In ancient Greece, the herm was a column, sacred to Hermes, used as a boundary marker. Herms were placed as mileposts, at street corners, and at the entrance to homes and other buildings, where they were considered to have a magical and protective function, serving as sites of ritual and worship. The column featured only two representational carved elements: a head, and (not surprisingly, for the Greeks) an erect phallus. It was believed to be good fortune to stroke the herm in passing.
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Song of the Herm
Touch me; I am alive
With the rising sap of springtime, the warmth of newborns
Nuzzling at the great maternal teat,
The bounding glee of gawky youth – in mad march hares,
Leaping through time in ageless vernal rites
That need no priest or ritual overlord
To mediate the immediacy of the Divine.
I am alive -- as the land again awakens to the heat,
Animal spirits break free, and the Imperative throbs
Like lava in the veins of earth.
Horned and hard-headed beasts collide in mythic conflict
And hot blood seeming sacred in its sacrifice
Flows dark into the soil to feed new growth.
I am alive -- speaking in the voices of the frogs, sounding in the bellow
Of the beast in rut, calling from treetop and mountainside,
Or whispering enchantment in the hum of bees that weave
Upon a field of springtime blossom. Nature contrives
To advertise the powers of generation and rebirth.
I am alive, always;
At the door between the year’s cold darkness and the vernal dawn
Youth and desire reside, and an expression of the primal.
Buds swell to bursting, or unfold tender, leafy tongues
Proclaiming their vigor. Flowery organs scatter germs of life
And drip with nectar, and the air is thick with the dance of tiny wings.
I am alive -- even within the stone, standing
Sun-warmed, wind-kissed,
Waiting for the traveler’s touch.
Touch me, and blessed be.
With the rising sap of springtime, the warmth of newborns
Nuzzling at the great maternal teat,
The bounding glee of gawky youth – in mad march hares,
Leaping through time in ageless vernal rites
That need no priest or ritual overlord
To mediate the immediacy of the Divine.
I am alive -- as the land again awakens to the heat,
Animal spirits break free, and the Imperative throbs
Like lava in the veins of earth.
Horned and hard-headed beasts collide in mythic conflict
And hot blood seeming sacred in its sacrifice
Flows dark into the soil to feed new growth.
I am alive -- speaking in the voices of the frogs, sounding in the bellow
Of the beast in rut, calling from treetop and mountainside,
Or whispering enchantment in the hum of bees that weave
Upon a field of springtime blossom. Nature contrives
To advertise the powers of generation and rebirth.
I am alive, always;
At the door between the year’s cold darkness and the vernal dawn
Youth and desire reside, and an expression of the primal.
Buds swell to bursting, or unfold tender, leafy tongues
Proclaiming their vigor. Flowery organs scatter germs of life
And drip with nectar, and the air is thick with the dance of tiny wings.
I am alive -- even within the stone, standing
Sun-warmed, wind-kissed,
Waiting for the traveler’s touch.
Touch me, and blessed be.
