Hymn to Maia

My professor in Classical Mythology commented that, among all the mothers of the Gods, Maia is numbered among those few who does not have much mythology outside of her role as mother of one of the Olympian deities. This modern hymn to Maia will hopefully spark the desire in other Hellenic Polytheists to come up with something to rectify the lack of attention given to this beautiful (and violet-haired!) Pleiad nymph.

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Among the Blessed Gods who dwell on Mount Olympos sits one who waits patiently for Ganymede, the Gods’ cup-bearer, to reach her with the delightful ambrosia. Sitting among those in the heavens, this lovely and quiet woman braids her violet locks in thick braids to adorn her beautiful crown. Mother of the King of Thieves, you sit among the Gods and are yet distant, watching your son as he playfully challenges Lord Apollon to a contest with the lyre. In turn, each one sings: Argos’ slayer weaves a tale of cunning men doomed but to die, lusting for sparkling gold relics; the master of the lyre chooses a song of the Muses of Mount Helicon. Yet you do not take joy in the music, daughter of Atlas; your mind moves elsewhere to the time when you, nymph, crept in your deep cave on Mount Kyllene, depriving yourself of the joys of your fellow Pleiades and the Olympian Gods. You, Maia, made your bed among the dark springs in the depth of the cave-night, turning your silent solitude into company as you imagined night and day away. To your sisters belonged the forests and traveling in the company of deities like Artemis and Bromius. Yet not even you, venerable mother of a trickster, could avoid the destiny that the Fates wove for you at your birth. Hidden by rock, Eros’s arrows still penetrated you with complacent desire for the Thunderer, and in him the desire to find you.

In the dark of the new moon, Zeus descended onto the cool slopes of the mountains of Arcadia, taking the form of a shepherd who, while sleeping, loses his flock to the amusement of the guardians close by; in this form he approached your cave, calling in to discover what beauty colored his fanciful dreams. As Hera slept in the world above, the God of Strangers found his way to your bed. With locks shading his eyes and a simple disposition, he begged you to shelter him from the beasts that prowled the mountainside, artless in his deception that you saw through, great Maia, because nothing escapes your notice. You let him sit on the rocky bed beside you; when you began your art of love, all were willing, and in the cycles of moon that passed your seclusion hid you from the eyes of Hera as your belly swelled with the fertile seed of that powerful Sky God.

Passing into your cave, the master of the Gods’ assembly brought you trinkets from civilization: pretty woven garments and strings of pounded gold to adorn your white limbs, jeweled hairpins for your wild violet hair, and jeweled broaches for your strong shoulders. You both knew that from your womb would come a God whose achievements would be a testament to you, Maia—from you would come his calculating mind and his discretion, the ability to stalk in darkness as every good thief must. But now the Thunderer civilized you, taming your unruly hair and your unyielding limbs, giving you the skills you needed to make an impression among the diamond-studded heavens. From master-crafted vases he brought you, you learned the art of painting, and from examining the weave of your new cloak you learned how to build the loom. Brewing colored potions to dye the walls around you, your fine brushes traced scenes not unlike those on the libation bowls and amphorae that now surrounded you. From the gold adornments on your arms you learned how to love refinement, but to always temper your discoveries with reason, lest you travel into the open air where Hera would find your swollen belly and know the mind of the God you carried within you. Mistress of Zeus, you respect the power of that great presider over marriage and the home, and you fear for the divine power growing inside your body.

All too soon, you gave birth to him, that craftiest of Gods, the one who passes among the worlds with the most ease. That one brought you the fame you detested, grabbing you with his equally strong arms and pulling you into the strong light of the greater world as he established temples and earned the favor of Hera, Queen of Heaven. But you, Maia, hesitant one: we will always remember you, those of us who worship the Deathless Gods, and we will scatter your name across our prayers and hymns, reciting it as we make the traditional sacrifices. This is my greeting to you, Lady Maia, glorious maiden of Arcadia! I offer this prose hymn in honor of your glory.