (line 14) with profound confidence and works his will with cunning means.
     The incident may be considered, like the story of Pentheus, as a cautionary simple tale of retributive justice. With Dionysos pulling the strings, a moral reading is certainly present. The greedy pirates are punished, their ringleader first of all, and the virtuous helmsman is blessed. The sailors had been interested in a ransom, preceded, perhaps, by a bit of fun, but they found their egos chopped for grabbiness. Even after the miracle of the bonds falling away, their selfishness blinds them to the god’s power. Though warned, the captain will not listen. Those who in the end suffer dire consequences for their actions are offered opportunities to reconsider, but they persist in error. Like the moral reading of tragedy this is true but reductive. [3]
     When wine swamps the decks and an ambrosial scent arises, the men are paralyzed in awe. Foliage leaps forth from grapes and ivy, bursting with fruit and flowers in a wild excess of generative power, recalling other epithets of Dionysos: Phleon (luxuriant, said of foliage) and Auxites (giver of increase ). Then, however, the fierce beasts, the lion and bear, materialize, reminding the reader of the Dionysian predilection for homophagia, the eating of raw meat after sacrifice. [4] The vicious captain falls victim to the lion, while the crewmen become dolphins, animals regularly considered beneficent by the Greeks. [5] Their animal form then becomes a kind of purgatory where, by doing good services, they may expiate their guilt. Surely, these ordinary sailors bear a limited guilt, neither vicious like the captain nor as insightful and scrupulous as the helmsman. The latter appears as a sort of saving remnant, offering a better fate to the more pious individual.
     Violent though it be, the tale lacks the macabre horror of Pentheus’ end, but the interlacing of death with life is tight and consistent in myth. Even the Ikarios story of the introduction of Dionysos’ gift of wine includes murder, suicide, merciless revenge and the founding of a propitiatory festival to placate the angry deity. Dionysos Lysios means the Undoer, recalling Dionysos’ literal “undoing” in his being eaten and the tragic hero’s cry “I am undone!” as well as implying the Liberator, the one who frees humankind. [6]
     The poem concludes by noting that Dionysos’ aid is essential to the poet. Of course, the origins of the dithyramb, from which, according to Aristotle, tragedy developed were Dionysian, and all theater was offered to the god whose image was seated up front. For moderns, Dionysos corresponds to the unconscious from which arise metaphor and image. The worshipper’s loss of ego in the god is similar to the reader’s participation in the poet’s vision. And in modern times Dionysos has been the popular favorite in his contention with Apollo for the lyre. It is he to whom Nietzsche appeals for the punishment of his critics in his first dithyramb. [7]



1. References to the story also appear in Eur. (Cycl.11), Ovid (Met. iii. 582-691), Nonnus (Dion. xlv. 105-168). Briefer mentions in Apollodorus (iii. 5. 3), Hyginus (fab.134), poet. astron. ii. 17 (after the Naxica of Aglaosthenes), Seneca (Oed.449-466), and Nonnus (Dion. xliv. 240-249) Servius (on Verg. Aen.i. 67), Oppian (Hal. i. 650)]

2. The terms are Otto’s: mysterium tremendum, inspiring fear and trembling; and mysterium fascinans, the tendency to attract, fascinate and compel.

3. See my “Oedipus and the Meaning of Polysemy” (July 2011).

4. Dionysos is also called Aigobolos (goat-killer), Taurophagos (bull-eater), Bouphagos (cow-eater), Moschophagos (calf-eater), as well as Anthroporraistos (man-killer).

5. Apart from having rescued Arion, they were considered to guide ships. The very name of Delphi derives from Apollo’s arrival in dolphin form.

6. Still another of the god’s names is Eleuthereus (of freedom).

7. In “Dionysos Dithyrambs 1” Nietzsche describes being ridiculed as a foolish poet and imagines the “hot-hungry” god descending to avenge him by “tearing to pieces the god in man/ as well as the sheep in man,/ and laughing while tearing.”

The Homeric Hymn to Dionysos


Of Dionysos, Sem’le’s son, I sing, 
who came once, looking like a youth, atop 
a headland over fruitless sea, so fine! 
His lovely hair all down his neck, so dark! 
A purple cloak about his muscled frame! 
A well-benched fleet Tyrrhenian pirates’ ship 
came fast upon the wine-dark sea. Their fate 
was dark. On seeing him each nodded to the next, 
then they jumped out and right away they seized 
him, thrilled to force him up into their ship. 
 A son he seemed of god-groomed kings. They sought 
to tie him up with painful ropes – the bonds 
broke free, the withes fell altogether off 
his hands and feet. And still he smiling sat 
with deep dark eyes. At once the helmsman knew, 
cried out to all his comrade crew, and said, 
“Possessed! You’ve grabbed and bound some god who’s strong. 
No well-made ship can hold this one for long! 
For Zeus it is, Apollo with his silver-bow, 
or else Poseidon. He’s not like a man, 
not mortal but divine, Olympian. 
Come now, let’s put him out on this dark shore 
right now. Don’t touch him, or, irate, he’ll bring 
us grievous winds, and he’ll incite great storms.” 
That’s what he said. The captain then spoke back,
“You’re mad! Look to the breeze and hoist the sail! 
Haul on the ropes! And we’ll take care of him! 
He must be bound for Cyprus, Egypt, or 
the ends of earth or further yet. He’s sure to name 
his friends, admit his wealth, his kin. Some god 
has surely given him to us.” He spoke, 
then ordered mast and sail raised; wind filled 
the canvas; sailors pulled lines taut; but soon 
unfolded marvels on that ship, for first 
sweet fragrant wine swamped all the deck of that 
black ship. Ambrosial fragrance rose.  The crew
was seized with awe with what they saw.
Then sudden grapevines grew from highest sail, 
in clusters grapes hung down on every side. 
And then dark ivy twined about the mast, 
with blossoms bursting, lovely berries, too.
Each thole was wreathed about. On seeing this 
the crew called, “Helmsman, bring our ship to shore!” 
No god was high on deck; a lion fierce 
now loudly roared; he made also a bear 
with shaggy neck midship that glowered huge. 
Sure signs enough. The lion on the deck 
in fury glared. They fled back to the stern 
about the helmsman where they stood amazed 
in thought. The lion sprang, the captain fell.
The crewmen thought to flee dark fate and leapt
into the holy sea – what things they’d seen! – 
and dolphins they became. The helmsman, though, 
got mercy and was held and blessed with words: 
“Take heart, my man, for you are dear to me. 
Loud-shouting Dionysos is your friend 
whom Cadmus’ Sem’le bore in love with Zeus.” 
 I hail the fair-faced Sem’le’s son! Without 
your aid no one can weave sweet words in song.