#fragment 105a

[slips-of-sappho]

"as the sweetapple reddens on a high branch

high on the highest branch and the applepickers forgot--

no, not forgot: were unable to reach"

~ Sappho, fragment 105A

[itsgivingmami]

“And Burn With Her I Devout Too”

Rhea Ripley x reader

Sappho Fragments- 105a. 16. 49. 1. 34. 48/49(translation dependant) 147. 58.

Before we get into it I just wanted to thank you for the lovely comments, positive reception and generally good vibes you gave on part one. Likes, comments and reblogs are always more than appreciated but just reading is always enough.

—

It’s not immediate.

The night she watched you sleep—whispering poetry into the dark and holding herself back like a saint—she thought maybe she could survive this a little longer. Maybe if she buried it deep enough, she could carry it without spilling.

As the sweet apple blushes on the end of the bough, the very end of the bough which gatherers missed, nay, missed not, but could not reach.

Virtue has never been her strong suit, always destined to enjoy the deep and edged qualities of life. Her tendencies fall toward the macabre—how wonderfully ironic your light feels to her. She’s spent time wondering if maybe you’re supposed to bridge the gap between her and the pearly gates, proof that she hasn’t fallen so far she can’t still reach for heaven.

But each day makes it worse.

It starts small.

At catering, your hand brushes hers reaching for the same plate. You laugh. She doesn’t.

Not because she’s annoyed, but because your fingers linger. Because she can’t help but think of all the things she would do with them. Because your smile hits her like a bruise she asked for, unlike the countless others that come with the job. Because the second you pull away—

She wants you back.

She could be pinning you in piles of poems she’s never written, only spoken softly in the dark. She’s never understood Sisyphus more than she does now. Some might argue she becomes him every time she wins a title just to lose it again—storylines and expectations shifting like wind. But the boulder never seems to fall as fast as her heart does when your attention drifts elsewhere.

She hears someone compliment you backstage—calls you “adorable” in a way that makes her jaw tighten—and you thank them, oblivious, like it means nothing. But Rhea can’t stop thinking about it. Not because of what they said, but because she wants to be the only one allowed to think that. To say it. To prove it.

It’s no use,

Later that week, you show up to rehearsals in a crop top. She chokes on her water, despite needing to cling to the cold it provides.

“Wrong pipe,” she says quickly, as if you haven’t been knocking the air from her lungs daily.

Your laugh is light, unbothered. She plays it off with a smirk, but when you turn around—

She actually growls under her breath.

It’s driving her insane.

You may blame Aphrodite,

You don’t even know what you do to her.

And yet—every moment you exist beside her is another verse etched into the searing script in her chest. You steal her hoodie on a cold walk through the lot. She gives it freely, like anything you could ask for. She’d give all seven of her figures away just to have yours beneath her at night, beside her in the morning.

But she doesn’t mention it.

She can’t.

As soft as she is she has almost killed me,

You curl up on her couch with your legs tucked beneath you, still in that damn crop top, wearing the necklace she bought you three cities ago—something low-key, something no one else would recognize.

You sip, leaving deep red stains on your glass and in her vision, and she can’t stop imagining bruising your mouth with hers. You speak, and she swears no instrument on Earth compares. You tease her, and every time you laugh or glance at her over the rim of your glass, her resolve splinters just a little more.

She’s beginning to crumble—like a statue of Persephone eroding under your sun—finding herself drowning in the fabric of your presence.

She sits beside you in long stretches of silence, just watching the way your lips glisten, the way your bare knee touches her thigh and doesn’t move.

You keep laughing.

You keep sipping.

The stars around the beautiful moon

Hiding their glittering forms

Whenever she shines full on earth

Silver…

You’re not sure when it shifts.

Maybe it’s the way her hand brushes your back as you pass by her in the suite’s kitchenette—soft, deliberate.

Maybe it’s the quiet hum of the speaker in the corner, looping some low, dreamy track like a heartbeat.

Maybe it’s the way she’s watching you now—like she’s stopped pretending not to. Like looking away would wound her.

You’re on her couch again, knees tucked beneath you, sipping from the glass she poured. Your shorts ride higher than you meant them to, and her eyes flick—just once—but it sends heat crawling up your spine.

“Come here,” Rhea says softly.

You look up. Her voice is velvet—unmistakably velvet—but there’s no room for misinterpretation.

You set your glass down slowly, suddenly aware of the silence. The moment feels electric—taut, pulled between two truths aching to finally touch.

“You came and I was longing for you,”

When you move toward her, she meets you halfway. Her palm slides behind your neck, thumb brushing just below your jaw. She tilts your face up with such gentle command that your knees threaten to buckle.

“Do you have any idea,” she breathes, her lips inches from yours, “how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Not with the way she kisses you.

It’s not rushed.

It’s not desperate.

It’s devout.

“You cooled a heart that burned with desire,”

Rhea kisses you like she’s been writing this moment in her mind every night and only now dares to say it aloud. Her mouth moves over yours with aching reverence. Her hand cradles the back of your head like she’s afraid you might disappear if she lets go.

There’s a pessimistic voice in her head urging her to enjoy it before it ends—but the greed takes over before she can silence it. Her other hand slides around your waist, pulling you flush against her.

She guides you onto her lap, and you go willingly, breath caught. The second your hips settle, she exhales against your skin, pressing her forehead to your cheekbone.

You both move like tectonic plates—inevitable, earth-shaking, unstoppable. You wouldn’t even notice the destruction around you if it came.

“Fuck,” she murmurs, voice cracked and raw. “You feel like sin.”

Her grip tightens. One hand low on your back, the other trailing heat along your thigh. Her lips find your jaw, the hinge of it, the column of your neck—like an architect building a cathedral out of reverence.

She doesn’t just kiss you.

She reads you—like scripture, like a favorite passage she’s never dared underline before.

“You’re going to ruin me,” she whispers. “And I’ll thank you for it.”

Your fingers tangle in her hair, pulling just enough to make her groan—a sound that clenches something low and primal inside you.

She notices.

Of course she does.

“Me?” you scoff, breath catching. “I’m going to ruin you?”

Rhea slides a hand under your shorts, up the back of your thigh. Her calloused palm drags across soft skin. Goosebumps rise like prayer.

She pauses at the hem of your underwear, exhaling against your throat.

“Say the word,” she murmurs, “and I’ll worship you.”

You don’t say a word.

You kiss her harder instead.

Someone, I tell you, will remember us, even in another time.

Her mouth is everywhere.

Reverent. Relentless.

The way Rhea touches you—it’s not about possession, though it stirs something feral in her soul. It’s about devotion. It’s about memory. She moves like every inch of you holds verses only she’s allowed to read.

You feel drunk on her.

On this.

On the holiness of it.

She mouths at your collarbone, teeth grazing, lips apologizing. Her breath is unsteady. Her hands are not. She maps you like a sacred text, fingers brushing your thighs, rings cool against flushed skin.

“I’ve imagined this,” she confesses, low against your shoulder. “So many fucking times. The way you’d feel. The way you’d sound.”

You try to respond, but each time you open your mouth she steals another sound from it.

She leans back to look at you. Pupils blown. Jaw tight. You touch her cheek softly, willing her to relax.

“You’re more beautiful than I let myself believe.” Her voice breaks just barely. She presses your hand to her cheek, then to her lips—kissing every part of you she can reach.

No part of you is out of her grasp now.

Clothes fall like petals—yours first, then hers. Every inch of bare skin is kissed, praised, held. She mutters soft things you don’t catch, just feel: pet names, affirmations, worship.

She makes you feel small in the safest way. Powerful in her eyes. Eternal beneath her touch.

“Let me take care of you,” she breathes, holding herself above you. “Let me show you what I haven’t had the courage to say.”

You nod.

That’s all she needs.

What follows is slow. Heated. Intentional. She asks with her eyes, listens with her hands. When you fall apart beneath her—soft, trembling, divine—she kisses your temple and whispers your name like a prayer.

Like she’s home.

Like the scales have finally balanced.

Beauty endures only for as long as it can be seen; goodness, beautiful today, will remain so tomorrow.

Time doesn’t exist afterward. Not really.

You’re curled into her chest, cheek to the warmth above her heart. Her fingers trace secret patterns on your spine—circles, hearts, soft lines.

The city hums outside. In here, it’s golden.

You shift. She kisses your forehead. Then your cheek.

“Y’alright?” she asks, voice rough with affection.

You nod. “Heavenly.”

She smiles—crooked, sleepy, dangerously close to love.

She pulls the blanket over your bare shoulders, arms tightening around you. Her nose tucks into your hair. She breathes you in.

And then—

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

A breath. Barely spoken.

You pull back just enough to see her eyes. They’re open. Honest. Vulnerable.

“I already have,” you whisper.

She kisses you again. Slower.

Like the beginning of forever.

You set me on fire, she thinks again.

But this time… she’s not afraid to burn.

Some say an army of horsemen, some say foot soldiers, still others say a fleet of ships is the loveliest thing on the dark earth, but I say it is the one you love.

⸻

[katakosmos]

i’m curious about rosier twins abuse/twincest

i thought i'd leave this here :)

[sappho, fragment 105a,b]

Οἶον τὸ γλυκύμαλον ἐρεύθεται ἄκρῳ ἐπ᾽ ὔσδῳ, κρον ἐπ᾽ ἀκροτάτῳ λελάθοντο δὲ μαλοδρόπνεσ, οὐ μὰν ἐκλελάθοντ᾽, ἀλλ᾽ οὐκ ἐδύναντ᾽ ἐπίκεσθαι.

as the sweetapple reddens on a high branch, high on the highest branch and the applepickers forgot— no, not forgot: were unable to reach.

οἴαν τὰν υάκινθον ἐν ἄρεσι πρίμενες ἄνδρεςπόσσι καταστείβοισι, χάμαι δέ τε πόρφυρον ἄνθος ...

like the hyacinth in the mountains that shepherd men with their feet trample down and on the ground the purple flower...

(translation: anne carson, “if not, winter”)

[echoes-of-sappho]

"Suffering Sappho!"

Love that in the original comics this was like her catch phrase.

I know it's not Victorian, but it's wondrous how Wonder Woman is 40 years just past Victorian age. Pop culture moved so fast in the mid-1900s. I mean you have writers and comic artists that would have grew up in the late Victorian era or grew up in the generation just after. In school they would have learned Victorian thought and possibly been influenced by Victorian ideals of sex.

But anyways, looks at those pretty flowers! As nice as flowers are what's with woman being depicted always receiving consumables; with picked flowers, fruit and chocolate.

I mean to be fair Sappho does use picked flower imagery in her poetry...a lot.

But you, O Dika, bind your hair with lovely crowns, tying stems of anise together in your soft hands. For the blessed Graces prefer to look on one who wears flowers and turn away from those without a crown. - Sappho, If Not Winter 8

....But if not, I want to remind you ]and beautiful times we had. For many crowns of violets and roses ]at my side you put on and many woven garlands made of flowers around your soft throat. - Sappho, If Not Winter 94

as the sweetapple reddens on a high branch high on the highest branch and the applepickers forgot— no, not forgot: were unable to reach like the hyacinth in the mountains that shepherd men with their feet trample down and on the ground the purple flower - Sappho, If Not Winter 105a-b

Source:

Sappho., and Anne Carson. If Not, Winter : Fragments of Sappho. 1st ed., Alfred A. Knopf, 2002.

Ariel Diaz - Wonder Woman

[heartslobbf]

[ID: four frames from ‘revolutionary girl utena’ with lines from a sappho fragment edited onto them. a close-up of four red apples on a desaturated tree. text reads: ‘as the sweetapple reddens on a high branch high on the highest branch’. a yellow rose thrown at utena’s feet. text reads: ‘and the applepickers forgot—’. a close-up of nanami with a shocked expression on her face. text reads: ‘no, not forgot:’. nanami standing superimposed over a desaturated memory of her and touga as young children, touga holding a cat and glaring at her younger self. text reads: ‘were unable to reach’. /end ID]

sappho, transl. anne carson, fragment 105a / revolutionary girl utena (1997)

[verdantlyviolet]

Sapphomanteia (or ‘Sapphomancy’) is a divination system performed by casting dice to identify one of sixty-four possible number combinations, each referencing a fragment of Sappho’s lyrical poetry. This line of poetry can then be interpreted to answer the posed question, or as a guide to think over.

I have carefully selected sixty-four fragments from various translations of Sappho’s work – Diane Rayor, Anne Carson, Aaron Poochigan, and Mary Barnard. The end of each fragment is marked with its relevant reference number as per E. W. Voigt’s numbering system.

To perform Sapphomanteia:

Roll 3 four-sided dice (or roll one dice three times) and use the three digits rolled to reference the corresponding fragment in bold below.

(Online dice rollers here or here).

As with many forms of divination, you could say a prayer to Sappho or another god for guidance in your reading before you start.

~

111 - Yes, we did many things, then - all beautiful (24a)

112 - Golden-crowned Aphrodite, may I draw this lot (33)

113 - I hunger and I struggle (36)

114 - In the dripping of my pain may winds and anguish take him who condemns (37)

121 - You scorch us (38)

122 - To you I sacrifice on the altar a white goat and I will leave for you (40)

123 - My lovely friends, how could I change towards you who are so beautiful? (41)

124 - Their hearts grow cold and their wings fell slack (42)

131 - As long as you want (45)

132 - On a soft cushion I will lay my body down (46)

133 - Without warning as a whirlwind swoops on an oak, Love shakes my heart (47)

134 - You came and I was crazy for you, and you cooled my mind that burned with longing (48)

141 - The gorgeous man presents a gorgeous view; the good man will in time be gorgeous, too (50)

142 - I don't know what to do - I am of two minds (51)

143 - I don't expect to touch heaven (52)

144 - Having come from heaven wrapped in a purple cloak (54)

211 - Dead you will lie and never memory of you will there be (55 partial)

212 - I think no woman of such skill will ever again see the light of day (56)

213 - What country girl seduces your wits wearing a country dress not knowing how to pull the cloth to her ankles? (57)

214 - Yet I love the finer things … this and passion for the light of life have granted me brilliance and beauty (58)

221 - Because the blessed Graces grant gifts to the garlanded and snub the worshipper with no flowers on her head (81)

222 - I will love you ... as long as breath is in me … will care (88a)

223 - Clothed her well in delicate linen (100)

224 - The evening star is the most beautiful of all stars (104b)

231 - The sweet apple reddens on a high branch, high upon highest, missed by the applepickers: No, they didn't miss, so much as couldn't touch (105a)

232 - Like a hyacinth in the mountains, trampled by shepherds until only a purple stain remains on the ground (105b)

233 - Superior as a singer from Lesbos to those of other lands (106)

234 - We shall give, says father (109)

241 - I can best compare you to a slender sapling (115)

242 - Come, divine lyre, speak to me and sing! (118)

243 - I have no spiteful temper but am calm in mind (120)

244 - A delicate young girl plucking flowers (122)

311 - I myself once wove garlands (125)

312 - May you sleep on the breast of a tender companion (126)

313 - Come close, you precious Graces and Muses with beautiful tresses (128)

314 - But you have forgotten me (129a)

321 - Once again Love, that loosener of limbs, bittersweet and inescapable, crawling thing, seizes me (130)

322 - I conversed with you in a dream Kyprogeneia (134)

323 - Messenger of spring, nightingale with enticing song (136)

324 - I want to tell you something but good taste restrains me (137)

331 - Stand before me as a friend and flaunt the charm in your eyes (138)

332 - Ambrosia mixed in a bowl that Hermes, flask in hand, poured for the gods (141)

333 - Golden chickpeas grew on the shores (143)

334 - Don't move piles of pebbles (145)

341 - Neither the honey nor the bee for me (146)

342 - Someone will remember us, I say, even in another time (147)

343 - Wealth without virtue makes a dangerous neighbour, while their blend holds the pinnacle of happiness (148)

344 - When nightlong celebration closes their eyes (149)

411 - For it is not right in a house of the Muses that there be lament, this would not become us (150)

412 - As the full moon rose, women stood round the altar (154)

413 - Far sweeter in song than a lyre, more golden than gold (156)

414 - When anger spreads in the breast, guard against an idly barking tongue (158)

421 - Now I will sing this beautifully to delight my companions (160)

422 - With what eyes? (162)

423 - The Moon and Pleiades have set - half the night is gone. Time passes. I sleep alone (164b)

424 - Gaia, richly crowned, adorns herself in many hues (168c)

431 - I would lead (169)

432 - A vine that grows up trees (173)

433 - Easy passage (181)

434 - I might go (182)

441 – Danger (184)

442 – Honeyvoiced (185)

443 – Mythweaver (188)

444 – Manyskilled (190)

~

This has been a project of love and devotion, and I am very excited to share it with you all. Many, many, many thanks to @ofhoneyandflame​ and @thegrapeandthefig​ for all their help, guidance and input through this process <3

[barefootinthewilds]

When she has you posting Sappho on main...

'... like the reddening apple, at the tip of the topmost twig, which the apple-pickers missed – or no, not missed entirely; the one they could not reach'

- Fragment 105a, Sappho

[finelythreadedsky]

alright y’all which sappho fragment should i do for my lady lyric poets t-shirt set:

52: ψαύην δ' οὐ δοκίμωμ' ὀράνω δυσπαχέα (I would not think to touch the sky with two arms)

147: μνάσεσθαί τινα / φαῖμι / καὶ ἕτερον ἀμμέων (someone will remember us, I say, even in another time)

120: ἀλλ’ ἀβάκην τὰν φρέν’ ἔχω (but rather I have a quiet mind)

42: ταῖσι [δὲ] ψῦχρος μὲν ἔγεντὀ θῦμος/ πὰρ δ' ἴεισι τὰ πτέρα (their heart grew cold and they let their wings down)

105a: οἶον τὸ γλυκύμαλον ἐρεύθεται ἄκρῳ ἐπ' ὔσδῳ/ ἄκρον ἐπ' ἀκροτάτῳ, λελάθοντο δὲ μαλοδρόπηες/ οὐ μὰν ἐκλελάθοντ', ἀλλ' οὐκ ἐδύναντ' ἐπίκεσθαι (as the sweetapple reddens on a high branch, high on the highest branch and the applepickers forgot-- no, not forgot: were unable to reach)

105b: οἴαν τὰν ὐάκινθον ἐν οὔρεσι ποίμενες ἄνδρες/ πόσσι καταστείβοισι, χαμαι δ᾽ ἐπιπορφύρει ἄνθος (like the hyacinth in the mountains that shepherd men with their feet trample down, and on the ground the purple flower)

[livmoose]

bits of Sappho

I asked myself

What, Sappho, can you give one who has everything, like Aphrodite?

It’s no use Mother dear, I can’t finish my weaving            You may blame Aphrodite soft as she is she has almost killed me with love for that boy

[Fragment 105a]

You: an Achilles' apple Blushing sweet on a high branch At the tip of the tallest tree. You escaped those who would pluck your fruit. Not that they didn't try. No, They could not forget you Poised beyond their reach.

[Fragment 105c]

O my mountain hyacinth What shepherds trod upon you With clumsy, rustic foot? Now you are a broken seal: A scarlet stain upon the earth.

[terpsikeraunos]

Heaven is what I cannot reach! The apple on the tree, Provided it do hopeless hang, That “heaven” is, to me. The color on the cruising cloud, The interdicted ground Behind the hill, the house behind,-- There Paradise is found!

holy SHIT this is sapphic in every sense but meter. is she talking about nature, the appeal of the forbidden, pining for a woman, or all of the above? you all must have known i’d bring this sappho fragment (lobel-page 105a) up:

οἶον τὸ γλυκύμαλον ἐρεύθεται ἄκρῳ ἐπ’ ὔσδῳ, ἄκρον ἐπ’ ἀκροτάτῳ, λελάθοντο δὲ μαλοδρόπηες, οὐ μὰν ἐκλελάθοντ’, ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἐδύναντ’ ἐπίκεσθαι Like the sweetapple reddens upon a high branch, high on the highest, and the apple-pickers missed it– no, actually, they didn’t miss it; they couldn’t reach it…

she literally mentions sappho in a different poem, this intertextuality is possible!!

[steelwagstaff]

Fragments of Sappho, translated by Anne Carson

16. Some men say an army of horse and some men say an army on foot and some men say an army of ships is the most beautiful thing on the black earth. But I say it is     what you love.

Easy to make this understood by all. For she who overcame everyone in beauty (Helen)     left her fine husband

behind and went sailing to Troy. Not for her children nor her dear parents had she a thought, no —      ]led her astray

31.

He seem to me equal to gods that man whoever he is who opposite you sits and listens close     to your sweet speaking

and lovely laughing—oh it puts the heart in my chest on wings for when I look at you, even a moment, no speaking     is left in me

no: tongue breaks and thin fire is racing under skin and in eyes no sight and drumming     fills ears

and cold sweat holds me and shaking grips me all, greener than grass I am and dead—or almost     I seem to me.

But all is to be dared, because even a person of poverty

47.

    Eros shook my mind like a mountain wind falling on oak trees

50. 

For the man who is beautiful is beauitufl to see but the good man will at once also beautiful be.

56.

not one girl I think     who looks on the light of the sun         will ever         have wisdom         like this

102.

sweet mother I cannot work the loom I am broken with longing for a boy by slender Aphrodite

104a.

Evening     you gather back         all that dazzling dawn has put asunder:                 you gather a lamb             gather a kid gather a child to its mother

105a.

as the sweetapple reddens on a high branch     high on the highest branch and the applepickers forgot— no, not forgot: were unable to reach

118.

yes! radiant lyre speak to me become a voice

120.

    but I am not someone who likes to wound rather I have a quiet mind

137.

I want to say something but shame prevents me

yet if you had a desire for good or beautiful things and your tongue were not concocting some evil to say, shame would not hold down your eyes but rather you would speak about what is just

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