My whiteness
catches the early rays.
A few men gather
to appreciate
my nakedness-
most are too busy.
Eighteen years’ girlhood
now displayed,
like this, for passers-by.
I could have got away
down this same road,
Ostia, freedom …
No. A girl alone
wouldn’t stand a chance –
and, anyway,
it’s what I asked for.
So I got ready,
bathed, oiled my skin,
brushed back my hair,
put on my dancing chiton,
simple, light,
sandals, hair-ribbon,
nothing else –
no make-up, gems.
Waited.
“Nice legs!” a soldier said
as he tied my wrists,
“But they need a tan –
we’ll see you get one!”
Those legs I fight to flex now,
lit by the light of dawn,
press down - the pain’s unbearable –
to ease the other agonies
in aching shoulders,
steel-tormented groin …
I teased my torturers,
“Come on!
In your job
you must’ve seen a naked girl before -
whip me!”
Their scourge
and smouldering irons have left
imperial signatures
on my hot, heaving adolescent breasts,
where flies are swarming now
to taste sweet sweat.
The sun lifts, angry red
above the marshes –
how soon my pale skin burns!
Heavy the cross-bar
that I had to haul
up this long hill,
thrashed when I stumbled.
Still, when they stripped me –
what I had left of blood-soaked rags –
I smiled, shook back my hair,
self-conscious, girly.
Nor did I struggle –
well, not much –
as they set me shuddering on the shaft,
stretched out slim arms –
so slim, so stretched now,
straining, they’re forced to bear
my body’s weight –
They strapped me down,
showed me the iron nails,
the heavy hammer,
grinning …
Ah! How we squeal,
vixens on heat, fillies in season,
girls, when we’re crucified!
Minutes, they watched me writhe,
peed on me – my lank locks
still stink of it –
then raised me slowly,
every muscle taut,
feeling the strain grow, inch by inch,
head back, lips wide, teeth clenched,
then –
Aaah!
That sickening jolt!
All of me tugged
on four flesh-rending nails,
ripping racked girlhood!
Worse: in between my thighs
the Spike, the Cornu -
that special cruelty the Romans use
to consummate their virgin-victim's
honeymoon of pain!
First I fought, frenzied,
trying to tear,
my fingers free from those fixed nails.
At last,
I recognised, resigned:
there’s no escape.
Accept
the agony
that surges through
with every lunge
of my long, slow death-dance.
Yet still I strive with aching thighs
to ease my tortured sex
around the exploring Spike,
flex up my supple body,
feel how close
ecstatic pleasure lies to exquisite pain!
Excited schoolboys now observe
each throb of my loins
as the triumphant metal penetrates my female parts,
province by province,
conquering me.
Tribute trickles purple
down my surrendered thighs,
drips for Rome’s soil to sup.
Wolf-whistles!
Word's got round,
"A pretty crucifixa on the Ostian Way!"
Youths jeer and joke,
their girl-friends giggle and gloat.
Older men ogle me, lay bets...
"She's suffering,
that slave-slut -
so she should!"
hisses a hag.
Submit.
It's what they like to see....
Breasts that will never nourish,
hips that will never bear,
toss, thrust, tormented.
Parched lips panting,
schoolgirl teeth flash in the sun,
sun-baked, thirst-maddened,
frantic, I twist my head,
try to suck sweat off my shoulder.
Oozing wounds crawl
with flesh-gnawing flies -
each breath is agony …
Ah, crucifixion!
Summit of sadist’s skill!
Making me, every sinew taut,
torture – and fuck - myself!
Noonday.
No rest.
Head hangs exhausted.
Crows investigate –
I toss my tousled curls:
not time yet boys!
“Caw!”
They just mock me.
Soon they’ll start pecking -
first my soft eyes …
And yet I know
it’s only the beginning...
I’ve seen girls young as me –
one was no more than twelve –
hanging like I am now,
still twitching, gasping,
whimpering in pain,
on the third day!
Awesome and impressive. Chapeau!
Hey just curious, where did you get the pictures from?
They're Bartnel's work. If you click to enlarge them, you should see his sig, but I ought to have put in a credit.
There's one point missing, as I have been reading the story, and that is why was the girl crucified? Also, why would also a twelve year old girl, mentioned in the end, also be crucified?
I leave the 'why?' to your imagination. But girls of 12 were adults in Roman law, and slaves, rebels or criminals of that age were certainly crucified.
Interesting. Was it possible to crucify a slave at will? I think until one of the post-Caesar emperors it was.
Pretty much so, a slave had no legal rights whatsoever, and for any fault she'd have to 'pay with her body', whether it just whipped or worse - much worse!
I think there was a restriction on castration and/or emasculation introduced into law pretty early on in Rome. Also, slave disposal was not completely straightforward. However, there were guilds that would handle the matter for a fee, without fearing the issues with the law.
Kopfkino vom feinsten. Da stimmt alles und man liest was geschieht, man fühlt, was passiert, man empfindet fast die Qualen.
Ganz großes Kino. Besten Dank. (Bea)
Vielen Dank, Bea.
I've not written a poem about that scenario, just some hot comments on photos by the great Makar and others on CruxForums.
thankyou Migoz, I'm glad it makes such an impression - I know I put a lot of myself into imagining the experience.
I think that comes aross very clearly. It's what makes it such a powerful thing to read. It is also intriguing that you have chosen to express yourself in verse form (though I have just seen your St Catherine poem, too). Do these come to you as a poem, or is it just that you think that the distilled form concentrates what you want to say? (Not that those two things are mutually exclusive)
Interesting question! Yes, both in reading and writing I like the precision and concentration of poetry, finding just the best words that convey the scene, the experience, the feelings vividly without any unnecessary trimmings. And, even in relatively free verse like Crucifixa and The Wheel, I like to maintain a rhythm that carries the narrative forward, building tension, and make discreet use of tricks of sound - onomatopoeia, assonance etc. - to heighten the effect of key phrases. I think of myself as more of a poet than a story-teller, though I've some longish 'novels' on cruxforums that have proved quite popular, too long for this site.
Sometimes, the precision and conciseness needed in a poem is wonderfully tight and thus useful in working through complex emotions and ideas. Yes, your verse is free, but I noted the rhythm and the poetic 'building blocks' (not tricks!). It is why I said it worked well.
I have just signed up to CF to see some more of your writing.
