One woman's fact is another man's fiction.

– Lisa Jardine
 
I
I am unknown, not forgotten

But erased, no suitor of Penelope,

But her friend and lover.  I escaped

The wrath of Odysseus, shrewdest

Of men as he was, and I,

Most gentle, at least in the annals

Of the women of Ithaka in my time.

I defended Penelope's integrity

Against the lechery of Agelaus

And the other murderers whose eyes

Begrimed her unadorned beauty,

Her chiton without golden thread,

Her tresses, by me seen long and

Flowing, to the barbarous consort,

Born to do nothing but eat fruit,

Only the knotted ball of modesty.
She was crafty but pure

In her chastity, true spouse

Of Odysseus, who was not worthy

Of her cold fidelity.  To me

She came, just after the sun

Unfurls its roseate fingers

And Hesperus leads the way.

Near a mountain top she found me,

Having come there for once alone,

Not to watch the horizon for the ship,

But to leave everyone, especially

The thoughts and eyes of men.

She was wandering in the grove

Beneath the summit where I sat,

Tuning my pipe to the last light

Next to the spring as pure as she.

I was there puzzling my own fate

In love, finding little comfort,

The only solace afforded me

The slender harmonies of the shade.

She was laughing among flowers

When first I heard her, between

The silences of my long notes of woe.

I will never forget her first words,

‘O why not play the glories of the day

So sweetly you sing its sorrows?'

She pointed to the skies where she stood

In the light, flushed with

An inner glow that seemed the sun's.

My face turned red knowing how

She had heard my unburdening mind.

No further words need be spoken.

She seemed stunned when she saw my look.

Who knew not the beauty of the Queen?

But no one else I knew heard her laugh.
Weeks went by before the time

I journeyed to her house to sing.

Antinous mocked from his couch:

‘What tune can come from this dreg

Of the wood?  Where's Metrodorus?'

‘Metrodorus is ill, my lord,

His lyre broken in your games last night.'

So Doracles, true servant to the good,

A source of amity, as he'd prove to me.
That night of distant worlds I sang,

Laboring out the stars anew,

Of faraway oceans and many moons,

Of waves that spill over diamond rocks,

And Astraea's smile welcoming back

All the forlorn of the earth.  ‘Beat him

In his fit if he sings that way again

Or better yet, let's make of him

An Orphic stew and feed it to the dogs!'

But I persisted, by my master forewarned.

To Hermes and his love for this

Newest of worlds I turned my mind,

Of his desire for the myriad sea

Where eons of Time churn endlessly,

When the eaters of fruit stood up.

Penelope was on the stairs.  The gloom

Of the smoking meats could not conceal

The penetrating gaze of her solemn eyes.
 
II
The clatter of voices ceased, and silence

Emerged like a homeless child finally

Allowed to sleep.  Only my song

Drifted up towards her as the men

And housemaids watched her with eager

Mouths and eyes.  She was listening

To my rhapsody, its final chord

Drifting into the night, into the sea.

Then she turned up the stairs again

When Agelaus spoke. ‘Why not join us?

I have kept the best seat for you,'

Indicating the one next to his by the hearth.

She turned her head down to mute her scorn

For this refined man of Mantineia,

Where Arcadians defamed her Spartan claim

To kinship with the gods through Leda.

She looked up, calm and recomposed,

Looking into his eyes to deter his gaze.

Her words rang out clear and strong:

‘I heard the strange voice lifting up,

Singing of the birth of worlds, and I knew

It must be our bard's protégé.  Come forward.'

And so I did, averting her solemn eyes

As I unwillingly stood among suitors,

Barely shod and ragged, just one more man

In a palace of mirrors where all was desire

To behold and feast upon the beauty of her way.

Her words made me lift my head as if law.

‘Well versed and well taught in ancient song

You are, young poet, clad in leaf and sand.

Metrodorus's high praise of you is deserved.

But I would hear once more the sorrows

Of how new worlds begin, the spring

Of sadness and the setting sun.  Play on.'

And so I took up her theme that I knew

Secretly acknowledged our meeting in the glade.

First how Apollo and then Pan, I sang,

The universe and all creatures yield

To what even the gods cannot rule,

The lyre and the reed, all song

Out of longing shaped.  It drives the sea

And fills the fields with asphodel.

But what makes the swift huntress run

And the lonely moon rise?  Different still.

An abundance of streams is the world.

Who can fathom their endless flow?

Daphne and Syrinx are enshrined

In their own virginal powers,

Beyond the arms and eyes of love.

As I sang, she walked up the stairs

Slowly into the dark stars I could not see.

My whole song was her praise under shadow.
Eurymachus was first to break the lull

After song.  ‘You have upset the Queen

With your weird words and hymns.

We want festive tunes at a feast,

After all, and you're like a mangy dog.

Stick to the hills, outcast as you are,'

And with that, he struck me with a cup

Of wine, reddening me like a new born.

‘There, now you're fit to sacrifice

To the dancing boy, that faggy god

Thigh-born, your kind loves to invoke.'

Melanthius chimed, ‘Yes, hairy Pan

Better suits him than he does us

Though my sheep would run from his wails.'

‘Leave off this foolery,' Polybus commanded,

‘It's easy to insult a man with a lyre.

Put a sword in his hand and then mock.'

I slipped out into the night, to the star-clad

Cliff where I would find some peace alone,

Watching the heavens descend upon the shore

Of Dulichia across the way.

This hovel had become my home if an exile

Of love and loneliness can speak of such.

For the next few days, I felt justified

In my nomadic state, wanderer

Of the wild shore, sojourner of the woods.

Better to live among the birds and beasts,

Content in what they are, than human animals

Who aspire to be Titans and become insects

Of their own pride, hunger and lust.
Of the lore and life of Linus I sing,

First of the holy sages.  His footsteps

Traced through the grove the courses

Of the stars and how all things begin.

His voice calls me from an ocean inside

Though I am unworthy.  What choice

Do I have, what other fate can be mine

Since the visions come to me unbidden?

The path is the calling that Linus sang,

His song the open mystery of the wood,

The whole world under heavens

Where stars are leaves and oceans tears

And the child of Love dances among the dead.

Who feels not the miracle of the ever new

In the oldest of forests and the dew

That shines never again the same way twice

And makes life from air, earth, fire and ice?

O Walkers of the flame and of the wave,

Those powers without end, themselves

Maker of the gods!  The path is our own

Wherever we roam and the sky's ours

For a day.  Such prayer I hope

Advances the ancient way, shadow

Before light, the future come what may.

 
III
It was at night beneath the moist stars

Above the sea that she came back to me,

Seeker of my song, lover of my freedom.

A slave in my own eyes, in hers

A portal to the world beyond eyes,

Where she could in solitary walk

Be her own soul in the dominion

Of her hearth.  She surprises me

As I leave my hovel in a cave

Above the shore.  ‘O Queen,

Why have you come here alone at night?

Where is your escort, Melantho,

And your other maidens? It is dangerous

To be among the dark pine with all those

Suitors of yours pursuing you.'

She is in tears now, her head covered

In the shame and abuse she has suffered

At the hands of men.  ‘My father,

Icarius, is sick and dying, and I cannot

Succor him.  My own home is lost

To the mob.  I walk the night

To invoke Cybele among the firs.

Just let me sit by your fire awhile.'

I am speechless at her being there.
In silence beneath the night

We sit shrouded in the darkness.

I look away to let her be

As she reaches out to still

My hand trembling with fear.

‘You need not be afraid of what I want

Or of what will be said, Archias.

I have come just to seek some peace,

Slipping out down the stairs while they slept.

With my son gone off, I can trust

No one in my own house, but you,

You will lend me an ear, all I ask.

I know of your wisdom in dream lore,

And I have need of your counsel.'

‘My master has doubtless praised me

Beyond my worth, and I am your servant

Who dare not advise you, my Queen.'

‘Just listen to my dream and tell me

What it is the gods would have me do.'

I sit there watching myself

Listening to her as I hover in the air

Hearing the deep tone of her voice

Like a sea gently swelling the night.

‘I see a giant rise above the horizon

Towering up from the land to walk

One step into the ocean.  Eagles

Attack his massive head to no avail

For he swats them away.  He laughs

As the sun sets, growing higher than ever

Until suddenly he bursts into red sand.

Then a woman comes along the beach

And gathers all the glittering dust

That had been the giant into baskets

She is weaving out of her own hair.

She works and works with eager hands

But she begins to weep, seeing her labor

is endless.  The waves bleed red.

I wake, deeply moved by this strange vision

That makes little sense at all

Though it lingers for a week inside

Until another dream, weirder still, comes to me.

Whatever you can make clear, give me.'

‘What little could you make of it?' I ask.

‘Remember your waking thoughts.

What made you feel especially sad?'

‘I felt no grief for the woman and

Certainly none for the giant, but the dream

Disturbs in ways I cannot understand.'
The sea swells beneath us, the crests

Pounding the cliff-side white in frenzy.

A silence follows as I watch the horizon

Where a bird flies downward from the heights.

I think of her great spirit within.

‘Yet, my Queen, from your own mind

Glean the sovereign truth of your fidelity.'

‘This sounds like flattery, Archias.

My title befits me little like a basket

Of my own hair, a crown of sand.'

‘Yes, my Queen, but not inside you

Where you are just, good and wise,

Leading a life of dignity in the midst

Of squalor and the mire of men.

No one can steal your glory there

For that sun and its light is all your own.'

‘But by that cold light it is hard to live

When hearth and home are not your own.'

‘Yet all must crumble into sand, o Queen.

We walk into light curling into the past

Like the foam of the wave receding.

And this is the way, where the bird sings,

Where the pond is too broad to leap.'

‘Yet who is this woman on the shore?

I am not her, grieving for a giant

She cannot hold.  And the red waters,

What are they if not the flux of things?

What had once given life in the blood

Returns to the ocean of time inexhaustible.

Each one of us is but a pebble

Though our lives to us seem gigantic.

The basket of life spills out once and forever,

And that is all of eternity we can know.'

‘I see you are wise in fable and lore

And have found the wisdom of the dream.

What is it that you would have of me?

I will do anything to serve you, my Queen,

But how can I possibly counsel you?'
‘You speak of a world always beginning.

I would find some strength in that.'

‘Let me hear the second dream that struck

Your mind like this one, a portent.'

‘Yes, a sign, but not of things to come,

I think, but of the past, the crumbling giant

Of yesterday bootless to weep over.

But in this other dream I feel a mystery.

Listen, o poet, to this marvel of the night.

I am flying in the dream watching myself

Sitting on the roof.  The night above me

I have unwoven from the day, both shroud

And sheet, the work of day and night

From my own hands.  The flying woman

And the squatting, neither one I am.

I see the horizon like a painting

In a shutter I can close, and so I do.

I walk down a hall I have never seen,

And there are statues in the rooms

But I do not turn to look at them.

They seem everywhere so I hood my eyes.

What others think can turn you into stone.

So that is not my goal.  I see a forest

Ahead where there is an opening

Bright in the noonday sun.  A stream

Echoes through the woods, drawing me on

Until I come to its dark bank and the light

Of its shimmering rocks.  Deer run off

As I enter the stream to drink, the pure

Cool waters enveloping me, the sky

Above dancing like a bird between trees.

I feel delight and joy as I never have before

At the mossy top of a waterfall,

And I am free to sing and laugh.'

Half dreaming this dream again, she turns to me,

As if fallen from a moment's peace, troubled in her gaze.

I look deep into her gray eyes and softly speak.
‘Into the liberty of that place no one

Can enter for it runs off like a deer.

Is this not the way of Artemis?

The very path of her arrow is the purity

Of the moment that will never come again,

Yet it is there we live the body's life alone.

Whatever invades us there will be

Devoured, the just wrath of what we must be,

Our soul immersed but not hidden.

Beware the flatterer and the spy, my Queen,

Be strong against them, the way the goddess

Does to Actaeon first what he would do to her.'

She laughs and after a while retorts,

‘But surely that old myth does not imply

How one must live in the body alone?

It is how women can be strong

In turning the gaze of men back upon them,

To let them be devoured by their own lust.

I have learned that look the hard way.

I am both at the top and the bottom

Of Ithaka, richest of pawns,

Most powerful in my poverty

Where I will learn to live in some peace.

I do not ask for what cannot be.

Let that witch of time turn men to slime

If that is what they will. They can dally

Like statues and blame the gods for their fate.

And their wives can join them too

Hollowed into shells by what they cannot have.

If Odysseus never comes back,

and even if he does, what of my life?

The leaves quiver upon the bough.

The curlew works at what the sea has left.

I cannot stay upon the bank like a stone,

Unable to do what my way decrees.

And it would be wrong to find no joy

In things that must be.  That is the wing

That will hold me in place however hard

The path turns in the wood.  I need to live

Inside where the forest offers its light

And the stream runs fresh and cool.'

‘And that is the moment of the kairos,

My Queen, the dancing child of the universe

That forever must laugh, or we die.

But what is it that you would know from me?

You draw wisdom from your dreams

Better than anyone I have known.

My mind can be no more than mirror

To your own and say what you have said.'

‘What I need from you, you have given already,'

And with that, she kisses my forehead,

And then my lips, and we float

Into sleep above the shore.  This story

Of our care may unravel the legend

Of what has been formed out of its erasure.
Penelope was as free and strong as her mate.

And she taught me much about the world.

Be faithful to yourself, the true spring

Inside, and feel what it is to be chaste

Whether woman, man or beast.

And so Artemis and Aphrodite can hold hands

And Hephaestus and Ares too, their weapons down,

And Strife from the wedding kept, with her silly gold ball.
What happened to me upon her husband's return,

You might ask, if you can still consider

My tale worthy of your mind?  I knew

How Aegisthus fought the Argive King

Who tried to kill his wife for having a lover

Though he had his Briseis as concubine.

And the horror that Orestes then faced

When out of conflicting laws no man can solve,

He felt he had to kill his own mother.

I would not have Telemachus destroyed

Or Odysseus burn his own house down.

For who can rule the freedom of the kiss?

Spite and rage follow in its wake

And crash upon a lonely shore.

As for my beloved, my Penelope,

Queen of my heart forever, she

Gave herself back to the sailor of fate

Whom the poet of heroes praised.

But even the Myrmidon with the demon

in his chest would not have died

had it not been for that malice

that showed up at a wedding feast.

Love is stronger than the war its loss brings.

And is not bliss once gone more desired still?

So Penelope became Muse to my songs

of lovers, how Paris was forced to steal

The woman of his dreams when Aphrodite swayed.

Who knows what the gods condone in the dark grove

when they themselves have succumbed?

And how lovers will find each other trembling

with that touch more sweet when secret

no matter how would-be masters peep and rage.

Of Helen too I sing, cousin of my beloved,

Who went off with the shepherd prince,

one eye in joy, one in sorrow, for she knew

The chaos that love would have her make.

And the sacred three who claimed the fruit

Eris plucked from her tree of hate,

Were victims of their own envy and scorn,

The dross left behind when love's not golden.

Even Zeus could not settle the matter square.

Above all, who wants that hag Strife at a wedding feast?

And yet there she is – in our obsession to own.

No matter our will, fortune's wheel

gives way to necessity's spindle.

Even the gods cannot seal the book of fate,

Return the wave or unchop the tree.  This is why

Love cannot be forced for it chooses us,

In a whir of wings, in the arc of an arrow.

Its nature will out however pent up,

For she will deliver her babe anew.

And so I left Ithaka, even though

I knew he did not love her the way I did,

The reason why I do not hide my head in shame.

I continued in the path of Linus

And sang in many a land and isle

How Hermes is in love with the world

And out of longing makes eternal song.

This is the way of the ocean and the bard,

Her poet, whose heart and eyes cannot falter

As long as hers are in the world.
 
Coda:  Song of Archias
I swear you can see

By starlight

Looking straight into the night

Above a river.
I swear you can walk

The air that sways the bridge

And lift above the stream,

Never to be seen.
Come and join me here,

In the rain of the forest

And the suns inside the dew.

What are the woods without you?
And if you think time holds still

Waiting for your silent footfall

Across the moonlight over the stream

Where I lie awake with the owl,
What do you make of a flower

Not to smell it until tomorrow

When heaven would have taken its due

And the best has been lost to the wind?