Villa MytileneWas it three years ago I met Atthis—five years ago Anaktoria? Was that another dream? I am not sure.Awake, I thought about my girls and now much they love me and make my house a house of grace. I must have beauty: I must have peace: and they are peace and beauty. I recalled how and when I had met each and loved each one for her special qualities. Each had a place in my heart, gold on cotton, green on white...the sea was at each meeting and at each good-bye... I count my years but the sea has no calendar.Sometimes I feel the sea thinks for us, its pensiveness communicates at dawn, its meditation at night, its probity sifting through the day. A stormy emotion—the sea. A period of tranquility—the sea. Fickleness—the sea. I could not be happy without its communication. For all its pervasiveness it seems on the verge of a secret: looking down through the waves I sense it, I sense it at night, when phosphorescence steals shoreward or when rain obliterates and there is no visible ocean, then, still, still it communes, insinuating mystery, legends from caves, legends stronger than any coral, barracuda and stingrays roiled under, sinking farther and farther.PAs we eat, in the dining room, Atthis prattles about her new parrot, mimicking it.Her glances, charming, rounded, sensual, inconclusive, ask for love.Her mimicry, spoken somewhat under her breath, takes in the townspeople, theatre folk, the Athenian star, Alcaeus, Gogu, the girls. But, because it is kindly and feminine, the fun carries far.Her eyebrows have grown to meet over her nose and the fuzzy little bridge gives her added years. Her breasts are larger, shoulders fuller. She could be a priestess: the face solemn, the lips pert; then laughter ruins everything and she is simply girl, joyous life, asking for love.Dressed in thin summer best, she pokes her neighbor with her sharp sandal and before I can say a word a scrap follows.PAs I went downstairs, I put my hand between the lion’s jaws, stubby, mossy stone, oldest part of the house. Lingering, I watched leaves puff down the steps. By the fountain, I absorbed water shadows, warmth around me, an insect swimming toward a spot of sun.PA village girl brought me a bouquet of white roses, saying:“You must let me join yourhetaerae.”She wore a twisted blue wool skirt, of darkest color, and no blouse. Standing erect, she offered her flowers and then spun around and fled: I could scarcely take in the clean-cut features, pointed chin, red mouth and new breasts.I can’t imagine who she is or where she lives but I must find her.PMy working hours are longer and as I review my work I find it good: that is a sign of maturity: maturity is the seal I strive for and yet as I work I fear a loss of spirit: maturity is seldom daring and to be daring is to open doors: maturity, then, is balance: is it also the decorum people accuse me of? Parasol, tilted at just the proper angle? Mask, worn at the right moments? As I came home yesterday from the play, I remembered a winking mask, rather like one in my room: was that derision?PI saw a young man on the street who startled me. Though he didn’t glance at me, I thought I had seen him in Samnos: ax beard and sullen mouth were the same; he had the same slouch, the same filthy clothes. Watching him, I recalled that Samnian fellow, his pleas and questions:“...tell nobody I’m here...but I want to know about home...tell me the news! You see I’ve been here for three years...to escape the war...there are three of us...we came here on a raft...tell us...”The frenzied talk was vivid as this derelict walked down our street.In Samnos, I had sympathized with my countryman for his voluntary exile was no easier than an enforced exile: I drew him out and later met his friends, all hungry for news, all in rags, living from hand to mouth, scared. It was their fear that worried me and I urged them to make friends and forget the past, to marry and begin life in Samnos. I arranged contacts for them...But, was this one of them sneaking along, hoping for luck? Pittakos, the wise, the clement, would have him lashed to death by nightfall, if someone discovered him. My pledge of secrecy is a pledge I’ll keep. As I sailed home from Samnos, I thought of these men and was proud of their folly.PRoses are in bloom on the hills and violets are in flower around my house. Kleis will be married soon, so I am doing things wrong. I try to tell myself this is her happiest time and struggle to write a poem for her wedding. Her natural gaiety is infectious and yet, and yet...We will have quite a ceremony, Libus, Alcaeus, Gogu, Nanno, Helen, my girls, sailors, half the town, Pittakos and rogues...Rhodopis and Charaxos...no, harshness is not in keeping with a wedding.I can hear the male chorus.I hear the surf...Below us, the ocean eats at its rocks, above us lie the hills, around us stir the branches of the olives.Peace: sacred grove, we dedicate these two: give them luck: a light will fall: the chorus will resume: a wreath will be hung.Shall I play my harp?Who is the god of illusion? Love? How is he to be kept alive through many years and many disappointments?I shall try to help. Song has that gift, a gift nothing else has: to give the lost or hold it in suspension.PI feel utterly ridiculous, the greatest hypocrite: that is how it seems as I urge Alcaeus to curb his resentment for Pittakos.I have tried reason but it isn’t reason that moves Alcaeus. When he feels my sympathy, he listens: if he conceives of us as he used to be, his hatred subsides. Let him feel alone, he thunders, bends toward me, drags his fingers through his beard and sputters:“To hear you talk, I’d think you were never mistreated by this man!”“But you know better.”“You’re a traitor to yourself!”“That’s not true. You want to have him killed and I say we lose through violence. I’m no traitor to myself—or you. You can be traitor to justice.”“Let’s not say anything about justice, when we’re fighting tyranny.”I recalled days with Aesop and said:“I wish he was here, to advise us or hear our problems. I think I know what he’d say.”“What?”“There’s a way out of slavery... I didn’t kill my master.”Slavery—there are all kinds.It is a kind of slavery to long for Phaon and another kind to remember Aesop and another to hope. Perhaps Aesop would rebuke such thinking and say: Slavery is not in ourselves but in the misused power of others. Surely that is the commoner kind but I find slavery in myself and my girls and my island and my books.Well, here is a story Phaon told me:“Years ago, a slave broke into a temple on a deserted island and found lamps burning. On a rug lay a naked man, asleep. He’d been lying there for centuries, guarded by someone, the lamps filled and the wicks new.“The King of Freedom, were the words on a shield beside him. His yellow hair streamed across the rug. Above him, a mask, fastened on the wall, spoke:“‘Shut the temple...let the lamps burn...make no noise...take a hair from his head...go.’“The slave shut the temple, carefully.“Years later, in prison, he bent over to examine the golden hair he had kept and it burst into flame and became a torch which he used to light his way to freedom.”PHis flames and heat are fuelFor seaman’s muscles, his sea eyes,Devil of laughter and devil moods,His sinking-rising delicacy.The initial union is reliefOf olives and cypress, breasts, birds,Stinging and perspiration’s siege,Roots climbing out of centuries.PBeauty, the wedding is over and I am alone with my lighted lamps and moonlight across the sea, night’s indifference.Beauty, Kleis was happy...many of us were happy.After the ceremony, Pittakos approached me, shuffling, dressed as I had never seen him dressed, in fine white clothes. His hate was gone, that was something I saw at once: I was seeing another man. Speaking guardedly, hands folding and unfolding his robe, he said:“...They would have stoned me. What can I say...to make amends? You stopped them from killing me... You...you helped me...”I grew confused. Remembering Alcaeus’ threat, my hatred surged and I thought: Can he expect me to rub out the past because of an accident on my part? Can he ask such a thing?Do you think that I have changed—that I went out of my way to save you?My own harshness pained me. I had seen him at a distance, during the ceremony, and had resented his presence; as I played my harp and sang he remained near, boggling his head.Our sacred grove, filled with people, trees streaked with fog, was still in my mind. I could see Kleis smiling and hear the wedding chorus, the flutists, the barking dogs, the cries of gulls.Glancing overhead, I noticed them, passing, gliding, saying with their grace things I tried to say in my writing.Pittakos turned away.I could not say a word but stepped forward.“...Pittakos.”He regarded me doubtfully.“Yes.”Then I started to walk away.“What can I say? I’m old... I can’t erase errors. Sappho, I... Last night I stayed up all night...it was more than thinking: I looked at the past. I’ve been mistaken. Though we’ve lived here, in this town, we know only lies about each other...”Shuffling, he made off.All were there in the grove: Alcaeus, baffled; Libus, pale and aloof; Anaktoria, gay; Atthis, dreaming; Kleis, my herder... We ate together, drank, sang... The sun drank the fog and sunset ribboned the ocean.I shall remember goats wandering through our grove, tinkling their bells...the mask-maker carrying my harp for me...trying to sing in toothless ecstasy...I shall remember the altar fire and wreaths of flowers, their incense and coloring... remember, too, the farewell of my pair, their backs and shoulders as they headed for their house on the headland, a small place among figs and tall white poppies, their world—not mine. I must remember it is their world. When Kleis flings her arms around me I will rejoice. At the same time, I must accept the fact that their marriage is their particular freedom.May it be a satisfying freedom.Mother’s lamp, as I write, is nearly empty: she would have liked the wedding ceremony, the chorus singing my poem: terra-cotta lamp, do you remember her wedding? Did you burn for her ecstasy or were you snuffed out before the groom carried her to bed?It wasn’t long ago I was married: how I walked, my head high, the embodiment of innocence and grace: I thought life would be easy!The wind puffs through my room.The ocean whispers.PCharaxos and Rhodopis attended the wedding, staying apart with a group of their friends, no one dressed for the occasion. Since the man who had forcibly made love to her was there, I was disconcerted. I was ashamed. My face burned. What could I do? Would they interfere? But they seemed preoccupied, merely onlookers, most of them young men and women.When they sauntered away, I enjoyed the wedding.Someone among them, a stranger perhaps, gazed back at me, reminding me of Cercolas.Cercolas, my mother, Aesop—each summons a series of images. When each one died, I thought: How can I go on? Now my thought is: What has replaced them? Husband, mother, friend... I am forever altered by their absence, emptier, lonelier. I seek them in others and yet never find them.It matters to me how they died.I am still troubled that Cercolas died on the battlefield. And it is tragic that Aesop died, beaten by a mob. At least, mother died beside me, comforted as much as human comfort is possible.Death should not catch us unaware for then it cheats us doubly. Surely, it is hard enough to die without dying in some tragic way. Each of us deserves a last dignity.PShall I tell Alcaeus that Pittakos came to me after the wedding?I may never tell him because he will suffer more for knowing. It seems to me telling him could accomplish little. Hard as it is, unfair as it is, I must keep this to myself. Of course, some would disbelieve. And if Pittakos sees fit to remain silent, he and I will be better off. Lives will be less complicated.Even unmolested, he has not much time ahead. We must be far-sighted and choose a leader...P
Villa Mytilene
W
W
as it three years ago I met Atthis—five years ago Anaktoria? Was that another dream? I am not sure.
Awake, I thought about my girls and now much they love me and make my house a house of grace. I must have beauty: I must have peace: and they are peace and beauty. I recalled how and when I had met each and loved each one for her special qualities. Each had a place in my heart, gold on cotton, green on white...the sea was at each meeting and at each good-bye... I count my years but the sea has no calendar.
Sometimes I feel the sea thinks for us, its pensiveness communicates at dawn, its meditation at night, its probity sifting through the day. A stormy emotion—the sea. A period of tranquility—the sea. Fickleness—the sea. I could not be happy without its communication. For all its pervasiveness it seems on the verge of a secret: looking down through the waves I sense it, I sense it at night, when phosphorescence steals shoreward or when rain obliterates and there is no visible ocean, then, still, still it communes, insinuating mystery, legends from caves, legends stronger than any coral, barracuda and stingrays roiled under, sinking farther and farther.
P
As we eat, in the dining room, Atthis prattles about her new parrot, mimicking it.
Her glances, charming, rounded, sensual, inconclusive, ask for love.
Her mimicry, spoken somewhat under her breath, takes in the townspeople, theatre folk, the Athenian star, Alcaeus, Gogu, the girls. But, because it is kindly and feminine, the fun carries far.
Her eyebrows have grown to meet over her nose and the fuzzy little bridge gives her added years. Her breasts are larger, shoulders fuller. She could be a priestess: the face solemn, the lips pert; then laughter ruins everything and she is simply girl, joyous life, asking for love.
Dressed in thin summer best, she pokes her neighbor with her sharp sandal and before I can say a word a scrap follows.
P
As I went downstairs, I put my hand between the lion’s jaws, stubby, mossy stone, oldest part of the house. Lingering, I watched leaves puff down the steps. By the fountain, I absorbed water shadows, warmth around me, an insect swimming toward a spot of sun.
P
A village girl brought me a bouquet of white roses, saying:
“You must let me join yourhetaerae.”
She wore a twisted blue wool skirt, of darkest color, and no blouse. Standing erect, she offered her flowers and then spun around and fled: I could scarcely take in the clean-cut features, pointed chin, red mouth and new breasts.
I can’t imagine who she is or where she lives but I must find her.
P
My working hours are longer and as I review my work I find it good: that is a sign of maturity: maturity is the seal I strive for and yet as I work I fear a loss of spirit: maturity is seldom daring and to be daring is to open doors: maturity, then, is balance: is it also the decorum people accuse me of? Parasol, tilted at just the proper angle? Mask, worn at the right moments? As I came home yesterday from the play, I remembered a winking mask, rather like one in my room: was that derision?
P
I saw a young man on the street who startled me. Though he didn’t glance at me, I thought I had seen him in Samnos: ax beard and sullen mouth were the same; he had the same slouch, the same filthy clothes. Watching him, I recalled that Samnian fellow, his pleas and questions:
“...tell nobody I’m here...but I want to know about home...tell me the news! You see I’ve been here for three years...to escape the war...there are three of us...we came here on a raft...tell us...”
The frenzied talk was vivid as this derelict walked down our street.
In Samnos, I had sympathized with my countryman for his voluntary exile was no easier than an enforced exile: I drew him out and later met his friends, all hungry for news, all in rags, living from hand to mouth, scared. It was their fear that worried me and I urged them to make friends and forget the past, to marry and begin life in Samnos. I arranged contacts for them...
But, was this one of them sneaking along, hoping for luck? Pittakos, the wise, the clement, would have him lashed to death by nightfall, if someone discovered him. My pledge of secrecy is a pledge I’ll keep. As I sailed home from Samnos, I thought of these men and was proud of their folly.
P
Roses are in bloom on the hills and violets are in flower around my house. Kleis will be married soon, so I am doing things wrong. I try to tell myself this is her happiest time and struggle to write a poem for her wedding. Her natural gaiety is infectious and yet, and yet...
We will have quite a ceremony, Libus, Alcaeus, Gogu, Nanno, Helen, my girls, sailors, half the town, Pittakos and rogues...Rhodopis and Charaxos...no, harshness is not in keeping with a wedding.
I can hear the male chorus.
I hear the surf...
Below us, the ocean eats at its rocks, above us lie the hills, around us stir the branches of the olives.
Peace: sacred grove, we dedicate these two: give them luck: a light will fall: the chorus will resume: a wreath will be hung.
Shall I play my harp?
Who is the god of illusion? Love? How is he to be kept alive through many years and many disappointments?
I shall try to help. Song has that gift, a gift nothing else has: to give the lost or hold it in suspension.
P
I feel utterly ridiculous, the greatest hypocrite: that is how it seems as I urge Alcaeus to curb his resentment for Pittakos.
I have tried reason but it isn’t reason that moves Alcaeus. When he feels my sympathy, he listens: if he conceives of us as he used to be, his hatred subsides. Let him feel alone, he thunders, bends toward me, drags his fingers through his beard and sputters:
“To hear you talk, I’d think you were never mistreated by this man!”
“But you know better.”
“You’re a traitor to yourself!”
“That’s not true. You want to have him killed and I say we lose through violence. I’m no traitor to myself—or you. You can be traitor to justice.”
“Let’s not say anything about justice, when we’re fighting tyranny.”
I recalled days with Aesop and said:
“I wish he was here, to advise us or hear our problems. I think I know what he’d say.”
“What?”
“There’s a way out of slavery... I didn’t kill my master.”
Slavery—there are all kinds.
It is a kind of slavery to long for Phaon and another kind to remember Aesop and another to hope. Perhaps Aesop would rebuke such thinking and say: Slavery is not in ourselves but in the misused power of others. Surely that is the commoner kind but I find slavery in myself and my girls and my island and my books.
Well, here is a story Phaon told me:
“Years ago, a slave broke into a temple on a deserted island and found lamps burning. On a rug lay a naked man, asleep. He’d been lying there for centuries, guarded by someone, the lamps filled and the wicks new.
“The King of Freedom, were the words on a shield beside him. His yellow hair streamed across the rug. Above him, a mask, fastened on the wall, spoke:
“‘Shut the temple...let the lamps burn...make no noise...take a hair from his head...go.’
“The slave shut the temple, carefully.
“Years later, in prison, he bent over to examine the golden hair he had kept and it burst into flame and became a torch which he used to light his way to freedom.”
P
His flames and heat are fuel
For seaman’s muscles, his sea eyes,
Devil of laughter and devil moods,
His sinking-rising delicacy.
The initial union is relief
Of olives and cypress, breasts, birds,
Stinging and perspiration’s siege,
Roots climbing out of centuries.
P
Beauty, the wedding is over and I am alone with my lighted lamps and moonlight across the sea, night’s indifference.
Beauty, Kleis was happy...many of us were happy.
After the ceremony, Pittakos approached me, shuffling, dressed as I had never seen him dressed, in fine white clothes. His hate was gone, that was something I saw at once: I was seeing another man. Speaking guardedly, hands folding and unfolding his robe, he said:
“...They would have stoned me. What can I say...to make amends? You stopped them from killing me... You...you helped me...”
I grew confused. Remembering Alcaeus’ threat, my hatred surged and I thought: Can he expect me to rub out the past because of an accident on my part? Can he ask such a thing?
Do you think that I have changed—that I went out of my way to save you?
My own harshness pained me. I had seen him at a distance, during the ceremony, and had resented his presence; as I played my harp and sang he remained near, boggling his head.
Our sacred grove, filled with people, trees streaked with fog, was still in my mind. I could see Kleis smiling and hear the wedding chorus, the flutists, the barking dogs, the cries of gulls.
Glancing overhead, I noticed them, passing, gliding, saying with their grace things I tried to say in my writing.
Pittakos turned away.
I could not say a word but stepped forward.
“...Pittakos.”
He regarded me doubtfully.
“Yes.”
Then I started to walk away.
“What can I say? I’m old... I can’t erase errors. Sappho, I... Last night I stayed up all night...it was more than thinking: I looked at the past. I’ve been mistaken. Though we’ve lived here, in this town, we know only lies about each other...”
Shuffling, he made off.
All were there in the grove: Alcaeus, baffled; Libus, pale and aloof; Anaktoria, gay; Atthis, dreaming; Kleis, my herder... We ate together, drank, sang... The sun drank the fog and sunset ribboned the ocean.
I shall remember goats wandering through our grove, tinkling their bells...the mask-maker carrying my harp for me...trying to sing in toothless ecstasy...I shall remember the altar fire and wreaths of flowers, their incense and coloring... remember, too, the farewell of my pair, their backs and shoulders as they headed for their house on the headland, a small place among figs and tall white poppies, their world—not mine. I must remember it is their world. When Kleis flings her arms around me I will rejoice. At the same time, I must accept the fact that their marriage is their particular freedom.
May it be a satisfying freedom.
Mother’s lamp, as I write, is nearly empty: she would have liked the wedding ceremony, the chorus singing my poem: terra-cotta lamp, do you remember her wedding? Did you burn for her ecstasy or were you snuffed out before the groom carried her to bed?
It wasn’t long ago I was married: how I walked, my head high, the embodiment of innocence and grace: I thought life would be easy!
The wind puffs through my room.
The ocean whispers.
P
Charaxos and Rhodopis attended the wedding, staying apart with a group of their friends, no one dressed for the occasion. Since the man who had forcibly made love to her was there, I was disconcerted. I was ashamed. My face burned. What could I do? Would they interfere? But they seemed preoccupied, merely onlookers, most of them young men and women.
When they sauntered away, I enjoyed the wedding.
Someone among them, a stranger perhaps, gazed back at me, reminding me of Cercolas.
Cercolas, my mother, Aesop—each summons a series of images. When each one died, I thought: How can I go on? Now my thought is: What has replaced them? Husband, mother, friend... I am forever altered by their absence, emptier, lonelier. I seek them in others and yet never find them.
It matters to me how they died.
I am still troubled that Cercolas died on the battlefield. And it is tragic that Aesop died, beaten by a mob. At least, mother died beside me, comforted as much as human comfort is possible.
Death should not catch us unaware for then it cheats us doubly. Surely, it is hard enough to die without dying in some tragic way. Each of us deserves a last dignity.
P
Shall I tell Alcaeus that Pittakos came to me after the wedding?
I may never tell him because he will suffer more for knowing. It seems to me telling him could accomplish little. Hard as it is, unfair as it is, I must keep this to myself. Of course, some would disbelieve. And if Pittakos sees fit to remain silent, he and I will be better off. Lives will be less complicated.
Even unmolested, he has not much time ahead. We must be far-sighted and choose a leader...
P
Homosexual lovers in bed,making love in the moonlight.The light falls on their flesh,faces, hands, legs, their passion:laughter and soft moans andthe ocean below the villa.Sappho rises and ponders her body,stands by a window, facing the Aegean.
Homosexual lovers in bed,
making love in the moonlight.
The light falls on their flesh,
faces, hands, legs, their passion:
laughter and soft moans and
the ocean below the villa.
Sappho rises and ponders her body,
stands by a window, facing the Aegean.
I took my lyre and said:Here, now, my heavenlyTortoise shell, becomeA speaking instrument.One by one, the poems have fitted into my book, so slowly time seems to have had nothing to do with its completion. Yet, my ninth book is done. When I had finished my sixth, I thought: this is all. When I finished my eighth, I felt I need go no farther. Will there be a tenth? What will make it distinctive?Phaon lives in this book, insatiability floods everywhere: lyric by lyric, our smoldering hearts reveal our happiness.When I shared lines with him, he laughed at their frankness, eyes dancing. He remembered some of them, and shot them back at me, to tease.I have sent selections to Solon: what will he write me? Will their crudeness be too much for him? I think not. He has savored love.My Egyptians are copying the book—conspirators, no doubt, mumbling lines to each other, shaking heads. I’d like to slip into their shop as they work, to overhear them: would I laugh or recoil? Probably I’d be annoyed. Well, tomorrow I must go to the shop and see how they are doing.I have not thought of a title.PVilla PoseidonI sought Anaktoria and together we spent the night.In spite of her comfort, I could not get to sleep. Her arms around me, she lay motionless.During the afternoon, we arranged flowers, taking them from the garden. A rainbow appeared over the bay and arm in arm we watched it, its arc faintly reflected on the water. Her myrrh was everywhere, her spirit too: the things she said were right: family traditions are a part of her and she adds just enough fantasy.For a while, we practiced archery, her shooting more accurate than mine. A lost arrow sent us near the sea. Then games...games...what would life be without games and laughter!Watch the dice in her fingers!She’s a magician of tricks and youth, my Anaktoria and, oddly enough, I can never bring it all together; it is too effervescent, too delightful: the moment swells over us: then, another moment, even while we are eating together, growing sleepy together: ours is a gift that has come from our island without men, years of femininity.PSomeone sent me the doll Aesop had when he died, his Cretan doll. It came from Adelphi; badly wrapped, I opened it in my library, laid it on my desk, amazed to see it, startled, fingers fumbling. Someone had wanted to be kind, but it wasn’t kindness to send it. What faded colors, what worn cloth, how had the doll gotten this old? It had suffered another kind of death.With the doll in my arms, I smelled the incense of his house, dinner on the table, fresh fruit piled before us: the broad bracelet he wore bothered him and he shoved it higher on his arm: silent tonight, he listened to what we had been doing during the day: he had such heart for Alcaeus and me.I could not keep the figure but packed it away. Its evocative intimacy, its forlorn quality...they would serve no purpose I could think of. I was glad Alcaeus could not see it. Yet, I felt I had rejected Aesop.PA sweltering day was made worse when Gogu had a seizure near Serfo’s shop. Serfo and Libus carried him inside and I found them working over Gogu, kneeling beside him, Serfo’s slave fanning the sick man, swaying his palm frond low, Libus’ face tense and canvas-colored. Serfo turned his barbaric features, square-cut beard and blazing green eyes, on me, resentful when I placed a damp sponge on Gogu’s head, when I suggested we pull him farther away from the wall. He growled and backed off, to care for some customers.“Is it Gogu’s old trouble?” I asked.Libus nodded, his hands comforting the man. When Gogu’s teeth chattered and his head and shoulders shook, Libus restrained him, hands on his shoulders. When he spoke to Gogu, I could detect an immediate response. The slave brought water and poured it for Gogu and Libus got him to drink: the frond dipping closer, rising and falling. “Libus—Libus,” he said, and sighed, thin lashes over upturned eyes. The black hitched his broadcloth and sighed too.The room was windowless and cool, lit from overhead. A pigeon cooed on the roof. For a while I sat near Libus but when Serfo offered drinks, we went into his shop where he displayed ivory figurines on his dusty counter, Amazons, ibis, Etruscan warriors and sacred cats, none bigger than my hand.“The cats are from Luxor,” Serfo said.“Will Gogu be all right?” I asked, hearing his rapid breathing.“He’ll be all right by evening,” Libus said.So we examined the collection, Libus questioning their antiquity: I pointed out the yellowing and flaking: he held an Amazon in the doorway, dust cracks mottling her face and armor, the texture of his hands obvious as well.He seems to be holding me in his fingers, as small. I felt the flakes of time—my life flaking, like Gogu’s, less lasting than the ivory.PThe hours I spend with Libus and his sister are hours of talk and wine, at his small house, in its garden of figs and olives, poppies in bloom along the paths. Their place, nearer the bay than mine, absorbs the bay’s placidity. The furniture stresses comfort. His mosaics reflect his regard for ease...scenes of old days and old creatures.I was glad when Libus gave up staying with Alcaeus; I had missed those visits to his home where Helen has taught me designs for my loom and reaffirmed what patience really is. She has read to me, acquainting me with books I would never have found...Libus talks and toys with a loop of beads, in a thoughtful mood, his hands, as they move, remind me of their healing quality and his voice has that same beneficence, distinctly personal, meanings having extra meaning most of the time.Helen’s face has none of his ephemerality but has, instead, a country wholesomeness I love. She chats about flowers she has grown, seeds she keeps in jars, promising me a selection.Their poppies, grey-leafed, sea-bitten, have large centers and bees loll on the petals and the sea lolls beyond them.Why is it the hours loll here? I have seen whales from their garden, sporting near beds of kelp, their blue backs like so many watery hills. I think something lures them offshore...another something makes Libus’ servants sing more than my servants.PA gigantic sea-rock assumes the face of a crying woman when the fog comes: some say she cries for our dead in the wars, some say it’s for those lost at sea: I have often seen her, head bowed: she faces the town, staring: the sea sound is her weeping; perhaps it is the weeping of many women: if I walk by that deserted spot at night, with the fog about me, I cling to Atthis or Exekias. No woman goes alone there, when the fog is about.PThe moon has set andThe Pleiades have gone;The night is half goneAnd life speeds by.I lie in bed, alone.PGoing to see Alcaeus, I met Kleis and she threw her arms around me and kissed me, saying:“Mama, dear, it’s good to see you! How I miss you!”I tried to hide my pleasure but my heart sang and I held her close, my body remembering hers, fingers slipping around the back of her neck, staying in her hair.Pushing me aside, she exclaimed:“Mama, let’s go to your house and be together, like old times. Shall we?”How easy to consent—and we walked home, arms around each other, gulls over us, shadows skimming roofs, dusty cobbles asking for rain: I wanted to remember her chatter, each inflection...I would see Alcaeus tomorrow. I needed time with my own...Pittakos stoned...Aesop stoned...the mob’s disgrace...Year after year, is there greater calumny than our own communal perfidy? Is there greater stupidity? One man starts it, then five, then ten, manacled together.For our island’s sake, I’m glad I cheated death.Like old times, we sat at our looms and Kleis showed me a periwinkle design, whispering confidences, saying he was good, saying the house was good, the sea...she put her faith on the loom, the thread of it going beyond life. Mother must have heard me say such things, reflecting the same hope. Finches gathered in the olive trees as we worked. I asked time to stop and let us have the day last, at least longer than evening and the shepherd’s bells.PCharaxos brought him to my house, a castaway, I thought, dreg of the worst sea. Charaxos stood behind him in Cairo red, the sun blazing over the town, as the castaway bowed, holding together his rags, eyes wandering, skin and bones, nose snuffing at his hand, his mouth lower on one side, a canine look on his face.Muttering, he fished in a sack tied about his waist and offered me something.I hesitated to take it, feeling Charaxos’ curiosity—or was it gloating? I grew afraid as the castaway insisted, wagging head and hand, Charaxos silent; forcing myself, I bent and peered at his hand...seeing a drachma.I saw it had been pierced for a chain...taking it, I made out the letters my mother had gouged...in the metal...yes, it was her drachma.I wanted to run, throw down the coin, send Charaxos away, turn aside the castaway. I wanted to crumble on the steps and bury my head in my arms and deny existence.“Come in,” I managed.And the men entered.Together, we sat down and I asked:“Where did you get the coin?”“At Cos...”“You are from Cos?”“Yes, I came from Cos.”“He came on one of my ships,” Charaxos said.I could not look at either man.“He came from Cos,” I said.“Phaon died on the island...he and others...thrown on the beach...we have rocky shores...he was injured in the big storm...you see, we found him, my wife and son and I. He gave us the coin and sent me to you...he...”So, he died after that storm, I told myself, and I got up, wondering where I could go: I saw the castaway’s blazing eyes and torn clothing and the greedy face of my brother:“Stay at my house...as long as you like,” I said. “I will send servants to look after you. I will...”What will I do? I asked myself.Will I take the coin and sleep with it? Will it burn my bed? Will I place it on my desk or hurl it out my window? And I opened my fingers to see if the bronze was on fire.Now, you have seen me grief-stricken, I thought, as I gazed at Charaxos. You may go and tell your friends. Tell them, Sappho is beaten. Tell them...I excused myself and retreated to my room.Far at sea, I saw a dot: Phaon’s ship, and I opened my hand and laid his drachma on the windowsill.Beauty, is he dead?What has been gained by taking him from me?Shall I go to Xerxes, and hold him to his promise? Couldn’t there be a mistake? Better to find Xerxes and say to him, “Remember your promise,” and take his powder. This is my inheritance, from parents, Cercolas, friends, this degree of misfortune, final degradation. Was love a mirage, or this?PLibus sat beside my bed, his hands alleviating the pain that dragged at every nerve: his hands warmed me, crossing my back and shoulders, assuaging with their mirage the storm that seemed everywhere inside me, bursting my throat, my brain, my chest, shattering my reason.Yet, as he helped me, he reasoned:“I hoped he would be back early enough for Kleis’ wedding...he said something to me about getting back early... I hoped you two would go on...you know all of us watched you...our hearts were yours...it was like that.“I’ve always thought your pride deserved love, Phaon’s kind, free of politics. Yes, I know Alcaeus was sufficient, years ago; then our island women adopted you; then Phaon. It was his luck to give you what you needed...”“My coin didn’t bring luck to him,” I said.“A coin means what? Metal can’t tell us about life...only we can tell...to one another...”“What have I told you through the years?”He paused a while, hands motionless.“Beauty...”“And now?”“Another kind...in the making. I know your ancestral line...losses become gain...I recognize bravery.”His hands and thoughts continued their palliative, now the fingers, now the voice, as servants replaced lamps and closed windows, moving as slowly as if below the sea, finally to leave us alone again, the ocean’s voice mixing with the crickets.“Kleis will bring Phaon back to me,” I said.“Theirs is a curious resemblance...I agree.”“What will happen to his house?”“It will be hers,” he said.“But she’ll never live in town.”“No...she won’t change her ways.”“Have you ever liked his house? I haven’t.”“No,” he said.“Libus, why doesn’t Alcaeus come to me?”“He’s not thinking of your problem.”“He doesn’t know about Phaon?”“He knows...but can’t come.”“Shall I go to him?”“Wait...for a while,” he said.PMy girls seldom leave me: Atthis, Gyrinno, Anaktoria, each brings flowers and gifts, bringing them surreptitiously or with a hint of jollity—sometimes compassion. Old Exekias pats my hands, kisses my skirt or turns away, tears unchecked.Atthis, cheek against mine, murmurs her love. As we walk through our garden she says:“I miss him too... I loved him too... We placed a wreath for him... We three have made a shrine in the woods...”Gyrinno appears in the night, as I lie sleepless. Unable to mention the tragedy, she whispers hoarsely that she loves me and wants to help: Is there anything she can do for me?Anaktoria has probed deeper:“You must take care, Sappho. You must do nothing strange, that would harm us. We can’t have you obsessed by melancholy. Let us look after you.”Eyes streaked with tears dim and I see him, imagine his body sprawled between the rocks of Cos and I hear his voice speak my name: I see our Leucadian cliff and know I could throw myself down, die as he died among the rocks, far below.Then, I find Kleis as I work at my loom, and her voice, revealing her sorrow, eradicates the drama of self: the curse of death needs soft hands and blonde hair and blue eyes and tender mouth... “Mama, darling...”Sometimes I try to brush aside feminine ties, but there they are, tightening about me: snatches of song come to me: I see women with babies at the fountain; vineyards creep over the hills, ascending through fog, under the wings of gulls, moving toward me, closer and closer: they are my father’s vineyards, the vineyards of Alcaeus, Phaon’s vineyards, Libus’, Anaktoria’s; the bone flute, the whole island is in them, in the spring leaves and autumn leaves, in the stark vines of winter: the weeping rock moves through them, the defeated fleet, the red rooftops of home, the bare hills, olive trees: I see a woman, called Sappho, leading a child, named Kleis: I hear shepherd’s bells, and the silence of dawn spills up from the ocean’s shore: a porpoise and a whale, beyond a belt of kelp, churn points of light and shadow: home, home is the red tiles and my mother’s lamps and the view where the vineyards snuggle to sleep for the night: this is my inheritance, to keep as long as possible, that is what I tell myself, compel myself to feel.Kleis has the grape leaf woven in her loom and as she weaves she faces me and smiles and I know how much love is in that smile.P
I took my lyre and said:
Here, now, my heavenly
Tortoise shell, become
A speaking instrument.
O
O
ne by one, the poems have fitted into my book, so slowly time seems to have had nothing to do with its completion. Yet, my ninth book is done. When I had finished my sixth, I thought: this is all. When I finished my eighth, I felt I need go no farther. Will there be a tenth? What will make it distinctive?
Phaon lives in this book, insatiability floods everywhere: lyric by lyric, our smoldering hearts reveal our happiness.
When I shared lines with him, he laughed at their frankness, eyes dancing. He remembered some of them, and shot them back at me, to tease.
I have sent selections to Solon: what will he write me? Will their crudeness be too much for him? I think not. He has savored love.
My Egyptians are copying the book—conspirators, no doubt, mumbling lines to each other, shaking heads. I’d like to slip into their shop as they work, to overhear them: would I laugh or recoil? Probably I’d be annoyed. Well, tomorrow I must go to the shop and see how they are doing.
I have not thought of a title.
P
Villa Poseidon
I sought Anaktoria and together we spent the night.
In spite of her comfort, I could not get to sleep. Her arms around me, she lay motionless.
During the afternoon, we arranged flowers, taking them from the garden. A rainbow appeared over the bay and arm in arm we watched it, its arc faintly reflected on the water. Her myrrh was everywhere, her spirit too: the things she said were right: family traditions are a part of her and she adds just enough fantasy.
For a while, we practiced archery, her shooting more accurate than mine. A lost arrow sent us near the sea. Then games...games...what would life be without games and laughter!
Watch the dice in her fingers!
She’s a magician of tricks and youth, my Anaktoria and, oddly enough, I can never bring it all together; it is too effervescent, too delightful: the moment swells over us: then, another moment, even while we are eating together, growing sleepy together: ours is a gift that has come from our island without men, years of femininity.
P
Someone sent me the doll Aesop had when he died, his Cretan doll. It came from Adelphi; badly wrapped, I opened it in my library, laid it on my desk, amazed to see it, startled, fingers fumbling. Someone had wanted to be kind, but it wasn’t kindness to send it. What faded colors, what worn cloth, how had the doll gotten this old? It had suffered another kind of death.
With the doll in my arms, I smelled the incense of his house, dinner on the table, fresh fruit piled before us: the broad bracelet he wore bothered him and he shoved it higher on his arm: silent tonight, he listened to what we had been doing during the day: he had such heart for Alcaeus and me.
I could not keep the figure but packed it away. Its evocative intimacy, its forlorn quality...they would serve no purpose I could think of. I was glad Alcaeus could not see it. Yet, I felt I had rejected Aesop.
P
A sweltering day was made worse when Gogu had a seizure near Serfo’s shop. Serfo and Libus carried him inside and I found them working over Gogu, kneeling beside him, Serfo’s slave fanning the sick man, swaying his palm frond low, Libus’ face tense and canvas-colored. Serfo turned his barbaric features, square-cut beard and blazing green eyes, on me, resentful when I placed a damp sponge on Gogu’s head, when I suggested we pull him farther away from the wall. He growled and backed off, to care for some customers.
“Is it Gogu’s old trouble?” I asked.
Libus nodded, his hands comforting the man. When Gogu’s teeth chattered and his head and shoulders shook, Libus restrained him, hands on his shoulders. When he spoke to Gogu, I could detect an immediate response. The slave brought water and poured it for Gogu and Libus got him to drink: the frond dipping closer, rising and falling. “Libus—Libus,” he said, and sighed, thin lashes over upturned eyes. The black hitched his broadcloth and sighed too.
The room was windowless and cool, lit from overhead. A pigeon cooed on the roof. For a while I sat near Libus but when Serfo offered drinks, we went into his shop where he displayed ivory figurines on his dusty counter, Amazons, ibis, Etruscan warriors and sacred cats, none bigger than my hand.
“The cats are from Luxor,” Serfo said.
“Will Gogu be all right?” I asked, hearing his rapid breathing.
“He’ll be all right by evening,” Libus said.
So we examined the collection, Libus questioning their antiquity: I pointed out the yellowing and flaking: he held an Amazon in the doorway, dust cracks mottling her face and armor, the texture of his hands obvious as well.
He seems to be holding me in his fingers, as small. I felt the flakes of time—my life flaking, like Gogu’s, less lasting than the ivory.
P
The hours I spend with Libus and his sister are hours of talk and wine, at his small house, in its garden of figs and olives, poppies in bloom along the paths. Their place, nearer the bay than mine, absorbs the bay’s placidity. The furniture stresses comfort. His mosaics reflect his regard for ease...scenes of old days and old creatures.
I was glad when Libus gave up staying with Alcaeus; I had missed those visits to his home where Helen has taught me designs for my loom and reaffirmed what patience really is. She has read to me, acquainting me with books I would never have found...
Libus talks and toys with a loop of beads, in a thoughtful mood, his hands, as they move, remind me of their healing quality and his voice has that same beneficence, distinctly personal, meanings having extra meaning most of the time.
Helen’s face has none of his ephemerality but has, instead, a country wholesomeness I love. She chats about flowers she has grown, seeds she keeps in jars, promising me a selection.
Their poppies, grey-leafed, sea-bitten, have large centers and bees loll on the petals and the sea lolls beyond them.
Why is it the hours loll here? I have seen whales from their garden, sporting near beds of kelp, their blue backs like so many watery hills. I think something lures them offshore...another something makes Libus’ servants sing more than my servants.
P
A gigantic sea-rock assumes the face of a crying woman when the fog comes: some say she cries for our dead in the wars, some say it’s for those lost at sea: I have often seen her, head bowed: she faces the town, staring: the sea sound is her weeping; perhaps it is the weeping of many women: if I walk by that deserted spot at night, with the fog about me, I cling to Atthis or Exekias. No woman goes alone there, when the fog is about.
P
The moon has set and
The Pleiades have gone;
The night is half gone
And life speeds by.
I lie in bed, alone.
P
Going to see Alcaeus, I met Kleis and she threw her arms around me and kissed me, saying:
“Mama, dear, it’s good to see you! How I miss you!”
I tried to hide my pleasure but my heart sang and I held her close, my body remembering hers, fingers slipping around the back of her neck, staying in her hair.
Pushing me aside, she exclaimed:
“Mama, let’s go to your house and be together, like old times. Shall we?”
How easy to consent—and we walked home, arms around each other, gulls over us, shadows skimming roofs, dusty cobbles asking for rain: I wanted to remember her chatter, each inflection...
I would see Alcaeus tomorrow. I needed time with my own...
Pittakos stoned...Aesop stoned...the mob’s disgrace...
Year after year, is there greater calumny than our own communal perfidy? Is there greater stupidity? One man starts it, then five, then ten, manacled together.
For our island’s sake, I’m glad I cheated death.
Like old times, we sat at our looms and Kleis showed me a periwinkle design, whispering confidences, saying he was good, saying the house was good, the sea...she put her faith on the loom, the thread of it going beyond life. Mother must have heard me say such things, reflecting the same hope. Finches gathered in the olive trees as we worked. I asked time to stop and let us have the day last, at least longer than evening and the shepherd’s bells.
P
Charaxos brought him to my house, a castaway, I thought, dreg of the worst sea. Charaxos stood behind him in Cairo red, the sun blazing over the town, as the castaway bowed, holding together his rags, eyes wandering, skin and bones, nose snuffing at his hand, his mouth lower on one side, a canine look on his face.
Muttering, he fished in a sack tied about his waist and offered me something.
I hesitated to take it, feeling Charaxos’ curiosity—or was it gloating? I grew afraid as the castaway insisted, wagging head and hand, Charaxos silent; forcing myself, I bent and peered at his hand...seeing a drachma.
I saw it had been pierced for a chain...taking it, I made out the letters my mother had gouged...in the metal...yes, it was her drachma.
I wanted to run, throw down the coin, send Charaxos away, turn aside the castaway. I wanted to crumble on the steps and bury my head in my arms and deny existence.
“Come in,” I managed.
And the men entered.
Together, we sat down and I asked:
“Where did you get the coin?”
“At Cos...”
“You are from Cos?”
“Yes, I came from Cos.”
“He came on one of my ships,” Charaxos said.
I could not look at either man.
“He came from Cos,” I said.
“Phaon died on the island...he and others...thrown on the beach...we have rocky shores...he was injured in the big storm...you see, we found him, my wife and son and I. He gave us the coin and sent me to you...he...”
So, he died after that storm, I told myself, and I got up, wondering where I could go: I saw the castaway’s blazing eyes and torn clothing and the greedy face of my brother:
“Stay at my house...as long as you like,” I said. “I will send servants to look after you. I will...”
What will I do? I asked myself.
Will I take the coin and sleep with it? Will it burn my bed? Will I place it on my desk or hurl it out my window? And I opened my fingers to see if the bronze was on fire.
Now, you have seen me grief-stricken, I thought, as I gazed at Charaxos. You may go and tell your friends. Tell them, Sappho is beaten. Tell them...
I excused myself and retreated to my room.
Far at sea, I saw a dot: Phaon’s ship, and I opened my hand and laid his drachma on the windowsill.
Beauty, is he dead?
What has been gained by taking him from me?
Shall I go to Xerxes, and hold him to his promise? Couldn’t there be a mistake? Better to find Xerxes and say to him, “Remember your promise,” and take his powder. This is my inheritance, from parents, Cercolas, friends, this degree of misfortune, final degradation. Was love a mirage, or this?
P
Libus sat beside my bed, his hands alleviating the pain that dragged at every nerve: his hands warmed me, crossing my back and shoulders, assuaging with their mirage the storm that seemed everywhere inside me, bursting my throat, my brain, my chest, shattering my reason.
Yet, as he helped me, he reasoned:
“I hoped he would be back early enough for Kleis’ wedding...he said something to me about getting back early... I hoped you two would go on...you know all of us watched you...our hearts were yours...it was like that.
“I’ve always thought your pride deserved love, Phaon’s kind, free of politics. Yes, I know Alcaeus was sufficient, years ago; then our island women adopted you; then Phaon. It was his luck to give you what you needed...”
“My coin didn’t bring luck to him,” I said.
“A coin means what? Metal can’t tell us about life...only we can tell...to one another...”
“What have I told you through the years?”
He paused a while, hands motionless.
“Beauty...”
“And now?”
“Another kind...in the making. I know your ancestral line...losses become gain...I recognize bravery.”
His hands and thoughts continued their palliative, now the fingers, now the voice, as servants replaced lamps and closed windows, moving as slowly as if below the sea, finally to leave us alone again, the ocean’s voice mixing with the crickets.
“Kleis will bring Phaon back to me,” I said.
“Theirs is a curious resemblance...I agree.”
“What will happen to his house?”
“It will be hers,” he said.
“But she’ll never live in town.”
“No...she won’t change her ways.”
“Have you ever liked his house? I haven’t.”
“No,” he said.
“Libus, why doesn’t Alcaeus come to me?”
“He’s not thinking of your problem.”
“He doesn’t know about Phaon?”
“He knows...but can’t come.”
“Shall I go to him?”
“Wait...for a while,” he said.
P
My girls seldom leave me: Atthis, Gyrinno, Anaktoria, each brings flowers and gifts, bringing them surreptitiously or with a hint of jollity—sometimes compassion. Old Exekias pats my hands, kisses my skirt or turns away, tears unchecked.
Atthis, cheek against mine, murmurs her love. As we walk through our garden she says:
“I miss him too... I loved him too... We placed a wreath for him... We three have made a shrine in the woods...”
Gyrinno appears in the night, as I lie sleepless. Unable to mention the tragedy, she whispers hoarsely that she loves me and wants to help: Is there anything she can do for me?
Anaktoria has probed deeper:
“You must take care, Sappho. You must do nothing strange, that would harm us. We can’t have you obsessed by melancholy. Let us look after you.”
Eyes streaked with tears dim and I see him, imagine his body sprawled between the rocks of Cos and I hear his voice speak my name: I see our Leucadian cliff and know I could throw myself down, die as he died among the rocks, far below.
Then, I find Kleis as I work at my loom, and her voice, revealing her sorrow, eradicates the drama of self: the curse of death needs soft hands and blonde hair and blue eyes and tender mouth... “Mama, darling...”
Sometimes I try to brush aside feminine ties, but there they are, tightening about me: snatches of song come to me: I see women with babies at the fountain; vineyards creep over the hills, ascending through fog, under the wings of gulls, moving toward me, closer and closer: they are my father’s vineyards, the vineyards of Alcaeus, Phaon’s vineyards, Libus’, Anaktoria’s; the bone flute, the whole island is in them, in the spring leaves and autumn leaves, in the stark vines of winter: the weeping rock moves through them, the defeated fleet, the red rooftops of home, the bare hills, olive trees: I see a woman, called Sappho, leading a child, named Kleis: I hear shepherd’s bells, and the silence of dawn spills up from the ocean’s shore: a porpoise and a whale, beyond a belt of kelp, churn points of light and shadow: home, home is the red tiles and my mother’s lamps and the view where the vineyards snuggle to sleep for the night: this is my inheritance, to keep as long as possible, that is what I tell myself, compel myself to feel.
Kleis has the grape leaf woven in her loom and as she weaves she faces me and smiles and I know how much love is in that smile.
P
Sappho stands by the seaward window in her library...carved ivory racks hold books, ancient papyri,Egyptian clay tablets, copies of hymns.Blue from the bay inundates the library, her face,obliterates the books.Alcaeus, an old man,holds a tattered manuscript.
Sappho stands by the seaward window in her library...
carved ivory racks hold books, ancient papyri,
Egyptian clay tablets, copies of hymns.
Blue from the bay inundates the library, her face,
obliterates the books.
Alcaeus, an old man,
holds a tattered manuscript.
Mytilene, LesbosSuddenly, he stood in front of me, in my library, dressed in black, beard soiled, deep wrinkles underneath his eyes.“Alcaeus, I didn’t hear you and Thasos.”“Exekias let us in. Are you working?”“No...sit down.”“Are you alone?”“Yes.”He leaned on Thasos: I felt that he hadn’t been sober very long; he leaned forward, almost stumbling.“Can I sit down?”“Here, here,” said Thasos, helping him, laying aside a package.Silence troubled us.I watched Thasos go and then Alcaeus said:“I understand your loss. I understand what has happened to you. Phaon’s death has overpowered you. I put it badly...but we have shared...be patient...I understand...Sappho; I have brought you my Homer. Remember, when I got it years ago? Remember? I want to share. I should have given you this before...What good is it to me?”“Alcaeus.”“Where is the book?”“The package Thasos left?”“Yes...take it...open it...”I opened it, remembering how we had thrilled long ago, and, after a while, reaching out to him, grateful, hoping I could make him sense my gratitude, I kissed his forehead and his hands, his hands motionless, the sightless eyes confusing me.He went on slowly:“I’ve come to share my strength...it’s a poor strength, drunk, blind, but it does go on. You, my dear, are blinded by grief. Let me tell you your grief can’t be as bad as mine. Or, if it is, let’s share...share...we’ve shared before...I’ll take your dark away...hide it in mine...lose some of your burden at least.“Sappho, let me help.“Accept the old book, find hope in it... I have kicked aside death on the field...look at my eyes and then look at yours...you need no mirror.“He’s dead...dead by the sea...you have your love of beauty to uphold you. Let it live! Give it new life! Soon enough death will claim both of us, but, till then, let’s find comradeship...come to my house tomorrow, read to me...“Will you?”I nodded, then remembered he could not see and remembered his gift and his grace and knelt by him and put my head in his hands and pressed between his knees, as he patted me, chuckling a little.“I’ll come tomorrow, Alcaeus,” I promised.“Good.”“I know your lot is worse than mine... I must find courage.”Beauty, I thought, beauty, what can I say to help this man?“Yes, tomorrow; then I’ll tell you, Sappho... I’ll tell you what I’ve learned, living in my black sea. How my ship drags anchor. What I’ve heard. I’ve heard some strange things. I can sense someone moving, almost before he moves, a shift of air, let’s say.“Watch me play jacks with Libus, old soldiers at their fun. I could cheat you...if you gave me half a chance.”Again that chuckle.The book lay open and his great arms lay across his lap, fingers up. My father had owned that book. With age it had come unsewed and hung in tatters: the smell of age was there: I rubbed my fingers over pages...Quickly, he said:“I like to feel those pages... I wanted to write a book as full of life...give back the thunder of the storm...look how the bugs have eaten the book...see that ripped page...well, where will you keep your Homer?”And he smiled.“Shall I read something?”“Yes...now!”Turning the pages so he could hear them I searched for a favorite passage.I read as slowly and as distinctly as possible, allowing each word time.PCercolas, mother, Aesop, Phaon...gone. When shall I go?PI have been unable to write for days. I have nothing to say...there is only emptiness.PYesterday a nightingale sang, a song of tattered leaves, scraps of Nile, bits of Euphrates, papyrus against night, against impending doom, against depression. Tender notes whispered insanity. Other notes urged self-pity. Others shattered—with sheerest delicacy—any hope of contrition.A feather drops...a pause. One could die during such a pause.All of us wait—life waits!A bubbling deceives the spirit, a trill alienates the heart. Something summons the past, other songs on other nights, other songs of other people, the bone flute, of course.This was not a bird, not a beak, not a feather but sail and spar, rigged to go at dawn, course along many shores.“Beauty, you’re frail. Your bones are able to carry next to nothing and yet your song travels, spreading as if a pebble had dropped on water...”PI walked under olive trees along the coast, following grassy paths, the breeze with me until I met Gogu, carrying a piece of kelp and a shell. At first, he did not seem to recognize me. How thin, how sick he is! Shadows of the olives shadowed him. When he spoke, I hardly listened. Each of us is going the same way, I thought, and so we parted and stillness put its loneliness about me. The words he had said mixed me because I had not listened, mixed with my love-memories, adding incoherence.Why was Gogu carrying kelp and a shell? Why was I walking where I had often walked?In a hundred years, this path has changed little: the trees have become more gnarled, the shadows darker, the air quieter.The marble shrine at the end of the path crumbles year by year and yet remains about the same: I can remember it when another brought me: Phaon remembered it: and now, memories are re-dedicated and burned, their ashes under my sandals, under my fingers and heart.PThe best of life is illusion, I do not doubt. The best of Phaon may have been illusion.Ah, the nettles of desire, the sleeplessness, the gnawing of regrets in my skull. These are emotions we can not share but must suffer alone till dawn, the dipper proving we are children.I believe that we, as human beings, prove nothing: there is really nothing to prove except kindness and decency: all else is more illusion.I take my harp but there are no words to accompany the notes. I urge Atthis to sing: play, darling, help me forget...let me see your face as I love to see it. Move your head with that fragile alacrity. Stretch your bare legs under your dress.As I open the shutters in the morning, I miss him...the ocean has grown much, much wider.My favorite olive tree says nothing to me.PAlcaeus wrote me:“I know I can help you. Come over for the day. Courage, friend.”The note repulsed me. What could he know of Phaon, of man’s cleanliness and beauty!I did not answer. Instead, I climbed the hills with Atthis and Anaktoria, to lay a wreath at an altar that has been our shrine for a while.The sea was rough and the wind was rough.Tears overcame me at the altar and I made them leave me: I hoped to die there: I wanted my bitterness to kill me: Why couldn’t it happen? Why couldn’t there be this finality?I pulled flowers from the wreath and wrote his name on the ground. A thrush hopped close by. The wind, gusting from the bay, scattered blossoms and I found Atthis beside me, kneeling to comfort me. We had shared so much, the three of us, days and weeks, grief and joy. She and Anaktoria got me to eat, under pines sheltered from the wind; she and Anaktoria fixed my hair.Their sad faces made me long for happiness for their sake, and I tried to see beyond myself. There must be a trick that I can use to deceive others.
Mytilene, Lesbos
S
S
uddenly, he stood in front of me, in my library, dressed in black, beard soiled, deep wrinkles underneath his eyes.
“Alcaeus, I didn’t hear you and Thasos.”
“Exekias let us in. Are you working?”
“No...sit down.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
He leaned on Thasos: I felt that he hadn’t been sober very long; he leaned forward, almost stumbling.
“Can I sit down?”
“Here, here,” said Thasos, helping him, laying aside a package.
Silence troubled us.
I watched Thasos go and then Alcaeus said:
“I understand your loss. I understand what has happened to you. Phaon’s death has overpowered you. I put it badly...but we have shared...be patient...I understand...Sappho; I have brought you my Homer. Remember, when I got it years ago? Remember? I want to share. I should have given you this before...What good is it to me?”
“Alcaeus.”
“Where is the book?”
“The package Thasos left?”
“Yes...take it...open it...”
I opened it, remembering how we had thrilled long ago, and, after a while, reaching out to him, grateful, hoping I could make him sense my gratitude, I kissed his forehead and his hands, his hands motionless, the sightless eyes confusing me.
He went on slowly:
“I’ve come to share my strength...it’s a poor strength, drunk, blind, but it does go on. You, my dear, are blinded by grief. Let me tell you your grief can’t be as bad as mine. Or, if it is, let’s share...share...we’ve shared before...I’ll take your dark away...hide it in mine...lose some of your burden at least.
“Sappho, let me help.
“Accept the old book, find hope in it... I have kicked aside death on the field...look at my eyes and then look at yours...you need no mirror.
“He’s dead...dead by the sea...you have your love of beauty to uphold you. Let it live! Give it new life! Soon enough death will claim both of us, but, till then, let’s find comradeship...come to my house tomorrow, read to me...
“Will you?”
I nodded, then remembered he could not see and remembered his gift and his grace and knelt by him and put my head in his hands and pressed between his knees, as he patted me, chuckling a little.
“I’ll come tomorrow, Alcaeus,” I promised.
“Good.”
“I know your lot is worse than mine... I must find courage.”
Beauty, I thought, beauty, what can I say to help this man?
“Yes, tomorrow; then I’ll tell you, Sappho... I’ll tell you what I’ve learned, living in my black sea. How my ship drags anchor. What I’ve heard. I’ve heard some strange things. I can sense someone moving, almost before he moves, a shift of air, let’s say.
“Watch me play jacks with Libus, old soldiers at their fun. I could cheat you...if you gave me half a chance.”
Again that chuckle.
The book lay open and his great arms lay across his lap, fingers up. My father had owned that book. With age it had come unsewed and hung in tatters: the smell of age was there: I rubbed my fingers over pages...
Quickly, he said:
“I like to feel those pages... I wanted to write a book as full of life...give back the thunder of the storm...look how the bugs have eaten the book...see that ripped page...well, where will you keep your Homer?”
And he smiled.
“Shall I read something?”
“Yes...now!”
Turning the pages so he could hear them I searched for a favorite passage.
I read as slowly and as distinctly as possible, allowing each word time.
P
Cercolas, mother, Aesop, Phaon...gone. When shall I go?
P
I have been unable to write for days. I have nothing to say...there is only emptiness.
P
Yesterday a nightingale sang, a song of tattered leaves, scraps of Nile, bits of Euphrates, papyrus against night, against impending doom, against depression. Tender notes whispered insanity. Other notes urged self-pity. Others shattered—with sheerest delicacy—any hope of contrition.
A feather drops...a pause. One could die during such a pause.
All of us wait—life waits!
A bubbling deceives the spirit, a trill alienates the heart. Something summons the past, other songs on other nights, other songs of other people, the bone flute, of course.
This was not a bird, not a beak, not a feather but sail and spar, rigged to go at dawn, course along many shores.
“Beauty, you’re frail. Your bones are able to carry next to nothing and yet your song travels, spreading as if a pebble had dropped on water...”
P
I walked under olive trees along the coast, following grassy paths, the breeze with me until I met Gogu, carrying a piece of kelp and a shell. At first, he did not seem to recognize me. How thin, how sick he is! Shadows of the olives shadowed him. When he spoke, I hardly listened. Each of us is going the same way, I thought, and so we parted and stillness put its loneliness about me. The words he had said mixed me because I had not listened, mixed with my love-memories, adding incoherence.
Why was Gogu carrying kelp and a shell? Why was I walking where I had often walked?
In a hundred years, this path has changed little: the trees have become more gnarled, the shadows darker, the air quieter.
The marble shrine at the end of the path crumbles year by year and yet remains about the same: I can remember it when another brought me: Phaon remembered it: and now, memories are re-dedicated and burned, their ashes under my sandals, under my fingers and heart.
P
The best of life is illusion, I do not doubt. The best of Phaon may have been illusion.
Ah, the nettles of desire, the sleeplessness, the gnawing of regrets in my skull. These are emotions we can not share but must suffer alone till dawn, the dipper proving we are children.
I believe that we, as human beings, prove nothing: there is really nothing to prove except kindness and decency: all else is more illusion.
I take my harp but there are no words to accompany the notes. I urge Atthis to sing: play, darling, help me forget...let me see your face as I love to see it. Move your head with that fragile alacrity. Stretch your bare legs under your dress.
As I open the shutters in the morning, I miss him...the ocean has grown much, much wider.
My favorite olive tree says nothing to me.
P
Alcaeus wrote me:
“I know I can help you. Come over for the day. Courage, friend.”
The note repulsed me. What could he know of Phaon, of man’s cleanliness and beauty!
I did not answer. Instead, I climbed the hills with Atthis and Anaktoria, to lay a wreath at an altar that has been our shrine for a while.
The sea was rough and the wind was rough.
Tears overcame me at the altar and I made them leave me: I hoped to die there: I wanted my bitterness to kill me: Why couldn’t it happen? Why couldn’t there be this finality?
I pulled flowers from the wreath and wrote his name on the ground. A thrush hopped close by. The wind, gusting from the bay, scattered blossoms and I found Atthis beside me, kneeling to comfort me. We had shared so much, the three of us, days and weeks, grief and joy. She and Anaktoria got me to eat, under pines sheltered from the wind; she and Anaktoria fixed my hair.
Their sad faces made me long for happiness for their sake, and I tried to see beyond myself. There must be a trick that I can use to deceive others.
The placid sea carries a few boats,small clouds on the horizon,a series of silver cat’s-paws;and as though through a sheetof green glass the faces ofSappho, Atthis and Anaktoria:a laurel wreath whirls above the Aegean:herons fly, dolphins leap.
The placid sea carries a few boats,
small clouds on the horizon,
a series of silver cat’s-paws;
and as though through a sheet
of green glass the faces of
Sappho, Atthis and Anaktoria:
a laurel wreath whirls above the Aegean:
herons fly, dolphins leap.