“It would have been better if they had killed him,” Alcaeus said, rubbing hishands over his face.
I said nothing.
“I could have him murdered,” he said.
“Alcaeus...wait...”
“WAIT? HOW MUCH LONGER MUST WE WAIT?”
“He’s old.”
“Are we children?”
“He knows what’s happening.”
“No—not even yet.”
“That couldn’t be.”
I saw Pittakos by the sea, spray dampening his clothes, his mouth to the gulls:I saw him, hand over eyes, legs spread; I heard stones hitting him... I could takeno more and saying good-bye to Alcaeus, I walked home, eager to be alone, fornow the town seemed withdrawn, callous, incomplete, a failure. I touched ahollow in a wall and picked a leaf and, where a street opened on the bay, lookedand looked: the sea’s salty taste acted as a philter and years of contentment andease surged about me, trying to reinstate themselves: my girls met me and wewent home together, sharing our innocence.
?
Just the other day, I dreamed of Serfo’s place, hisfabrics around me, things from Assyria, Egypt and Persia.Some of the cloth blew against me, light as a Sudaneseveil. Atthis had a length of it in her hands, a twistedflowered piece yards long.
“I’ll make ribbons for your hair,” she said.
Alone, I sank into patterns, colors and textures.Something brushed my cheek, a winged bull in gold on bluecotton... I saw an imperial snake in green on white silk,a mighty roc in black on grey wool... I heard friendsasking prices, Anaktoria, Libus.
I heard mother say:
“This is the best, this one, darling, with temples andshields on it, this blue, soft blue! Don’t you love it?Here, take it in your hands, press it to your face.”
I saw ships and listened to their keels...sailorsunloading bales...wasn’t that a remnant on the water?
(
A suffusion of light envelopes the Venus de Milo,
revealing the contours and texture of her hair,
face, breasts, belly, and drapery.
Voices sing Homeric hymns.
A woman, as lovely as the Milo,
disappears in the golden light
beneath the Mediterranean.
Villa Mytilene
W
as it three years ago I met Atthis—five years ago Anaktoria? Was that anotherdream? I am not sure.
Awake, I thought about my girls and now much they love me and make myhouse a house of grace. I must have beauty: I must have peace: and they arepeace and beauty. I recalled how and when I had met each and loved each onefor her special qualities. Each had a place in my heart, gold on cotton, green onwhite...the sea was at each meeting and at each good-bye... I count my years butthe 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 behappy without its communication. For all its pervasiveness it seems on the vergeof a secret: looking down through the waves I sense it, I sense it at night, whenphosphorescence steals shoreward or when rain obliterates and there is no visi-ble ocean, then, still, still it communes, insinuating mystery, legends from caves,legends stronger than any coral, barracuda and stingrays roiled under, sinkingfarther and farther.
(
As we eat, in the dining room, Atthis prattles about her new parrot, mimick-ing 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 kindlyand feminine, the fun carries far.
Her eyebrows have grown to meet over her nose and the fuzzy little bridgegives her added years. Her breasts are larger, shoulders fuller. She could be apriestess: the face solemn, the lips pert; then laughter ruins everything and she issimply girl, joyous life, asking for love.
Dressed in thin summer best, she pokes her neighborwith her sharp sandal and before I can say a word a scrapfollows.
(
As I went downstairs, I put my hand between the lion’s jaws, stubby, mossystone, 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 swim-ming toward a spot of sun.
(
A village girl brought me a bouquet of white roses, saying:
“You must let me join your hetaerae.”
She wore a twisted blue wool skirt, of darkest color, and no blouse. Standingerect, she offered her flowers and then spun around and fled: I could scarcelytake 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.
(
My working hours are longer and as I review my work I find it good: that is asign of maturity: maturity is the seal I strive for and yet as I work I fear a loss ofspirit: 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 justthe proper angle? Mask, worn at the right moments? As I came home yesterdayfrom the play, I remembered a winking mask, rather like one in my room: wasthat derision?
(
I saw a young man on the street who startled me. Though he didn’t glance atme, I thought I had seen him in Samnos: ax beard and sullen mouth were thesame; he had the same slouch, the same filthy clothes. Watching him, I recalledthat 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 ofus...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 exilewas no easier than an enforced exile: I drew him out and later met his friends, allhungry for news, all in rags, living from hand to mouth, scared. It was their fearthat worried me and I urged them to make friends and forget the past, to marryand 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 discoveredhim. My pledge of secrecy is a pledge I’ll keep. As I sailed home from Samnos, Ithought of these men and was proud of their folly.
(
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 isher happiest time and struggle to write a poem for her wedding. Her naturalgaiety is infectious and yet, and yet...
We will have quite a ceremony, Libus, Alcaeus, Gogu, Nanno, Helen, mygirls, 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 thebranches 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 manyyears and many disappointments?
I shall try to help. Song has that gift, a gift nothing else has: to give the lost orhold it in suspension.
(
I feel utterly ridiculous, the greatest hypocrite: that is how it seems as I urgeAlcaeus to curb his resentment for Pittakos.
I have tried reason but it isn’t reason that moves Alcaeus. When he feels mysympathy, he listens: if he conceives of us as he used to be, his hatred subsides.Le
t him feel alone, he thunders, bends toward me, drags his fingers through hisbeard 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 vio-lence. 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 mymaster.”
Slavery—there are all kinds.
It is a kind of slavery to long for Phaon and anotherkind to remember Aesop and another to hope. Perhaps Aesopwould rebuke such thinking and say: Slavery is not inourselves but in the misused power of others. Surely thatis the commoner kind but I find slavery in myself and mygirls and my island and my books.
Well, here is a story Phaon told me:
“Years ago, a slave broke into a temple on a desertedisland and found lamps burning. On a rug lay a naked man,asleep. He’d been lying there for centuries, guarded bysomeone, the lamps filled and the wicks new.
“The King of Freedom, were the words on a shield besidehim. His yellow hair streamed across the rug. Above him,a mask, fastened on the wall, spoke:
“ ‘Shut the temple...let the lamps burn...make nonoise...take a hair from his head...go.’
“The slave shut the temple, carefully.
“Years later, in prison, he bent over to examine thegolden hair he had kept and it burst into flame andbecame a torch which he used to light his way tofreedom.”
?
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.
?
Beauty, the wedding is over and I am alone with mylighted lamps and moonlight across the sea, night’sindifference.
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 whiteclothes. His hate was gone, that was something I saw atonce: I was seeing another man. Speaking guardedly, handsfolding and unfolding his robe, he said:
“...They would have stoned me. What can I say...to makeamends? You stopped them from killing me... You...youhelped me...”
I grew confused. Remembering Alcaeus’ threat, my hatredsurged and I thought: Can he expect me to rub out thepast because of an accident on my part? Can he ask such athing?
Do you think that I have changed—that I went out of myway to save you?
My own harshness pained me. I had seen him at adistance, during the ceremony, and had resented hispresence; as I played my harp and sang he remained near,boggling his head.
Our sacred grove, filled with people, trees streakedwith fog, was still in my mind. I could see Kleis smilingand hear the wedding chorus, the flutists, the barkingdogs, the cries of gulls.
Glancing overhead, I noticed them, passing, gliding,saying with their grace things I tried to say in mywriting.
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 wasmore than thinking: I looked at the past. I’ve beenmistaken. Though we’ve lived here, in this town, we knowonly 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 sundrank the fog and sunset ribboned the ocean.
I shall remember goats wandering through our grove,tinkling their bells...the mask-maker carrying my harpfor me...trying to sing in toothless ecstasy...I shallremember the altar fire and wreaths of flowers, theirincense and coloring... remember, too, the farewell of mypair, their backs and shoulders as they headed for theirhouse on the headland, a small place among figs and tallwhite poppies, their world—not mine. I must remember itis their world. When Kleis flings her arms around me Iwill rejoice. At the same time, I must accept the factthat their marriage is their particular freedom.
May it be a satisfying freedom.
Mother’s lamp, as I write, is nearly empty: she wouldhave liked the wedding ceremony, the chorus singing mypoem: terra-cotta lamp, do you remember her wedding? Didyou burn for her ecstasy or were you snuffed out beforethe groom carried her to bed?
It wasn’t long ago I was married: how I walked, my headhigh, the embodiment of innocence and grace: I thoughtlife would be easy!
The wind puffs through my room.
The ocean whispers.
?
Charaxos and Rhodopis attended the wedding, stayingapart with a group of their friends, no one dressed forthe occasion. Since the man who had forcibly made love toher was there, I was disconcerted. I was ashamed. My faceburned. What could I do? Would they interfere? But theyseemed preoccupied, merely onlookers, most of them youngmen and women.
When they sauntered away, I enjoyed the wedding.
Someone among them, a stranger perhaps, gazed back atme, reminding me of Cercolas.
Cercolas, my mother, Aesop—each summons a series ofimages. 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 neverfind them.
It matters to me how they died.
I am still troubled that Cercolas died on thebattlefield. And it is tragic that Aesop died, beaten bya mob. At least, mother died beside me, comforted as muchas human comfort is possible.
Death should not catch us unaware for then it cheats usdoubly. Surely, it is hard enough to die without dying insome tragic way. Each of us deserves a last dignity.
?
Shall I tell Alcaeus that Pittakos came to me after thewedding?
I may never tell him because he will suffer more forknowing. It seems to me telling him could accomplishlittle. Hard as it is, unfair as it is, I must keep thisto myself. Of course, some would disbelieve. And ifPittakos sees fit to remain silent, he and I will bebetter off. Lives will be less complicated.
Even unmolested, he has not much time ahead. We must befar-sighted and choose a leader...
?
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 heavenly
Tortoise shell, become
A speaking instrument.
O
ne by one, the poems have fitted into my book, so slowlytime 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 feltI need go no farther. Will there be a tenth? What willmake it distinctive?
Phaon lives in this book, insatiability floodseverywhere: lyric by lyric, our smoldering hearts rev
ealour happiness.
When I shared lines with him, he laughed at theirfrankness, eyes dancing. He remembered some of them, andshot 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. Hehas savored love.
My Egyptians are copying the book—conspirators, nodoubt, mumbling lines to each other, shaking heads. I’dlike to slip into their shop as they work, to overhearthem: would I laugh or recoil? Probably I’d be annoyed.Well, tomorrow I must go to the shop and see how they aredoing.
I have not thought of a title.
?
Villa Poseidon
I sought Anaktoria and together we spent the night.