How many sat underwater,

entangled by myth’s past tense,

before Neptune first raised his

beard in the direction of Ethiopia,

and after, Odysseus—

always living—

was saved by Homer’s tablet?

Centuries after that story was written,

in the land of Not Make Believe,

a crew of slave-ship sailors

threw one hundred and thirty-two

Africans into the Atlantic Ocean.

Heave-ho to souls.

And people. And laws. And kin.

But Odysseus lives. He always will,

Our Great White Hope—

before whiteness was invented—

this hero who longs for the wood’s sway.

Despite his tendency to chase tail—

sirens and sundry other

poppycock-drinking girls—

I want to be happy that Homer imagined

a sea housing pretty, forgiving Nymphs—

while somewhere else, a wheel dances

and someone else drowns.

Sharks should pass Odysseus by,

never imagining his taste.

The gods shouldn’t pull at his fate—

now angry, now benevolent.

I try hard not to blame that man:

We all deserve our Maker’s love.

Most holy Satyr,

like a goat,

with horns and hooves

to match thy coat

of russet brown,

I make leaf-circlets

and a crown of honey-flowers

for thy throat;

where the amber petals

drip to ivory,

I cut and slip

each stiffened petal

in the rift

of carven petal;

honey horn

has wed the bright

virgin petal of the white

flower cluster: lip to lip

let them whisper,

let them lilt, quivering.

Most holy Satyr,

like a goat,

hear this our song,

accept our leaves,

love-offering,

return our hymn,

like echo fling

a sweet song,

answering note for note.

Pan came out of the woods one day,—
His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,
The gray of the moss of walls were they,—
     And stood in the sun and looked his fill
     At wooded valley and wooded hill.

He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,
On a height of naked pasture land;
In all the country he did command
     He saw no smoke and he saw no roof.
     That was well! And he stamped a hoof.

He heart knew peace, for none came here
To this lean feeding save once a year
Someone to salt the half-wild steer,
     Or homespun children with clicking pails
     Who see so little they tell no tales.

He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach
A new-world song, far out of reach,
For a sylvan sign that the blue jay’s screech
     And the whimper of hawks beside the sun
     Were music enough for him, for one.

Times were changed from what they were:
Such pipes kept less of power to stir
The fruited bough of the juniper
     And the fragile bluets clustered there
     Than the merest aimless breath of air.

They were pipes of pagan mirth,
And the world had found new terms of worth.
He laid him down on the sun-burned earth
     And ravelled a flower and looked away—
     Play? Play?—What should he play?

[Artemis speaks]
               The cornel-trees
               uplift from the furrows,               
               the roots at their bases
               strike lower through the barley-sprays.

               So arise and face me.
               I am poisoned with the rage of song.

                         I once pierced the flesh
                         of the wild-deer,
                         now am I afraid to touch
                         the blue and the gold-veined hyacinths?

                         I will tear the full flowers
                         and the little heads
                         of the grape-hyacinths.
                         I will strip the life from the bulb
                         until the ivory layers
                         lie like narcissus petals
                         on the black earth.

                         Arise, 
                         lest I bend an ash-tree
                         into a taut bow, 
                         and slay—and tear
                         all the roots from the earth.

               The cornel-wood blazes
               and strikes through the barley-sprays,
               but I have lost heart for this.

               I break a staff.
               I break the tough branch.
               I know no light in the woods.
               I have lost pace with the winds.

One narcissus among the ordinary beautiful
flowers, one unlike all the others!  She pulled,
stooped to pull harder—
when, sprung out of the earth
on his glittering terrible
carriage, he claimed his due.
It is finished.  No one heard her.
No one!  She had strayed from the herd.

(Remember: go straight to school.
This is important, stop fooling around!
Don't answer to strangers.  Stick
with your playmates.  Keep your eyes down.)
This is how easily the pit
opens.  This is how one foot sinks into the ground.

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings' wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning

^{translated from the Spanish by Stephen Kessler}

Zeus himself could not undo the web
of stone closing around me. I have forgotten
the men I was before; I follow the hated
path of monotonous walls
that is my destiny. Severe galleries
which curve in secret circles
to the end of the years. Parapets
cracked by the days’ usury.
In the pale dust I have discerned
signs that frighten me. In the concave
evenings the air has carried a roar
toward me, or the echo of a desolate howl.
I know there is an Other in the shadows,
whose fate it is to wear out the long solitudes
which weave and unweave this Hades
and to long for my blood and devour my death.
Each of us seeks the other. If only this
were the final day of waiting.

^{for renee}

if you can remember nothing else
know I am happy in this ugly little house
I have a mustache          chapped lips
eat naked in front of dirty windows
I never worry about who may pass by
to witness the blessing of my flesh all
purple and growing    I am fat with love
freedom has made me bigger               I don’t
long to be adored        truth be told my wife
won’t worship me       my altars abandoned
my children half wild screaming demigods
my sisters refuse to know me    grimace thin-lipped smiles
as I pass by                  but I’m not sorry
you wouldn’t be either
listen                  I play marvin gaye the few days I clean
aretha when I rush my wife to bed
and in those few hours before Apollo rushes his chariot
dragging a belligerent sun to the sky
she holds all of me      vast and ordinary
no spells or runes to bind her            we grow our own religion
I am bored of these stories       that drag out my breathless allure
the way men whip themselves
into foolish frenzy for the pleasure of consuming a goddess
as if it were not a shopworn tired thing            what good is your desire
             I want to be known for nothing but me             a fat black happy
woman who gave no fucks    tell that history

^{George Steiner, “The Poetry of Thought”}

Unlike the
work of
most people
you’re supposed
to unthread
the needle.
It will be
a lifetime
task, far
from simple:
the empty eye
achievable—
possibly—but
it’s going
to take
fake sewing
worthy of
Penelope.

(“I hate a woman who is not a mystery to herself, as well as to me.”—The Phoenix.)

If you want a receipt for that popular mystery

            Known to the world as a Woman of Charm,

Take all the conspicuous ladies of history,

            Mix them all up without doing them harm.

The beauty of Helen, the warmth of Cleopatra,

            Salome’s notorious skill in the dance,

The dusky allure of the belles of Sumatra

            The fashion and finish of ladies from France.

The youth of Susanna, beloved by an elder,

            The wit of a Chambers’ incomparable minx,

The conjugal views of the patient Griselda,

            The fire of Sappho, the calm of the Sphinx,

The eyes of La Vallière, the voice of Cordelia,

The musical gifts of the sainted Cecelia,

Trillby and Carmen and Ruth and Ophelia,

Madame de Staël and the matron Cornelia,

Iseult, Hypatia and naughty Nell Gwynn,

Una, Titania and Elinor Glyn.

            Take of these elements all that is fusible,

            Melt ‘em all down in a pipkin or crucible,

            Set ‘em to simmer and take off the scum,

            And a Woman of Charm is the residuum!

                        (Slightly adapted from W.S. Gilbert.)

Chloe’s hair, no doubt, was brighter;
     Lydia’s mouth more sweetly sad;
Hebe’s arms were rather whiter;
     Languorous-lidded Helen had
Eyes more blue than e’er the sky was;
Lalage’s was subtler stuff;
Still, you used to think that I was
     Fair enough.

Now you’re casting yearning glances
     At the pale Penelope;
Cutting in on Claudia’s dances;
     Taking Iris out to tea.
Iole you find warm-hearted;
     Zoë’s cheek is far from rough—
Don’t you think it’s time we parted? . . .
     Fair enough!