As World Poetry Day comes to an end, I wanted to compile poetry inspired by The Minoans. Upon scouring the internet, I unfortunately couldn’t find that much, but I’ve included everything I came across along with info on the poets if I could find any. I’ll add to this over time, so make sure to check back every so often. If you’d like to read prior Minoan-inspired poems I’ve written, go here.

With no further ado, grab a heaping cup of your favorite tea
and prepare to be teleported to the ever-magical Minoan Crete!

Minoan Pendant by Mark Granier

Yes – I press my nose
to the pleasantly warm glass –
it’s a copy of one I saw
cased in the cool museum –
gold beaten to honey, a grainy
oval dollop, flanked by two
slim symmetrical bees –

garland for a civilisation’s
rise and collapse, eye-dropped
five thousand years: a flash
of evening sun on a windscreen
or wing mirror – Heraklion’s
scooter-life buzzing and humming –

as I step in to browse, become
mesmerised by the warm
dark eyes of the woman
who gives her spiel and moves
softly and with such grace,
that, after leaving, I hesitate

a moment on the pavement
then re-enter with a question
I know not to ask, but ask
anyway, to hear her voice
soften even more as she smiles
and shakes her hair – no.

Mark Granier born in London, England, is an Irish poet and photographer based in Dublin, Ireland.

Minoan Porcelain by Aldous Huxley

Her eyes of bright unwinking glaze
All imperturbable do not
Even make pretences to regard
The justing absence of her stays,
Where many a Tyrian gallipot
Excites desire with spilth of nard.
The bistred rims above the fard
Of cheeks as red as bergamot
Attest that no shamefaced delays
Will clog fulfilment, nor [impede]
Full payment of the Cyprian’s praise
Down to the last remorseful jot.
Hail priestess of we know not what
Strange cult of Mycenean days!

Aldous Huxley was an English writer and philosopher who produced a bibliography of nearly fifty books.

Minoan Dreams by DreamWidth User GingiCat

The Minoan girl
dreams of the Moon
surrounded by shining stars
and wishes she could go there.

She dreams of a boy dancing
with bolts of red and blue magic
in his hands like straight snakes.

She dreams of him among the stars,
the dust of the moon on his bare feet.

The Minoan girl draws pictures
of the stars in their places and
diagrams their influence on
the little house magics that
she knows how to cast.

They’re just dreams,
as she goes about her day—

but they won’t always be.

The Goddess and The Bull by LiveJournal User BrownGirl

When the Goddess came down to Crete,
Which was Minoa of old,
She came in the form of a woman,
Her skirt belling like the sails of a ship.

When the God came down to Crete,
To Minoa before the Diaspora,
He came in the form of a bull,
His black sides broader than a ship’s hull.

They danced together,
And when she kissed his poll
Her lips left a mark like a star,
White against his flawless dark.

In Minoa before the waves rose
And the temples fell, the priestesses
Would dance with the god-blessed bulls who,
As calves, had slobbered kisses on novice hands.

The children born to the holy women
Were held sacred, believed to hold both
Women’s wisdom and bull’s strength,
Able to find their way through the world’s maze.

It is this which the myth of the Minotaur mocks,
The Labyrinth laughing down time at the bull-leapers,
But the skin of Crete lies over the bones of Minoa
And it is the bones that give shape to the body.

Minoan Snake Goddess by Patti Masterman

Long black robe of the house dress
And the animal that decorates her
Waits at the end of a strap
Instead of atop her stone head
At night the snakes seem lively
Serpentine extensions of her short arms
She belches brimstone and mutters endless
Half-baked deprecations
As she staggers to the john
The alcoholic elixir tangling her brains axions
Bellow and curse fall randomly
On furniture, carpet, and sleeping creatures
Her dangling breasts sway to no metered ritual
She is the artifact now of a dead civilization
Still trying to convince herself she was once the epitome
Of feminine courage and power
Her worshipers now just sleeping dust
Her idols cracked faience, with white rimmed eyes
She lurches along her slowed down calendar
Slogs drunkenly through the wavering pestilence
That has become her life
Maybe she senses that at the end
When she has sucked out every ounce of energy and truth
From everything she’s ever touched
The snakes will turn inward and devour her completely
And only her footprints remaining on weary earth.

Bull-Fighting by Raj Nandy

(I)
The Minoan Civilization of ancient Greece,
Was well centered in the Aegean island of Crete;
And around 1600 BC this civilization had peaked!
Seeing their frescoes, and paintings on potteries
and vase,
Scholars concluded that ‘bull-jumping’ was
perfected as a gallant art!
Those jumpers grabbed the bull’s horns, –
And receiving momentum from its violent
head-****,
Vaulted over its back in a somersault,
To land on both feet to break their fall!
I was spell bound by Minoans courage and agility,
Their acrobatic feats performed with such
dexterity!
Those bulls were not killed and no blood was shed,
Some acrobats might have been injured instead!
What a shame for our bull fighters of date!

(II)
Today bull fighting has become a popular sport,
Where the bull gets slaughtered amidst loud applaud!
I recall those Roman amphitheaters that remained
jam-packed,
When the Gladiators performed their fatal acts!
But even those Gladiators had a chance to survive,
Our cornered bull has no place to hide!
Friends, to see blood is an age old thrill,
But none would like to see their own blood spilled!

(III)
Our Matador today is like a popular Rock Star,
While the bull becomes a martyr in the pit by far!
The bull’s mighty horns are sharp and strong,
Can lift up a man like a rag doll!
But when the Picador lances the bull’s ****,
The bull never gets a fair deal and jumps!
Next the Matador waves his ‘muleta’- a red cape,
The bull makes a final charge but cannot escape!
I wonder if the bull sees red!?
The Matador then amidst much pomp and applaud,
Spikes the neck severing the bull’s spinal cord!
He is greeted by flowers and cheers of ‘Ole’! ‘Ole’!
Let us learn from those Ancient Minoans, –
That’s all I have got to say!

Raj Nandy was born before India’s Independence. He graduated with Honors in English Literature from Presidency College Calcutta, and also obtained a first class in MBA.

Iris-W by Dr. Ram Mehta

Prized for perfumes and medicines,
Rainbow personified & God’s messenger,
Resting the souls of dead women,
Decorum of the graves,
Delight of the ancient artists.

Blooming on Minoan Walls,
Sculptured in stone at Karnak.
Living memories of the French revolution.
Clovis put you on his banner
And won over Germanic tribe.
Louis VII adopted you as device,
‘Fleur-de-lis’ the symbol of France.
Germany suspended you in beer barrels,
And France to enrich the wine,
England to give flavour to brandies,
And Russia flavoured a soft drink.

Then, plucked in a state of chastity,
Now, relegated to flavour toothpaste.

Dr. Ram Mehta is a poet who was born in Dwarka, India, and after retiring as a professor and Head of the English department, he split his time between India and North America, traveling extensively and publishing poems online in various countries.

Those Girls by Dr. David Whitwell

The ruins were still there
long after the people were dust:
their language forgotten.
So the Greeks made up stories
about a half human monster
to explain what they saw around them:
but they knew nothing.
Their wild speculations confuse us still,
as we struggle to make sense
-always of course in culturally sensitive ways –
for example those little female figures,
whose bare breasts have gone round the world,
used now to promote holidays in the sun.
An image like that sets us to thinking
about goddesses and cults
as though such things really shape the world.
When what really changes nations
is the endless restless movement of people,
always seeking a better life,
just like now.
And the girls – what were they really?
Carnival queens, exotic dancers,
maybe snake charmers –
brought in as entertainment
on a hot Cretan summer night.

Dr. David Whitwell is a graduate (‘with distinction’) of the University of Michigan and the Catholic University of America, Washington DC (PhD, Musicology, Distinguished Alumni Award, 2000) and has done post-graduate study at the University of Vienna and has studied conducting with Eugene Ormandy and at the Akademie fur Musik, Vienna.